Page 138 of Go Back to December

Baz’s breath tightens.

I forgot how good this place is, my smile says.

Better than I remembered, his look replies.

We return to cutting and chewing and sipping without a word.

When the check arrives, I finally say, “I’d love it if you let me treat you. For invading your space.”

He glances out the window, gives it an eye roll.

I hand the server a few bills and tell her to keep the change. With one last sip of the dregs of my coffee, I scoop my things into my bag.

“Thank you,” I murmur. “Sitting here, with you silently fuming across the table, is the best morning I’ve had in weeks.”

The look he gives me is twice as guarded as the night I followed him to the lake, and I’ve earned the shame that slices through me.

I slide out of the booth. My feet make it to the floor, and my legs don’t shake.

Not until Baz clasps a hand around my wrist.

“I wasn’t fuming.” He peers up at me, and I lose myself in the distance between the two colors in his eyes.

“Don’t leave,” he whispers.

This is almost my undoing. I would gladly redirect my mail to this table for eternity if it meant he’d forgiven me, and we’d be here together.

The server glances helplessly between our table and the crowd gathered at the door.

I offer Baz my other upturned palm. “If you’re not busy, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Cautiously, he accepts with his other hand and allows me to lead him out of the diner.

Outside, I tilt my head and study his brace-less knee. “Okay to walk for a few blocks?”

He concedes a nod.

The sun is fighting to break through the cloud cover; the air is heavy with impending moisture, and as I walk us down the familiar tree-lined streets that lead from the university campus, I hope the shadowy sky is not some evil omen.

Baz hangs onto my hand quietly the entire way. I don’t press him to speak.

I’m the one who needs to do the talking.

When we finally stop at the ornate gate leading to a brick Georgian mansion of considerable size, Baz lets loose a low whistle that makes me fight hard not to chase it with my mouth.

I brandish a key. “Want a peek inside?”

“Did you rob a bank?”

“Jewelry store.”

He fights a smile. “Show me.”

We walk past the manicured gardens, up the immense stone steps and into the front hallway. As we enter the long foyer, his jaw slides open.

It’s a typical reaction to viewing one of the largest Baroque murals outside of Italy.

“Came from a seventeenth-century church in Piedmont,” I say. “Student of Caravaggio.”