Page 27 of Hats off to Love

There are many things in that statement that are true. He is a boring guy. He has a subdued personality and never gets overly excited about anything, but where he’s wrong is that he is interesting. It’s easy to see he is intelligent, loves his family, and is hardworking, and most know he comes from money. Oh, and don’t forget that he is easy on the eyes.

“There has to be someone else you can ask to do this,” I say. Surely he has a friend or someone willing to play along.

“Like who?” he asks like he’s suddenly offended.

“How should I know?” I fire back. “I know nothing about your life.”

“That’s not true. I’m quite certain you know me more than anyone else.” He stands and begins pacing, looking around my apartment, and then he stops at the front window and looks out. It never occurred to me that I might be able to see where he lives. Is that what he’s doing, looking for his home and wishing he were there?

I scoff. “I find that hard to believe.”

I stand as well and start to clear off the table. Dinner is over; I can’t see him staying much longer. I mean, there’s no reason for him to.

He turns to face me and crosses his arms over his chest. His biceps fill the space under the sleeves of his T-shirt, and I hate that I continually notice how nice his arms are.

“Seriously, what difference does it make?” He’s frustrated. “It’s not like it’s a hardship for you to pretend to be with me,” he says.

I drop the containers in the garbage and begin waving my finger back and forth between the two of us. “We don’t like each other.”

“I like you just fine.” His tone says my statement is one hundred percent false and absurd.

Whatever expression slides onto my face has him letting out a long exhale, and his arms drop by his sides.

“I do like you just fine,” he tells me.

I laugh because that remark is completely false, and I make my way to stand in front of him.

“A little less than a year after I moved to your farm, you found me one day on the back of the property sitting next to the stream by myself.”

“Yeah, I remember. You were fourteen, and I was sixteen,” he says, as if that memory was just yesterday.

“Yep. You rode up next to me on one of your giant horses, made fun of me for being there by myself, and when I cried, you called me a crybaby and told me to grow up before you rode off.”

The muscles in his face slip and his lips turn down in a frown.

“It was the anniversary of my father’s death.”

He closes his eyes.

“When I was fifteen and in the tenth grade, you told the whole school not to talk to me, so no one did. No one, Stokes. The only friend I had for the longest time was Molly.”

He looks away from me and down at his feet. More color blooms on his cheeks as he sucks in his bottom lip to chew on it.

“When I was sixteen, I spent a whole month saving my money and working on my very first Derby hat. I was so proud of that hat, and then when we all loaded up to leave for Churchill Downs, you said to me, ‘You’re not going to wear that, are you?’ You made this disgusted face, and I’d never felt more humiliated. Need I go on?”

I hate reliving these moments. It’s not that I think he truly cares about how he behaved or can even process how he made me feel, but he needs to understand I am not beholden to him for anything.

“Rosie.” His voice is deeper and tinged with regret, yet he doesn’t apologize. Why can’t he just say he’s sorry? The glow from the streetlight outside reflects off his sharp cheekbone. It’s there in the way he’s clenching his jaw; I can see it, but he won’t give it to me.

“I just don’t understand why you want me to do this with you or why you think, after twelve years of comments like that, I will?”

Twelve years of comments and apparently no apology.

My heart aches, opening old wounds.

“Well, I guess the way I see it, the damage is done. The pictures are out there, so why not?”

“The damage might be done, and yes, the pictures are out there, but you still haven’t answered my question.”