The Bookstore on the Beach - Brenda Novak Page 0,58
he ever tried to call her, she smiled. “I’m fine.”
“Then why do you keep looking over your shoulder as if we’re doing something wrong?”
Since he could see through her, anyway, she quit pretending she wasn’t nervous. “You know why.”
“I’m sure Nick wouldn’t begrudge you having dinner with a friend.”
“I doubt he would. But it might be a little hard to explain how that friend was the guy we always laughed about.”
He reared back in surprise. “You laughed about me?”
“Actually, not you. Me,” she clarified. “That day I shocked you in the tree house by stripping off my clothes is kind of a standing joke between us. My husband thinks...or thought...or thinks—”
“That...” he prompted.
“It’s funny I would be so naive and stupid.”
A muscle moved in his cheek. “It was never funny to me.”
“Oh, come on. You and Sarah must’ve laughed about it, too.”
“No. I never told her.”
“Because she’d be upset? You two were broken up at the time, weren’t you?”
“We were, but she was always insanely jealous. My being with you would’ve caused an epic fight, whether we were broken up or not.”
“Then I can see why you wouldn’t tell her.”
He turned his wineglass by the stem. “That wasn’t the reason.”
Curious, she shifted in her seat. “Really? What was?”
He took another drink before meeting her gaze. “I’m not going to say.”
“Because...”
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”
He sounded serious. How could he have stopped himself from making fun of the dumb girl who’d followed him around like a lost puppy and then cornered him for sex in his tree house? “Well, I always knew it was too much to hope that you’d forget about it.” She tipped her glass against his. “Here’s to some of the ridiculous things we do when we’re young.”
He didn’t drink to her toast. “Can I ask you a favor?”
She swallowed. “Maybe. What is it?”
“Can we not talk about that day anymore? Somehow I always end up feeling shitty when we do.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “You were surprisingly patient and kind. I was the idiot. But we can forget it. Believe me, I hate it, too.”
“There you go again,” he said. “Is that the only way you can be my friend—by making sure I understand how much you regret that encounter?”
Fortunately, the waitress came to take their order, saving her from having to answer. She was glad for the reprieve, at first—was going to let it go. She told herself she didn’t understand his reaction. But the longer she thought about it, the more she realized she did understand and he was right. She’d purposely been trying to cheapen the memory—to turn it into a joke—so that she wouldn’t have to be so embarrassed.
After the waitress walked away, she took another sip of her wine while gathering the courage to be more honest. Then she said, “You’re right. It was a big deal to me. It was my first time, and you were all I wanted in the world.” She took an even bigger gulp of wine than before. “Is that better?”
A boyish grin curved his lips. “You didn’t have to be quite that generous, but thank you. That day actually means a lot to me. It’s the last simple, sweet thing I remember before everything went bad in my life.”
He had to be referring to his relationship with Sarah, which must not have been as wonderful as Autumn had always assumed, even in the beginning. Was the stabbing merely the climax to many painful years? “I’m sorry to hear it was rough, especially for so long.”
“Not your problem. I just don’t want you to ruin that day.”
“Okay,” she said simply. “I won’t.”
The table was so small that his hand was already resting close enough to hers that with only a little movement he was able to slide his fingers between hers, disengage them and rethread them—over and over. He was barely touching her, and yet her whole body tingled from the contact.
“I’ve got to use the ladies’ room,” she said and scooted back so she could stand.
She forced herself to walk at a normal pace until she could get inside the bathroom and lock the door. Then she went to the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
But the only answer seemed to be Sarah’s mother’s churlish words, which swirled around in her head: Fishing lures look awfully attractive to the poor fish they hook.