The Boy I Hate(13)
She thought about Steven, about him declaring his love four years ago, after knowing her for two weeks. How he wanted more, even though she’d only been a friend to him. That wasn’t her fault. Yes, you can’t help the people you fall in love with, but you also can’t help the people who fall in love with you. She looked down at her fingers, shaking her head both at the fact she’d judged him unfairly, but also because she agreed with him. “No,” she finally whispered. “You don’t owe her anything.”
His brow lifted as though her admission surprised him, and he turned to face her, studying her, as though wondering if what she said was what she really believed. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and rough, almost a whisper. “Do you forgive me?”
She tilted her head to the side, the corner of her mouth lifting involuntarily because after all that, he’d brought it back full circle. After all that, he wasn’t asking her for the apology he probably deserved. He was asking for her forgiveness. Because he didn’t dwell on who wronged him. He worried more about how he’d wronged her.
“Yes.”
Present Day
“Do you want to go first, or should I?”
Samantha’s face was red with exertion, her back already aching under the weight of the sculpture. They’d only just made it into the living room, which meant they still needed to make it down the stairs, through the courtyard, and to the front of the building where his car was parked. “You,” she said on a winded breath. “I’ll follow.”
He nodded quickly, silently agreeing with her decision, and turned around, carefully easing his back into the stairwell. He adjusted his grip on the bubble wrap, lifting the sculpture around a sharp corner like a professional furniture mover, and took the first step backward down the stairs. “Easy now.”
She followed after him, her jaw flexed with the weight pulling at her shoulders. But she wouldn’t let him see her struggle. Not now, not ever. Even it if ripped her arms right out of their sockets.
They shuffled down the steps one at a time, through the courtyard, and to the front of the building. He finally lowered the sculpture to the ground a few feet away, where Samantha released the weight, maybe with a little more oomph than she’d intended, and stepped backward.
She pulled in a few deep breaths before standing, replenishing the oxygen she’d lost on the flight downstairs.
“You’re stronger than you look, Smiles.” He grinned, pulling his keys from his front pocket and hanging them on his finger. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Samantha straightened, resisting the urge to snatch the keys out of his cocky hand. She looked down the row of cars, inwardly cringing at how much farther they still had to go. “Which one’s yours?”
His lips lifted. He stepped forward shaking his head and unlocked the door to the light blue ’67 Ford Mustang just in front of them.
She vaguely remembered it—from long ago. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“About what?” he asked.
“About that.” She gestured her chin toward the car. “We’re not driving all the way to New York in that—are we?”
He moved to lean his hip against the taillight, and placed a pair of aviator glasses on his face. “That’s the plan, sweetheart. Is that a problem?”
She pressed her lips together at the endearment. “We’re driving over three thousand miles,” she stated. Reasonable. Let’s all be reasonable. “In a car that’s fifty years old?”
“And?”
“Don’t you think it would be wise to take a more reliable form of transportation?”
He shrugged.
Oh, dear God! She turned toward her apartment and wiped her hand over her face. “You know what—here, let me get my car. It’s not very big, but—”
“Greta”—he tapped hard on the back fender of the Mustang—“hasn’t let me down yet.” He popped the trunk, lifting it all the way open. “I’ll ignore the fact that you insulted her.”
Samantha narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding with the need to punch him. “You’re just as sweet as I remember.”
He huffed out a laugh, pulling the glasses from his face, and resting one finger on his bottom lip. “Oh yeah? And what do you remember, Samantha?”
6
Chapter Six
Six years earlier
“Hang on, Sam, a little bit longer, we’re almost there.”
Samantha clung onto Tristan’s neck, their heads bobbing up and down from each pull of his breaststroke. How he’d convinced her to do this was beyond her. She’d never even touched Tristan before, and now only the thin, wet fabric of her bathing suit separated them from being skin to skin.