Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,72
an amused scoff.
He opens his mouth as if to continue, but there are no more words. Just a tired chuckle. I want to prod, to ask for more detail, but I don’t want to push him. It’s a monumental step for him to reveal this much to me, when he’s so hell-bent on taking it slow.
“I was an imbecile,” he says. “We both were.”
I can’t ever remember hearing a person in our age group use such an old-timey word. It makes me smile, despite the serious topic.
Tate glances up at me. “People in their late teens and early twenties are clueless when it comes to relationships. Don’t hold it against me.”
His hand rests flat on the top of the counter. I move my hand over his and he sighs. It sounds like satisfaction. Every time I’ve rested my hand on his whenever he goes deep into a conversation, he seems to loosen, to relax. Such a tiny gesture, but it feels enormously intimate.
“Why’d you stay together so long, then?”
“She was my first love, my first long-term relationship. There were lingering feelings on both sides, and we were too young to know how to handle them properly. I didn’t know when to call it quits. Neither did she.”
“How did it end?”
“She lined up another guy to date, then broke up with me. One of her guy friends. I never liked him. There was definitely some overlap from me to him. That sucked.”
“I’m so sorry.” I squeeze his hand softly.
“It’s fine. I’m over it now.” He rubs my fingers with his thumb before taking a long swig from his water bottle. “It sort of stunted me, though. I guess I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst after that mess.”
“Not all women are the same,” I say. “You’re a smart guy. You should know that.”
“Logically, I do, but old habits die hard. It’s hard to explain. Almost like a reflex.”
“I get it.”
He reaches for my hand. “I like you. I like this.”
The shaky breath I let out nearly blows my napkin off the counter. His stormy blue-gray stare has me by the throat.
Hearing Tate say he likes me is a formality at this point. I’ve known it for a while, but it doesn’t make the admission any less special. His words are a song I want to listen to over and over.
“I like you too.” I bite my lip to keep my gigantic grin at bay. I hope hearing me say it, too, makes him feel just as giddy.
We indulge in one last cupcake together. He offers me the first bite, then he takes one, then I go again. We’re doing our best Lady and the Tramp impression sans the spaghetti nose-bump.
He insists I have the last bite. I suck a dollop of frosting from my thumb when I finish. “I knew it. You’re all talk. You’re a sweet guy to the core.”
He laughs, then coughs. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“Smart-ass.” He tops off both of our wineglasses, and I take a long swig.
“How is your last name Echavarre? That’s not your dad’s last name, is it?”
“It’s not, but how do you know that? I’m pretty sure I never told you.” I wonder for a moment if maybe it slipped out when I was drowsy on painkillers in the hospital.
“You didn’t. I overheard you mention a while ago how your dad is so pale he fries almost every time he’s out in the sun, but Echavarre doesn’t sound like the name of a pale white guy who sunburns easily.”
“It’s my mom’s maiden name. It’s Filipino-Spanish. When I was in college, I got this idea in my head that since she raised my sister and me, we should change our last names to hers. My mom was always the one to take care of us. It felt like she got shafted in a way. She gave birth to two daughters, raised us, and we ended up with our dad’s last name. It didn’t seem fair.”
“Excellent point.” He tips his glass to me. “What’s your dad’s last name?”
“Walden.” I gulp the rest of my glass. “We’re on good terms, but we’re not close. Not like my mom and I are. He lives five hours away, but my mom is just a twenty-minute drive from me. You get the idea.”
He nods.
“She had been wanting to go back to her maiden name ever since she and my dad got divorced, but never got around to it. I convinced her to do it with me. After