Sweet Filthy Boy(62)

Fascinated, I break character for just a moment. “You mean Oliver and Finn and Perry.”

A shadow falls over his face and he nods slowly.

Shit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But he’s already holding up his hand. “No. Those relationships are some of the best and . . . complicated of my life. Does that make sense?” I nod. “I rode next to them for sometimes eight or ten hours a day. I slept three people deep in a space no bigger than your average bathroom. We missed our families together, we comforted each other, we celebrated some of the proudest moments of our lives. Practically living in each other’s pockets at that age made three months feel like a lifetime, and it . . . I guess maybe it’s hard when lives change in ways that aren’t how we imagined or hoped.”

Whatever this Perry is going through, it’s obviously something Ansel is having a hard time dealing with. He’s quiet for a moment, attention zeroed in on his glass. I’m not used to seeing him like this, and it presses like a bruise in my chest. I didn’t realize how hungry I was for more details of his life until we were here, pretending to be sharing these pieces with the safety of a stranger. “You don’t have to talk about it,” I say quietly.

“It’s just that there’s nothing I can really do to fix what Perry’s going through, and . . . I don’t mean to sound self-important, but that’s not a situation I’m familiar with.”

“Whatever he’s dealing with,” I say, “you can be there, but it is his life. You can’t make it perfect for him.”

He studies me for a silent beat, opening his mouth and then closing it again. “No . . . It’s just that”—he pauses and draws in a deep breath—“I know. You’re right.”

I want to tell him I understand, that I know what it’s like to be so close to someone, to feel them drift away and be unable to pull them back, but I can’t. The closest people in my life have always been Harlow and Lorelei. They’re my constants, and have been since we were in elementary school. By the time Luke and I broke up after the accident, I was ready to let him go. And while I might feel the occasional hollow spot from where he used to fit into my life, I think I always knew I wasn’t going to be with him forever.

Wanting to change the subject, I whisper, “Well, from where I’m sitting, whoever stood you up tonight was a total idiot.”

Understanding washes over his expression and he turns on his stool to face me completely, one elbow propped up on the bar.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, biting his bottom lip. “I’m beginning to think she might have done me a favor . . .” He leaves the sentiment hanging meaningfully between us, and we continue to sit there in silence, the pulsing bass of music overhead thumping all around us. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he says suddenly.

“Boyfriend?” I shake my head, fighting a grin. “No.” It’s technically true. “Girlfriend?” I ask in return.

He shakes his head, eyes flickering to my mouth before blinking up to meet mine again.

Once the conversation about Bike and Build moves on, all traces of sadness and regret seem to disappear from Ansel’s eyes and it’s just like the first night we were together: the two of us, talking for hours. It helps me remember every detail that hadn’t yet returned. Like the way he talks with his hands, pausing only when he forgets a word, his brow furrowed in concentration, before I laugh, a mini-game of Charades breaking out as I help him find the right one. Or the way he listens so carefully he tilts his head toward me, eyes continually inspecting my expression. He makes me feel like I’m the only person on the planet. He looks at me like he’s one second away from devouring me.

No wonder I proposed.

He asks me about my life in San Diego, and listens with the same rapt attention as if the night in Las Vegas never happened, and he hasn’t heard every detail before.

“And you loved dancing,” he says, smiling, his empty glass abandoned on the bar in front of him. It’s not posed as a question, but an observation.

“I did.”

“And performing.”

I sigh. “I loved performing.”

Ansel’s eyes narrow, a beat of meaningful silence stretching between us before he says, “I’m sure.”

He’s completely unashamed by the way he scans my body, gaze lingering at my breasts. I feel goose bumps spread along my skin, my nipples hardening at his suggestive tone, at the hunger in his eyes.

“But business school,” he says, blinking back up to my face. “It doesn’t hold your interest the same way.”