Page 20 of Played
"You look different today." He tilts his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "More… buttoned up."
"Yeah?" I glance down at Daniel's choice—the boring beige slacks, the plain dark blouse. "Police station appropriate, I guess."
"Last time I saw you, you were wearing—" He stops, like he's embarrassed he remembers. "A frayed denim skirt. Rainbow-striped top. Those flower earrings."
My jaw drops. "You remember that?"
"Hard to forget."
I remember his black t-shirt, the way it stretched across his chest, the tattoo peeking out from his sleeve. His dark jeans. The Pepsi.
"Which version do you like better?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His smile widens. "Both. But maybe the colorful one a little more."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Good. Because this—" I gesture at myself. "This isn't me. Just chosen for the occasion."
"Why?"
I could answer that honestly, but that would be falling into a rabbit hole. No good can come of it. "Just trying to appear credible, I guess."
"Liza." He clears his throat, fingers drumming against the ceramic mug. "I know this is forward, but—would you want to grab dinner sometime?"
My heart drops straight through the floor.
"Like a date?" The words come out breathless.
"Yeah. A date." He holds my gaze, steady but vulnerable. "I'd really like to get to know you better."
The space shrinks around us. Everything in me screams yes—every cell, every nerve ending.
"I… I have a boyfriend."
His face falls. Just for a second, but I catch it. The disappointment flickering across those beautiful features.
"Right. Of course." He leans back, creating distance. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"No, don't apologize." I reach across the table, almost touching his hand before pulling back. "I'm flattered. Really."
Understatement of the century.
We sit in awkward silence. I want to cry or scream or throw something. Instead, I grab the pamphlet from my purse, unfolding it on the table.
"Are you considering this support group thing?"
He latches onto the subject change. "Yeah, actually. It's in Portland, near my sister's place. I’d get to see my nephew, maybe work through some stuff."
"Work through stuff?"
"I'm writing a book," he explains. He rubs the back of his neck. "Well, attempting to. It's inspired by… darker experiences. My past. Figured the group might help with authenticity."
"You're a writer?"
"Hobby. Piano pays the bills." His smile returns, softer now. "But this one's different. More personal. A memoir disguised as fiction, I guess."
I lean forward, fascinated. "What kind of past?"
"The rough kind." He doesn't elaborate, but shadows cross his face. "I didn't exactly have a Sunday mass and family dinners childhood."
