His lips tingled from their kiss, chest mottled and heart thrashing beneath the trappings of his dress shirt. Kenna had already retreated to the safety of the desk chair.
Ripping the sticky note off the monitor, she mumbled, “A cancellation. It’s Mrs. Felvus’ lucky day.”
“Have dinner with me this weekend.”
The proposal halted her mid-dial.
Really, she’d halted for no other reason than to scoff at him, as if she didn’t feel it too. The reawakening of this powerful thing between them that laid dormant for months.
Her fingers danced over the buttons and he heard the soft ringing projecting from the receiver. Kenna covered the mouthpiece. “Yes to dinner on one condition, and it’s non-negotiable. I want answers. You owe me that much.”
11
THOSE GIRLS
With the aid of overzealous prayer and her marginally improved motor skills, Kenna survived her first solo venture on the open road. She began frequenting the abandoned lot after the initial lesson with Dayton. There was something soothing about teaching herself, using his one day of guidance as a mental handbook. When she was behind the wheel, amid all that concrete and the distant army of trees, she felt at peace.
More than that, she felt powerful.
As powerful as she’d felt slipping the letter in Dayton’s dropbox, or sneaking out of the farmhouse window at 18 and never looking back.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she parked, feeling thankful to have made it to her destination in one piece.
A few minutes remained before their agreed upon meeting time of 8 o’clock—Kenna had left early so as not to risk being late. They had never been out like this, just the two of them, outside the shell of their mentorship.
And though it was new and exciting, she couldn’t afford to let that excitement shine through.
No dress. No heels. No makeup.
Saturdays were for coursework and her unkempt appearance suggested that she hadn’t strayed from tradition.
‘Sinclair’s’was spelled out in a scrawling cursive neon white sign over the entryway, nestled among a dense network of creeping fig vines. The restaurant screamed special occasion with its black-tie waitstaff and dimly lit, intimate atmosphere.
It was a perfect place for graduation parties. Anniversary dinners. Or, in her case, an elegant backdrop for a dreadful conversation.
The hostess took one look at Kenna’s disheveled bun-ponytail hybrid and her brown eyes brimmed with faux sympathy. “Sorry, sweetheart, the bar just filled up.”
She kept her face neutral. It would’ve been too easy to rip into the anonymous girl after the week she’d had. If her thus far limited exposure to psychotherapy had taught her anything, it was empathy.
“I’m meeting someone. I think he had a reservation.”
“Last name?”
“Merino.”
Her mood changed on a dime.
Clutching a menu to her chest, she leaned over the hostess stand, speaking quietly, “I’ve been working here for, like, five years and he always dines alone. God, you’re lucky. He’s way hot.”
Kenna might have taken it as a compliment were he a man of upstanding morals. It wasn’t a casual evening out. They had unfinished business.
“Back corner booth.”
Mumbling her thanks, she rounded the corner into the dining room and with every step she took an image of her semester spent in Markham Hall flashed through her mind. Sitting in that rundown chair for hours, scrawling in her notebooks. Refiling patient folders and running errands.
Fond memories soon gave way to less savory ones.
After hours. Her independent research. The long nights and scarring conversations. And, in the end, she’d been met with the same fate as the rest.