Page 67 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
I was trying, dammit. I really was.
But the alternative was to contemplate this sticky stuff on the table. No, seriously—what was it? I prayed it was some sort of food product, at least. Ugh, I couldn’t keep thinking about it. I reached for the menu the server had dropped off. I was hardly in the mood for eating. I’d already eaten lunch, and plus it was pretty gross in here. But, well, I was desperate.
I ordered chocolate pie. It took about ten minutes, and then the server reappeared with a slice of pie and a glass of water. I cut a small bite from the corner and tasted it. It was good. A bit too sweet. Oh, yuck. A kind of clay aftertaste. I took a gulp to wash it down—metallic water.
I coughed and sputtered. Andrew chose that moment to appear. I clapped my hand over my mouth as he folded his long body into the booth across from me.
“Not as good as you remember it?” He smirked.
I pushed the plate away and shuddered. “I don’t know how I ever ate that.”
He eyed the slice of pie. “We had a strict fries-only rule, if I remember right. And always order pop.”
Our eyes met. “Don’t drink the water,” we said at the same time. We smiled.
How strange, this camaraderie. Perhaps it had something to do with the location. We’d been friends here, so it was easy to fall into that role now.
We both stilled.
This wasn’t the paralyzing panic of our last meeting, after two years of snowballing fear and apprehension. For all I’d known at the time, he could have raped me where I stood. Of course, he’d done worse. He’d threatened to take Bailey from me.
Even as I marveled at my ease, cold fingers of remembrance clenched my insides. No, this grimy diner had been only a very temporary sort of amnesia. Memories assaulted my calm: flashes of pain, the blue eyes flashing darkly, almost too black.
“I missed you,” Andrew said softly.
I’d missed him too. My friend, Andrew, I’d missed. The guy he’d turned into that last night, not so much. In the past two years he’d filled out from a lanky teenager, but he was still lean. Probably would always be. I’d filled out too. From skinny girl to pregnant to young woman.
Andrew looked down. “I guess I fucked up pretty bad.”
It was both an understatement and stunningly accurate. It also stoppered any recriminations I might have thought to serve him. He knew what he’d done, and he knew it was wrong. What was the point of an accusation, when he’d already accepted the verdict? But there was one thing I wanted to know. “Why, Andrew?”
Remorse was in his eyes when he glanced up at me, but also confusion. He shook his head as he spoke, as if to negate his words. “I never would have thought… It wasn’t planned. I went a little crazy, I guess. More than a little.”
That was the rub of it. There was no magic answer.
He wasn’t
the stereotypical rapist. He wasn’t a mean person. He wasn’t one of the guys I picked up at the bar. If he’d passed out from the alcohol that night, or if I’d left early, or if so many things, then it might never have happened. Our lives would have been so different, never knowing how close we’d come to breaking.
And I knew all about doing things that were out of character, that went against our ideals, that hurt people. I’d done it once a month, and I’d done it last night. I didn’t even have the luxury of them being spur-of-the-moment. Mine were so deliberate.
“Where have you been?” I asked, because it seemed like the thing to say. And maybe I was curious.
“Marines.” He grinned, and little-boy Andrew peeked out at me. “You didn’t think I could do it.”
“Did they kick your ass?”
He made a solemn face, but his eyes still twinkled. “Absolutely.”
Idiot. “Good.”
“What about you?” And our daughter was unspoken.
“Nothing much. I worked in a bakery.” I wondered if he thought back to when I’d brought over chocolate-chip cookies, his favorite. Or when I’d made cupcakes as both our contributions to the school bake fair, since neither of us had mothers to do it for us. Or when I’d made brownies, laced with more adult things. I wondered but didn’t ask. The pain mixed with nostalgia—bittersweet.
“And now?” he asked.
I blushed.
