Page 21 of Level Up for Love

I watch his jaw work as he scrubs his hand through his hair. It’s not messy, not really, but the Wesley of six years ago wouldn’t have let it grow out so long. I’ll never be the one to tell him that the style suits him much better now, that it lets some of those golden curls breathe.

“It was a long time ago,” he says, his voice a dull echo of my earlier words. “Wasn’t it?”

“You really won’t tell me?” Coward, I think.

“I barely remember that night, Reagan.” But he can’t even hold my stare—his eyes dance away from mine, and the corners of his lips tighten in a wince. I know he’s lying, and I’m about to call him on it when he speaks again. “Do you really still care that much about it?”

My eyebrows rise so high they disappear underneath the sweep of my bangs. He’s daring me to give a fuck, to admit that he might have mattered to me—might still matter to me. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.

“I guess not,” I say flatly. “But I deserved to know why.”

“That’s true,” he says, surprising me. He leans forward and braces his elbows on the table. “But if it’s all the same to you”—it’s not, I scream internally—“I’d prefer to start fresh.”

I’d rather shoot myself into the stratosphere than start fresh with Wesley Locke, but—I saw the delight on Mona’s face today, the way she lit up every time Moss healed Sindra or Shay laughed.

I’m not going anywhere.

I force myself to release the tension in my shoulders, to uncurl my fingers where I unconsciously balled them into fists at my sides. It takes me a few long moments to get the word out, but then I finally huff, “Fine.”

I stand and shoulder my tote bag, but then he speaks again.

“So you’ve been here this whole time? In New Haven? I heard you got an offer from Uproar Games in L.A. after graduation.”

The reminder still stings, even after all these years; I shake it off even as I bitterly wonder, Who told him? “No, I never left,” I say hollowly. We can both keep our secrets. “I stayed.”

“Why?” he blurts out. “You were incredible, Reagan. Why did you stop making games?”

Incredible? I barely register the offhand compliment before rage boils over. My spine goes straight, and my knuckles turn white where my fingers curl around the edges of the table. I’m so much stronger than I was in college—in more ways than one. I could flip it over without a second thought and send all of the miniature figurines arranged across Wesley’s carefully constructed battle map flying.

“Here’s how this is going to go.” My tone is dangerously soft—at odds with the way my body is poised to spring. I avoid his question entirely, just like he avoided mine. “This”—I gesture to the space between us, to the dice and character sheets on the table—“is just a game, Wesley. This is the only game we will be playing. We are not friends. We were never friends. And I am only going to see you when I have to, on Thursday nights. I’m just here because Mona is. Okay?”

I watch Wesley’s throat bob. His teeth are clenched so tight I could cut myself on the angular line of his jaw. “Okay.”

Finally, I head for the door, and when he speaks again, I barely hear him.

“I like her,” he says.

“What?” I don’t even look over my shoulder, but I pause.

“I like Sindra. She’s a good fit for this campaign.”

“Right. Thanks.”

I turn the doorknob, but I don’t open it. If anyone deserves the last word, it’s me. “It makes sense that you’d be a good Dungeon Master,” I say.

“Does it?”

I swing the door open. “You’ve always been great at controlling a narrative.”

“That’s radically unfair, Reagan. I just—”

I slam the door shut behind me.