“No. Of course not.”
“She’s no one,” I say, and she shakes her head.
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“She’s the past. Not the future.” She looks up and our gazes lock; like lightning cracking.
Neither of us speaks as we wait for the food to arrive, but when the milkshake comes with two straws, we both reach for it, our hands touching, our fingers meeting. This moment has happened before, but this time there is no denying what is going on between us.
It’s like sitting on top of a roller coaster the moment before it dips.
Invigorating.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Willow
I didn’t expect Jax to open up to me like that. Sure, he told me about his family before, but this was different. This was as if he cut his heart right open and allowed himself to bleed out on the table in front of me.
A part of me welcomes the trust he puts in me, but a bigger part feels like I’ve taken the knife and then stabbed him in the back. Hearing him speak makes me feel even worse. It makes me feel like a fraud. Here he is talking about how his brother doesn’t respect him and uses him, and I’m no different. A twisting feeling starts in my stomach, weaving its way through my blood. I’m just as bad. This whole time, I’ve gotten to know him for the wrong reasons, and although I genuinely care about him more than I want to, and now I feel things for him I shouldn’t, my motives were not pure in the beginning.
Now that I know him, I feel differently, but the motive is still there. I still need his help, and I will have to ask.
But it doesn’t stop me from feeling awful. Luckily, though, the food arrives. Oh, and by the way, we ordered way too much.
The entire table has food spread across it. But everything looks amazing. The smells waft up through the air, lingering in my nostrils and making my mouth water. We both have an empty plate in front of us. That way we can share, and I’m not sure what to eat first.
“Where are you starting?” I ask.
“Chicken and waffles obviously.”
“They do sound amazing.”
“Amazing isn’t the right word for them. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten chicken and waffles from here.”
“Duly noted.”
“So now that I divulged my whole life story to you”—he pauses—“why don’t you tell me something, anything, a ridiculously mundane fact? Maybe a memory. Something you cherish.”
I appreciate the fact he’s not asking leading questions. Maybe to someone who doesn’t know him, it would seem leading, but he’s giving me room to tell a little but still protect myself. His brother really is an idiot. Jaxson Price is probably the best man I know. Although looking at some of the men I know, that doesn’t mean a lot, but still.
“Anything big or small. It doesn’t matter.”
I look around the table and stare at the food. And then my gaze catches on the window. It faces the barren and cold city street. At this time of the night, there’s no hustle and bustle, no crowds, and it’s dark. Nighttime in New York is not my favorite thing because the darkness is something I don’t enjoy. For me, it’s not a good memory. It’s a reminder of what I’m running from.
I close my eyes and try to think of something that makes me happy. It’s been so long since I’ve been happy. I think of my mother and of my father, before, when we were still a family.
“I used to love to have picnics,” I say.
Jax leans forward, his elbows hitting the table. He doesn’t speak, though. Instead, he waits patiently for me to continue.
“When I was little . . .” I start, the memory of my parents playing out in my mind. My chest tightens, but as it does, I feel his warmth. I look down and see he has taken my hand in his. He gives me a little squeeze, which gives me the strength to continue. “When I was little, my mother would set up picnics. She would put a large blanket in our backyard. A big wicker basket always sat on top. To me, it was the biggest thing in the world. Almost like a Mary Poppins bag. She would keep pulling out treats. It never ended. From little sandwiches cut into shapes to chocolate-covered strawberries. I would drink lemonade from a crystal flute. She and my father would drink champagne. It was magical.”
“When did you stop?” he asks, his voice low and full of curiosity.
“We stopped when my mom died.” My voice cracks. That was when the magic died. The beginning of the end. I just didn’t know it then.
He’s quiet, and I feel the squeeze. “I’m sorry. Were you young?”
“I was eight years old. My dad raised me.”