“I’ve got a career and you’ve got, what? College?”
I bit my lower lip. “High school.”
His body stilled, but he remained cool about it. “High school. Wow. There you go. People would be quick to assume we’ve got nothing in common.”
I scoffed. “People put too much emphasis on age. They also judge like motherfuckers. Screw the system. I’m over it.”
“Over it enough to pick up the axe again?”
I looked away. “That was different. On that note, I haven’t picked up an axe since. I deserve some kudos for that.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“A reformed axe-wielder.”
“There’s a whole group. Axe-anonymous. We hide out in dark alleyways and talk about the good old days we’d butcher shit.”
“Not people, I hope.”
I looked at him straight-faced. “Maybe.”
He stared hard at me for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. His smile was so infectious, I found my lips moving on their own. This Bomer doppelganger was great value.
“You’re trouble,” he muttered light-heartedly.
“I’m really not,” I replied seriously, still smiling. “By talking to me, you have no risk of being converted to axe-wielding-ness.”
“Is that even a word?”
“Who cares?”
He tapped his key on his hand now as he studied me. Moments passed, but it was surprisingly not awkward. This guy was fun to talk to. “You look older than you are.”
I raised a brow and teasingly replied, “Are you saying I’m aging badly?”
“No, but…it’s there in your eyes. You’re drowning.”
I shrugged and swallowed the lump in my throat. “It hasn’t been easy, but I’ll be alright.”
He waited a moment. “You were a dancer.”
This time I froze. I stared at him in shock. “Are you stalking me, doctor creep?”
He smiled again and shook his head softly. “No, but I saw you at the studio when I used to pick up my sister.”
“Who is your sister?”
“Stephanie. She wasn’t in the same class as you, but you guys were let out at the same time. You used to walk right past me and got picked up by your boyfriend.”
I sighed glumly and bitterly said, “He wasn’t my boyfriend.”
“His loss.” He paused then and his eyes softened as he stared at me. “Do you still dance?”
“No.” My answer was quick and emotionless.
“Why not?”
“I danced when I was happy.”
“Maybe it’ll make you happy again.”
“No.” My word was final. Dancing was another lifetime ago. It was a stupid hobby anyway. I was good at it, but I’d never get far with it. There were no promising job opportunities knowing how to shake your ass and hips. Dancing instructors in this town didn’t even get paid most of the time. It was volunteer work, so that dream of mine went straight out the window, landed in a fire pit and burned away. I was living in the house of reality, and god, it was a constant dose of shit and vomit.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “You should fight for the things you love.”
“What if they walk away?” The question slipped out without thought, and I cringed a little afterwards.
“Well, what’s that re-used quote again? You let something you love go, and if it comes back, it was meant to be.”
I raked my teeth over my bottom lip, thoughtfully going over his words. “What if something I loved the most felt like an obsession more than anything?”
His gaze went distant. “Sometimes I don’t know the difference.”
“You obsessed with someone, Doctor?”
He chuckled and looked at me with crestfallen eyes. “I think we all have someone that got away.”
Holy shit, he was sad. In a blink of an eye, I saw a wave of deep, broken emotion flood him. Then it vanished and he gestured down the road. “I think your bus is here.”
I followed his gaze to the bus turning a corner and coming our way. Disappointment tugged inside of me. I would have liked a few more minutes with him.
Sometimes you just know in the first meeting with someone that you’re going to hit it off with them. They just mesh with you like they’ve known you all their lives. This guy was like that. He was comforting and friendly. He was someone you’d shoot the piss with after a hard day. I really liked that feeling.
Plus, he was flipping gorgeous to look at. Every girl needed to have a hot friend. That one that just hanged around, that you banged with after every breakup, or cried in their giant warm arms as they stroked your back and made horrible jokes.