She’s here…

I take a swig of icy beer that ripples down my throat completely failing to quench thirst. Even after a mouthful of drink, my tongue seems to scrape the inside of my mouth like a hunk of sandpaper. What I’m desperate for doesn’t come in a cup.

Twenty painful minutes, I’ve been sitting here waiting for her to turn around. See me. Recognize me.

Come over.

A tinkling laugh chimes through the outdoor seating area of the restaurant and smacks me in the chest. That. I shiver. Her laugh. Like a thousand butterflies bursting from cocoons in my middle.

That laugh, and I’m a boy again—giddy and green and helpless.

I’ve heard the sound half a dozen times today and it strikes me the same way every-single-fucking-time. But I don’t look, instead focusing on the frothy liquid in my glass.

What if she doesn’t remember me?

I twist the glass, focusing on the swirl of condensation making circles on the polished wood tabletop.

She’s here, her laugh in my ears, so close I can turn my head and see her. Yet I can’t. It’s like trying to resist the sun’s rays, keeping my face turned away. The warmth is there, brushing right against me, begging me to turn to it—taunting me with the promise that if I just give in and look, it’ll fill me up and flush out every icy corner of my being.

Gabriella.

I close my eyes and picture her instead. Not the sixteen-year-old version I’ve imagined for a decade, Gabriella now. The twenty-six-year-old woman who puts all my boyhood fantasies to pale shame.

I should just go over and say hello.

But I can’t.

I want her to remember me. Watch her face when she realizes for herself, who I am.

Who I am to her.

Her first.

And now I’ve found her again, I’m going to make fucking sure I’m also her last.

* * *

“You’re so lucky, Kelly.” I rest an elbow on the table. Little Henry reaches for his mom’s hair, tugging on the ends. “He’s the sweetest baby I’ve ever seen.”

She laughs and pats his back. “Are you kidding, you’re the lucky one. I’d give my right pinkie for a glass of wine and a full night’s sleep.”

Wine, yes. Who needs things like love and family, or general happiness when there’s a nice big goblet of fermented fruit to sob into at night?

I pick up my glass and take a sip. Don’t know why these upmarket restaurants always give the scantest amount of wine in the biggest possible glass. Like they want it to look less.

But, I won’t be ordering another. The cost of the one I’m drinking alone has a little bit of sweat already breaking out on my nose. But Kelly likes to brunch at nice places, and god knows it’s been so long since I’ve seen her.

It’s been so long since I’ve been able to get out and see anyone.

“I’d happily trade you this glass for that baby.”

Kelly laughs again. “You’d have to take the stretch marks along with him.”

A flush warms my face. Oh, I have those. Fine white lines on my hips from where I seemed to fill out all of a sudden in my teens.

And there’s no baby to make mine a badge of honor.

Kelly’s smile slips a little. “You seeing anyone, babe?”

A snort bursts from my nose. “Yeah, sure. He sneaks in through my window when I crawl into bed around 1AM.” I wave a hand. “But we don’t screw, you know, on account of me not having the energy. He just cleans my apartment while I’m sleeping and then rubs my feet in the morning.”

“Oh, Ella.” She shakes her head. “You need to quit that job.”

My chest clenches. It’s true. My job is awful. There’s not even room in my fantasies for a relationship.

And that’s how I’ve kept it.

My fantasies…those little devils only ever landed me in hell.

My pocket vibrates. Holy shit. Speaking of horrible bosses. I know it’s him without checking.

“Ahh, I’m going to need to take this.”

She nods but her lips purse.

I scoot back the chair and leave the table, heading over into the corner of the courtyard and slip behind the fountain.

“Gabriella sp—”

“Abigail, where are you?”

A sigh snakes between my lips. “Mr. Kane, I don’t work Sundays.”

What a damn lie. I end up working every Sunday.

“I need you.” The line rustles. “I’ve been expecting you all morning.”

Tinkling sounds. And it’s not the freaking fountain.

I clasp my forehead and hold the phone farther from my ear. He’s peeing. He’s peeing while on the phone to me.

“Mr. Kane, I informed you yesterday that I have plans today.” I rub my temple. “I also put a note in your calendar, on your phone, and left a sticky tab on your desk.”

The wind of a zipper and flush of a toilet echoes through the earpiece. “This is unacceptable, Abigail.”

A door slams.

Didn’t even wash his damn hands.

“Here. Now.”

The line beeps.

I remove the phone from my ear and just stare at the screen. If I Google slow acting poisons, that’ll flag some kind of government internet radar, right?

I wedge the cell phone into the back pocket of my jeans. It goes in tight. But then, I’ve been living off midnight instant noodles, and anything I can get drive-through in recent months, and my butt wears proof of it.

The fountain blocks my view of the tables, and I’m thankful for the moment to collect myself. I’m going to have to walk out there now and tell Kelly I’m leaving before our meal even arrives. My breath whooshes out. She’s a compassionate person—half the reason she still bothers with me. But even she can’t possibly have much remaining tolerance for my constant brush offs.

She doesn’t know the half of it.

I pull my shoulders back, and emerge from behind the fountain, scanning the tables. My gaze collides with another.

I freeze in increments. Legs. Stomach. Lungs. Arms. Hands. Neck. Jaw. All tighten and still.

Deep hazel eyes level with mine.

The recognition in his expression washes over me like waking up and arriving home all at once.

I stumble in his direction, then stop.

Wait. I don’t know him, do I?

His broad brow wrinkles. Thick chocolate eyebrows a shade darker than the hair on his head and sun streaked beard.

He waits as though he really does expect me to come on over.

To a stranger.

I draw the sides of my open cardigan together.

He brings a cigarette to his mouth and takes a long drag.

Smoke seeps out of his mouth.

I pull my cardigan tighter. My gaze crawls over the red, black, and yellow inked images flowing down his arm.

I can’t help watching the curl of his lips over a cigarette butt, through his beard. Maybe he reminds me of something…

Or someone.

The way he holds it. Draws in deep. The plume of smoke. The scent penetrates my lungs when it can’t possibly reach me all the way over here. A memory of tobacco and sin.

I shake myself and head for Kelly’s table.

Smoking is a dirty, bad habit. So why do I taste it at the back of my throat?