Page 61 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“And part of that dance is figuring out whether you or your opponent is going to be the one to lead,” she says almost reverently.

“Setting the pace. Controlling the rhythm and the timing. Precision, training, and chaos, all rolled into one.”

She beams at me. “Well, that’s downright poetic, Hugo.”

I lower my sunglasses so I can look into her eyes with my slightly bloodshot ones. “Admit it: that’s what keeps bringing you back, isn’t it? The poetry I weave when we discuss your workday and my hobbies.”

With a wink—where the fuck did that come from?—I push the shades back into place before the sun melts my eyeballs. Rue, meanwhile, is frozen in place, her lips slightly parted and her hand pressed to her chest.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Okay. I see it now.”

My brows pull together, sending a pulse of pain ricocheting through my brain. “See what?”

“N-nothing.” Pink touches her cheeks as she straightens her spine. “I just didn’t expect you to be so good at… at poetry.”

My gaze snags on her nails when she starts fiddling with the pendant again. They’re longer than I remember and painted bubblegum pink.

“Those are new.”

“Oh.” She holds her hand out in front of her like she’s never seen it before. “Yeah. They’re press-ons. Just trying something.”

“Pretty,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She shoves her hands in her pockets. “But back to you. We never talk about your family.”

“We don’t,” I agree.

She rolls her eyes, looking more like herself than she has at any other point in this conversation. “And? Do you have any?”

“Did you not do enough investigating at work last week?” I joke uneasily.

She rocks back on her heels and waits. And since I’ll do pretty much anything for this girl, I loosen my suddenly clenched jaw enough to say, “I’m not close to my family.”

Technically true. Not close implies physical or emotional distance, and I was emotionally distanced from my parents well before they died in that private plane crash when I was nineteen.

“Okay. How about friends?” she asks.

“You’re asking me all this now because…?”

“Because I’m interested.” But the interest in her expression doesn’t seem personal. It’s similar to the focus I saw when she processed the McEwan scene, and I don’t like having it turned on me.

“Yes, I have friends. Well, friend. Brady. Quinn. Quinn Brady.” I’m babbling like she’s going to get the wrong idea or would even care if she does. “She’s the one I told you about. She makes the fertilizer compound.”

Rue hums again, those shiny nails clicking against the pendant I can’t quite see. I wish I could take a closer look without invading her space the way I did on Friday. I don’t think this Sunday version of Rue would welcome it, though, so I invade her space in other ways.

“What about you? Hobbies, family, boyfriends, girlfriends? Somebody special who bought you that necklace? That guy you were meeting the other day, maybe?” Fuck. I didn’t mean to say that last part.

For a second, she almost looks surprised. Then her hand tightens around the pendant, and she slips it inside her shirt, lifting her chin. Now we’re back on familiar ground, with her looking at me like I’m a puzzle she can’t decide whether to solve or throw out. It’s the way she looked at me until recently.

I hate it.

“There’s nobody in particular,” she says airily.

“Well, there’s your ladies’ night group, right?”

She blinks. “Oh. Right. Them, of course. The ladies.”

She doesn’t mention her parents, so I let the silence speak for itself. She may be holding back details just as fiercely as I did, which is… interesting.