Chapter 4

Holly

My doorbell chimes, and my nerves fire up hard. Giving a last fluff of my hair in the mirror, I look at myself sternly and mutter, “Tim is just a friend. This is going to be a nice, friendly dinner where we catch up and nothing more.”

My reflection sneers back at me. “Yeah, right. You’re just as attracted to him as you were in high school. You’re still in love with him for that matter. Just give in, baby. Your fate is sealed.”

I stick my tongue out at myself and turn off the bathroom light. The doorbell chimes again so I hurry my pace to my front door, take a deep breath, and open it.

And holy hell… men shouldn’t be allowed to be that gorgeous. Tim shouldn’t be allowed to be that gorgeous, because it makes me squirm and itch. He’s six feet of solid muscle, something I didn’t appreciate the other day in the hospital. He’s wearing a dark gray t-shirt that’s molded to his chest and abdomen with well-fit, dark jeans. His arms and shoulders are ripped, and he clearly has continued his stringent workouts that he followed in high school. His right arm is covered in a sleeve of tattoos, the detail of which I can’t see easily because of his dark skin.

It’s not lost on me, or Tim, that I’m perusing his body and when my eyes finally drag up to meet his, those amber irises are looking at me intently with just a slight quirk to his lips in amusement. Then Tim gives it back to me, slowly raking his gaze down my body. I’m pleased with my choice to go with a peach-colored blouse that hangs off one shoulder and a white denim skirt that showcases my legs. I left my hair long and loose, because I could never forget the way Tim constantly used to run his fingers through it.

“You look beautiful,” Tim says, his voice husky.

“You do too,” I whisper, and with that mutual acknowledgment that our attraction for each other still exists, an electric current seems to sizzle between us.

“Our dinner reservations are in fifteen minutes,” he murmurs while his eyes do another pass down my body. “You ready?”

I swallow hard and, before I can talk myself out of it, I say, “Or… we could just stay here… I’m sure I can whip something up or we can order a pizza.”

Tim reaches both arms up and grasps the edges of the door casing. He leans his upper body in closer to me and murmurs, “If I step foot in this house—right now—you know dinner is the last thing either of us are going to be thinking about.”

“And we need to talk,” I finish his thought.

“We need to talk,” he agrees. When he holds his hand out to me, I place mine in his, immediately reconnecting to his warmth and security.

Tim takes me to a creole restaurant I suggested that’s not too far from my house. We decide to just order several appetizers and over charbroiled oysters, fried green tomatoes, and crab cakes, I ask Tim to update me on his life since we graduated high school.

I was surprised over his career path. The Tim Davis I knew and loved had his heart set on college so he could pursue a law degree. I was stunned that he dropped out after his sophomore year at Syracuse and chose to become a firefighter instead. It becomes quickly apparent to me that this is what he was supposed to do with his life, because the joy and passion when he talks about his job is deeply touching to me.

“So, what happened to Columbia?” he asks as he cuts a fried green tomato in half, putting a piece on my plate and take the other for himself. “You said you transferred to Tulane the other day.”

I nod, using a knife and fork to cut my slice into equal bites. This gives me the excuse to look at my food instead of at him. “Yeah… um, my father and I sort of had a falling out over what he did.”

I take a peek at Tim. He’s gone still, his eyes dark with interest. He sets his silverware down and rests his elbows on the table, steepling his hands before his face. “What happened?”

Setting my own silverware down, I clear my throat. “I could never reconcile what he did to you. The terrible things he said to you. I tried to argue with him and for the first time in my life, my father hit me. It was more like an open-handed slap across my face, but he called me a dirty whore for being with a black man.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tim growls.

I hold up a hand to stop him. “He tried to make me feel dirty for loving you, but I just couldn’t. There was nothing wrong with it. It was so right. I was so sure of my feelings for you.”

“Yet you broke up with me,” he says quietly, and I don’t miss the tiny bit of bitterness in his voice.

I nod, lowering my eyes in shame. “He made me. Threatened to kick me out of the house after graduation with nothing but the clothes on my back.”

“Fuck me,” Tim mutters, but I don’t dare look back up at him.

“I was scared, Tim. I had my whole life mapped out… college, medical school, a career helping people. And here I was, on the verge of being homeless and penniless.”

“Holly,” Tim whispers, but I still won’t look at him.

“I don’t know if he meant good on his threat, but I was too afraid to stand up to him. I was too weak. I chose to let you go instead.”

Tim is utterly silent. Although those were some really hard words to get out, I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders now that he knows the whole truth. I finally dare a glance at him, and I’m stunned to see sympathy swimming in his beautiful eyes.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, reaching a hand across the table to take mine.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, my voice quavering with emotion. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t be stronger.”

Tim’s fingers squeeze hard against mine. “No,” he says harshly. “It’s not your fault. You were fucking eighteen years old and scared out of your mind. You did what you had to do, and if that meant cutting me loose, then you had to do that to keep yourself secure.”

“I don’t deserve that from you,” I choke out.

“Don’t, Holly,” he tells me firmly. “You need to let it go. You did nothing wrong. You hear me? You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.”

I nod, not really accepting what he’s saying, but no longer having the strength to argue against his forgiveness.

“How did you end up in New Orleans?” Tim asks as he gives me a final squeeze and releases my hand. He then nods to my plate and adds on, “Eat.”

I take the small reprieve he gives me in the heavy conversation and pick at a crab cake. “My relationship with my father was broken. I took his roof that summer and then his tuition money, but the day he kicked you out of our house… I broke emotional ties with him. I spent my freshman year at Columbia applying for scholarships to other universities so I could get out from his hold completely. I got several offers, but Tulane was the furthest away from New York. I left after my freshman year and never looked back.”

“You cut ties with your father?” Tim asks incredulously.

“He was my hero, Tim,” I defend my actions. “And then he completely violated my trust in him. And I’m sorry… but I just can’t accept his views. They aren’t me. He made me feel bad for having feelings for you, and I just couldn’t forgive it.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs, taking a sip of the wine we had ordered.

“I still talk to my parents, but it’s stilted… impersonal. I think I’ve been back home maybe three times in the past nine years. My mother still pretends like we’re a family, but we’re not. Haven’t been for ten years.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim says.

I give him a wry smile. “Nothing for you to be sorry about.”

“There is,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry for thinking the worst about you for so long. I just assumed that you prescribed to your father’s way of thinking. That maybe I was just a novelty to you… rich, white chick dating the ruggedly handsome, black football player.”

I snicker over the imagery, but then I turn serious. I hope he understands when I say, “I loved you, Tim. You were my first love. It was true. My father never changed that. He just made it impossible for me to see it through.”

The muscles in Tim’s throat work as he swallows hard. His eyes are deep pools of sadness and lost time. “What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs.

I cut my gaze over to our waiter, who is hovering nearby. With a motion of my wrist, I silently ask for our check. Picking up my napkin from my lap, I dab at my mouth and then lay it across my plate. “How about taking me home? I’m sure you can figure out something after that.”

Tim’s eyes flash hot… sparking with intensity as he stares at me across the table. His lips curve up in a wicked grin. “I think I can come up with something.”