sounds echo around us, but time threatens to stop.
We stay like that for minutes, embracing each other, remembering.
“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he whispers against my hair.
I finally extricate myself from his arms. “Me too.”
“Haven’t aged a day,” he says.
“Neither have you,” I joke.
“Still a smartass, I see.”
“Would you have it any other way?”
“Never.”
I take Jake’s elbow and he guides us inside to a table by the window.
“Coffee, black?”
“Sure. Let me…” I fish in my purse for my wallet.
“Don’t insult me, Bec.”
His words send a flush of heat to my chest. A few minutes later, he slides my coffee across the table and sits. God, how I want to drink him in and admire every square inch: muscles, tattoos, scruff, piercing eyes that can level me with a cursory glance. I lean forward and do something I never do. I ask to touch his face.
“Of course you can.” He cocks forward in his chair and leans tenderly into my palms. My fingers tremble as they traverse his flesh. I linger around the new web of laugh lines, the slight stubble on his jaw, the inky lashes that tickle my palms and illuminate gorgeous blue-gray eyes. I travel toward his hairline. His head is still buzzed. I run my hands back toward his ears and neck before releasing him.
He sighs and drums his fingers on the table. “I feel like I need a cigarette.”
I laugh. “Still smoking?”
“In case of emergencies only.”
“With your line of work, I’m assuming there are a lot of emergencies.” I take a sip of coffee and burn my tongue. I blow on the brew and twist my paper cup. “Tell me everything.”
“You first.”
“No, really.” I nod at him. “Yours is hopefully far less depressing than mine.”
He tells me CPD had been asking him back for years, but he’d just recently moved home. He lingers on the word home. Does he mean me? Memories of our life together surge to the surface; memories I’ve kept buried for so many years.
“It’s been a grind working homicide, but I love it. They keep me busy.”
I attempt to focus on the current conversation. “Which station?”
“Riverside. Little bit of a haul, but not too bad.”
I falter before asking the next question and intentionally keep my voice light. “Married? Kids?”
He’s silent, and I realize he’s probably nodding or shaking his head.
“Verbal, please.”
“Right, sorry. No, I never got married.” He pauses. “But you did.”
The words are a betrayal. I’m thinking what he’s thinking: how in the world could I have ever married someone else, even if that someone died? “I did.”
“I’m … so sorry. About what happened.” Something passes through his voice, but vanishes. “How long now?”
“A year. Hard to believe sometimes.”
“And you’re a mother?”
I smile. “I am. Jackson. He’s three months old.”
“So your husband—”
“Chris,” I supply.
“Chris. He never got to meet him?”
“No, he didn’t.” I clear my throat to keep from crying. “Life.” I shrug, such an insignificant movement to contain my sorrow. “And you heard about Mom?”
“I can’t believe it.” His voice lowers.
“She really loved you.”
“Because I loved her daughter.” The confession bullets into the room.
My heart literally skips a beat, and I realize I’m holding my breath. There are so many questions I want to ask. Is he happy? Has he thought about me over the years? Has he been in love since our breakup? Has he shot anyone? Has he been shot? I decide on the first question, but my phone interrupts. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to get this.”
“Hey.” Jess’s voice is calm, but I immediately bristle.
“Is Jackson okay?”
“He’s fine. Rob left an important client file here and needs me to run it to him. Candace is off today, and I can take Jackson, but I don’t have an extra car seat.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can.” I hang up, exhale, and return to the table. “Sorry, I have to go.”
Jake scratches his jaw. “Need a ride?”
I shake my head, because I’m afraid if I speak, my voice will betray me. “I’m just going to grab a Lyft.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
We walk outside. I call a Lyft. He steps closer.
“To be continued?”
I nod. “Definitely.”
When he leans in and whispers—“It’s been so good to see you, Bec”—I don’t pull away.
He’s gone before I can catch my breath.
11
CRYSTAL
They arrive at Bec’s right on time.
“Is that my superstar?” Bec opens the door in jean shorts and a crop top, a yellow kimono trailing her thighs.
“I cut off all my hair!” Savi exclaims. “Mom was always telling me to brush it,