The bitch wishes.
Conner continues staring at me, his eyes not flicking away for even a millisecond. “What did she tell you?”
“Nothing that would bother me.”
“Liar.”
“Says who?”
“Says your bright red cheeks. You always were a shit liar.”
I snap my eyes to him and grab my milk shake from the end of the table. “She tried to make me believe you two were . . . intimate . . . after I left.”
Conner laughs, choking on his soda, and thumps his chest. “She told you what?”
“Don’t make me say it again.” I screw my face up and swirl my straw around my glass.
“I wouldn’t fuck Nina Hawkins with a ten-foot pole. No, ignore that. I wouldn’t touch her with a fifty-foot one, let alone fuck her with it.”
“I don’t care.” I sip slowly.
“You should get your cheeks looked at. It can’t be good for them to be that red all the time.”
“Screw you.”
“You wish.”
“You’re such a child.”
“You bring it out in me. What can I say? I can’t help it.”
“This is ridiculous. Did you really bring me to lunch so we could bitch at each other the whole time? Because I’m sick to death of it already.” I meet his eyes.
He stretches his arms over his head. “Nah, I was really going to try and charm you, but it doesn’t seem to be working out too well, does it?”
“Okay, one,” I say, holding up a finger, “you actually have to possess some form of charm for that plan to work, and two”—I hold up another—“you’re a cocky jerk.”
“Shit, the cock is my charm.”
“Then you should consider not talking, because it ain’t workin’ for you.”
He grins, and his shoulders shake with quiet laughter. It’s an infectious kinda grin, one that makes it impossible not to smile back. So I do, flipping him the bird at the same time. He ain’t getting it all outta me.
His smile falters a little. “Dammit, Sof. I missed you like hell.”
Mine completely drops, and I look down.
“That’s it? I tell you I missed you and you look at the table?”
“I missed you, too,” I reply softly. “Every day, Con. I missed you until I couldn’t anymore.”
“Why couldn’t you even tell me that you were okay?”
“Because if I spoke to you once, I would have come back. And I couldn’t do that.”
“Why?” He pauses as our food is brought to the table. “What was so bad you had to stay away? And don’t say the band—there’s something more. I know you, Sof. I know there’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me.”
His accent thickens at the end, and when I look up, I can see the emotion in his dark blue eyes. Helplessness, confusion, hurt. I hate myself for it.
“I was afraid.” I swirl my fries in some ketchup. “Just . . . afraid. So I ran. That’s all there is to it.”
“Of what? You had to know I wouldn’t have left you. I would have been there as much as I could be. We would have made it work.”
“And when you went away, and there was a whole other world I couldn’t be a part of?” I smile sadly. “It wouldn’t have worked.”
“Hasn’t exactly worked your way, though, has it?”
I ignore that and eat. He’s right, it hasn’t. Being away from him was supposed to make me love him less, so that when I finally saw him again it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter if he had a new girlfriend, if he was a man-whore, or if he wanted me still.
I was supposed to tell him about Mila, explain why I went, and then move on.
Supposed to, supposed to, supposed to.
Supposed to never happens. Supposed to is an ideal, something you cling to late at night when you can’t sleep.
Supposed to is a hopeful heart dreaming of something perfect.
Because my ideal would have been perfect. That way it wouldn’t hurt to look at him. My heart wouldn’t still skip a beat whenever he laughs, and I wouldn’t still get butterflies whenever his lips tug up in that sexy way.
And I absolutely, definitely would not be helpless every time he kisses me.
Conner reaches across the table and brushes his fingertips across mine. I shake my head and rest my hand on my lap. I can’t have him touch me. I can’t touch him. I can’t have anything more than a co-parent relationship with him, because he’ll go, and I’ll be opening myself to my fears again.
It’s not irrational. Not when it’s safer for Mila this way. It’s better for her if we’re apart and hurting secretly, instead of together and hurting all three of us.
My heart might want him with every beat it takes, and it might want the perfect family, all of us together, happy, laughing. It might want smiles and endless giggles and affectionate touches. It might want passionate, stolen kisses when the baby isn’t around, and it might want nights that never have to end, but that doesn’t matter.
I’ve learned a lot about my heart since I left, and the main thing I’ve learned is that it’s a dreamer.
And dreams don’t always come true.
Something flashes through the window. I look up at Conner, my mouth going dry. He scrambles around and looks over the seat to where it came from, and another goes off. And another.
“Fuck.” He stands and digs for his wallet. He throws some bills on the table and holds out his hand.
“What?”
“We’re going. Now.” He rounds the table and grabs my hand, tugging me along the seat.
My fingers tighten around his when I see why—photographers. I freeze up, my mouth dropping open.
“Now isn’t a time to catch flies, princess,” he hisses. “Come here.”
He wraps an arm solidly around my shoulders, curves me into him, and pulls open the door. The second it’s open we’re assaulted by a barrage of questions.
“Conner, are the rumors true?”
“Conner, do you have a baby?”
“Is this your baby’s mom?”
“Conner, is it true your baby’s mom is someone you slept with on tour?”
He holds me tighter and shoves his way through them with his other shoulder. I bring one hand up to cover my face from the intrusive way they push at us and grab the back of his shirt with the other.
“Are you his baby’s mom?”
“Who is she, Conner?”