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Insufferable
“Thinkof anything else to ask, Ms. Journalist?” Jake lowers onto the concrete beside me. He seems airy after the call.
I did, but I’m still unsure of the execution. I go for it anyway. “Actually, yes,” I say with a smile, but I think it’s more strained than casual because his ears prick.
“Okay, shoot,” he says, both intrigued and cautious, then looks out over the lake. The sun is now hidden beneath the horizon, the fading daylight bringing with it that early spring chill.
My stomach jumps before I say it. “We’ve met before. Do you remember?” I then bury my chin into my shoulder, keep my eyes on him as I await his response. I want to see every little reaction to my question.
His gaze snaps back to me and he searches my features, his expression now wavering between puzzled and amused. He’s probably wondering if I’m joking. Or if it’s a trick question and am trying to trip him up. One thing’s for sure—he wasn’t expecting it.
He runs a hand through his hair as he thinks. “We have.”
I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement, and as I wait for him to give me something, anything, my hopes climb up way further than I’m prepared for.
I give him a moment to contemplate, but when he doesn’t say anything, I intervene. I don’t want him sifting too far back into his memories. Or for my hopes to come crashing down too hard. “I’ve interviewed you,” I lie. Well, partially lie. One could argue I did a thorough, in-detail examination of Jake Mitchell.
He thinks about it a beat, but the confusion doesn’t leave his eyes. “Oh, right,” he says, nodding slowly, like it’s coming back to him.
He’s full of shit. And trying not to hurt my feelings.
My hopes have officially crashed, irritation simmering in behind them. And I’m not sure if it’s because he’s placating me or because despite me knowing it’s the best thing, he still doesn’t remember me when prodded, because that means it wasn’t as good for him as it was for me. That even after all those drinks, nothing about me and our time together is sticking out or breaking through.
But I need to get over it. I was the one who misread things back at the house. The one that thought it was a bright idea to even ask him the question in the first place.
That let my pride take the reins.
I take a quick breath. “When I used to write for the Sports section.” Which never happened. “Years ago.”
“Right,” he continues, his lips twitching into a grin. He thinks he has me fooled. “After one of my wins?”
I swallow and manage to smile again, though I know it’s weak. “Yep.”
“Man, I’m a jerk,” he says with a sigh, bumping into me. His version of an apology. “A lot’s happened since then.”
Well, there’s one thing that’s true; a lot has happened since he and I were last together.
And he is a little bit of a jerk.
“All good.” My voice goes up an octave, and it grabs his attention. He knows it’s not all good, that my usual rock-solid poker face somehow managed to crack and I’m trying to conceal my disappointment.
He lips part to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. Embarrassed, I casually stand, wiping off my backside. Surely, he has to be wondering if there’s more to it, because why would a journalist care if he remembered her or not? He’s talked to hundreds during his career; he couldn’t possibly remember every single one.
“Ready to head back?” I say.
“So soon?” The hint of desperation in his voice tells me he’s not ready.
I start walking anyway, and I hear him stand behind me and follow along.
He jogs to catch up.
“Hey, Scarlett,” he says and grabs my arm, but not roughly. Just hard enough to get me to stop and look at him. “I…” He searches for something to say, lands on, “I feel like a jerk.” He knows he should be apologizing. He just doesn’t know for what.
The sincerity in his voice soothes the irritation. Some.
“All good,” I repeat.
“You sure? Because you looked a little…” He searches for the word, but I can tell he doesn’t want to make it worse.
