Page 5 of The Long Way Home
The thought makes my teeth clench. How dare he show up like this, after everything.
Suddenly and without my permission, the madness mixes with frustration and worse, something I refuse to admit aloud: the pull. The draw. The ridiculous, infuriating attraction that refuses to obey logic. Even after all this time. After I’ve told myself a thousand times that all I ever was to him was a friend. That isall I’ll ever be, and yet my body still reacts. My pulse still betrays me.
I take a slow breath, trying to steady my hands. I try to remind myself: this is Margo’s night. He is here. Fine. But he doesn’t get to own my thoughts.
I cradle the glass in both hands, the chill seeps into my fingers. I breathe in the crisp night air, letting it fill my lungs while trying to steady the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in my head.
“You always did like vodka sodas, but you’re missing your favorite part.”
I don’t have to look to know who it is. That voice has lived in the back of my mind for far too long. What stings more is that he remembers my drink order.
I turn my head just slightly. Rhett stands a few feet away with his hands in his pockets, posture easy, like this is ordinary. As if we haven’t gone years without standing in the same room.
When I stay silent, he fills in, “The lemon. Here, take mine.”
I watch as he grabs the lemon from his drink and squeezes it over mine. A few drops land on the floor below us before he pops the slice into mine. It makes no sense for him to have a lemon. He is drinking whiskey neat. He always drinks it neat. I’ve seen him with that same drink a hundred times before, and it never had a lemon in it. Not once.
I stare at it floating there, bright yellow in the clear of my drink, like some kind of quiet apology I refuse to accept.
“Huh. You remember that?” I let my tone stay cool.
He steps in closer beside me, ignoring my poor attempt at disdain. The proximity alone makes something tighten in my stomach.
“I remember a lot about you,” he murmurs.
I stare back out at the skyline, pressing the rim of the glass to my lip. I try to focus on the cold.He left you. You were practically alone. You are mad.
Rhett leans forward on the railing, allowing his shoulder to brush mine. His cologne drifts into my senses, subtle but enough to make my knees weak. I let my eyes take one moment to roam over him. His brown hair falls effortlessly in a messy sweep. It is longer than the last time I saw him. His brown eyes, dark like espresso, rimmed with thick lashes, pierce through me.
He has grown into his body in a way that is almost obscene. Every inch of him seems deliberately carved to make you stare. And I’m starting to think the world has been quietly conspiring in his favor. His jaw is sharper now, dusted with stubble that makes my fingers twitch. Against my will, I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like against my skin.
I hate that time has only refined him into something sturdy. Meanwhile, I feel worn thin, like paper that has been folded too many times, the creases showing every place I have tried to forget him.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be here,” I mutter, tearing my gaze away from him and shifting it back to the skyline. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again, not after you left this town.”
“Wasn’t sure I should come,” he replies evenly.
“Clearly, you figured it out,” I murmur, letting the words drip with sarcasm. I press my lips together, staring down at my glass.
He leans towards me, and I can feel the weight of his eye on me. And that same bolt of electricity zips down my spine.
“Figured what out?”
“How to come back here,” I reply, careful not to give him more than necessary. “I wasn’t sure you knew how.”
“Rach… It’s Margo’s wedding. Did you really think I’d stay away?”
I roll my eyes subtly, sipping my vodka soda. It seems like using my drink is the only shield I have. “You stayed away for everything else. Somehow I thought I might get lucky,” I mutter.
His smirk softens just a fraction, a flicker of something unreadable flashes in his gaze. “And here I thought seeing you again might be worth the risk.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
He finally gets the clear warning I’m giving him and pushes off the rail, starting toward the door.
“You could never disappoint me, Rach.” His stare rests firmly on my back, and I can feel it between my shoulders, but I refuse to look up. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. I stay silent long enough that I think he is finally going to give up.
“I’ll, uh, see ya around,” he says, looking towards the door. Only then do I turn to sneak another glance at him. I watch him start back toward the reception, and for a heartbeat, I think I’ve made it. I survived a conversation with Rhett Hayes. But then I watch as his steps slow.
