what you think.” He holds both of his palms up at me, as if he’s talking down an out-of-control mental patient.
“Oh really?” I slip up and the words come out in a shout. I pull myself back to a normal volume. “I saw my name right above that text. I know you were talking about me. Don’t you dare lie.”
On the outside I manage to maintain my composure, but on the inside I’m rabid and foaming at the mouth. I should be muzzled. It occurs to me there are people outside the bar smoking and watching us. Maybe I’m not as composed as I think I am. When I swallow, I feel how sore the base of my throat is from straining to keep my voice at a non-yell. The blip of shouting seconds ago must have caught everyone’s attention, though. That and our obviously hostile body language. I’m gesturing like a crazed palm reader; he’s got his hands up in a futile attempt to calm me. We are quite the Friday-night shitshow.
I continue my tirade. “You forced me to play that game just to screw with me behind my back.”
“Okay, just . . . just let me explain.” His face warps in agony. “Here, let’s sit in my car. I can explain it in there, okay?”
“No way I’m going anywhere with you.”
“We won’t go anywhere. We’ll just sit down for a minute. We can’t talk out here. People are staring.”
I’m too afraid to do a full-on head turn to see our audience, so I rely on my peripheral vision. He’s right. Everyone is watching. Embarrassment finally catches up to me. I should book the Maury show next week. I’m displaying daytime–talk show–worthy behavior.
I huff a sigh. “You have two minutes.”
seven
Tate gestures for me to follow him to his car.
“Jeez, man, let her cool off first,” a male voice calls after us. Cackling follows. We are the laughingstock of the parking lot.
I climb in the passenger seat of his nondescript gray car. It’s such a contrast to him. He’s a striking, tall, broad man. The four-door sedan he drives is a car that fugitives would kill to have as a getaway car. Unnoticeable and unremarkable in every way.
He starts the car, and I shoot him what I can only imagine is a look of sheer terror. “I’m not driving anywhere. I’m just turning on the AC.”
I place my phone on the dashboard and set the timer. “Two minutes. Talk.”
He’s gritting his teeth so hard, the muscles in his jaw pulse. “I admit, I was talking about you in that text. But it wasn’t anything bad, I swear. I can’t tell you the full story, but nothing bad was said about you.”
I almost laugh, but I’m furious so it turns into a snort. “You think I should just take you at your word? After tonight? After all the crap we put each other through every day at work? You’re something else.”
The death grip he has on his steering wheel is turning his knuckles an even starker shade of white. “I can’t go into detail, but what I told you is the truth.”
The irritation in his tone makes me want to scream. I can’t take it anymore. I try deep breaths, then swallow. I blink again and again. Nothing works.
“I want to flip out right now.” I speak to the dashboard through gritted teeth.
Slowly, he turns to me. “I want to kiss you right now.”
“What?” I jerk to face him.
If his intention was to throw me off, it worked. I’m not sophisticated enough to harbor two intense emotions at once. The anger is replaced by confusion. He must be joking.
“I’m not kidding,” he says softly, like he can read my mind.
The gaze he gives me is game changing. I’ve never, ever seen him display such tenderness, not even when he consoled me at the rock climbing gym. Right now, in the darkness of his car, he is illuminated only by the residual light from a nearby streetlamp. It’s perfect though. His face has gone soft. All the skin and muscles are relaxed. Not a trace of tension, anger, or frustration can be detected anywhere. Something else is there. Something foreign. Something beyond kindness. The longer I let my eyes linger, the clearer it becomes. I think it’s affection.
When he reaches a hand to my face, I am perfectly still. When he pulls his mouth closer to mine, I don’t flinch. When he presses our lips together, I let him. He kisses me,