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His lips flatline as his eyes narrow. “You should be pumped for the end of the season.”
“I am.” I rip the car door open and slide inside, leaving Tucker to hover over me. “And I’m supposed to meet my dad and the team for dinner in a few minutes, so I need to get going.”
“It’s Nila, isn’t it?”
“Who?” I play it off.
He cocks a brow. “Yeah, okay. That’s definitely it. I read the report. I know she’s the reason you punched the guy at the retreat. Like I said, I’m your lawyer. It’s my job to know what’s going on in all aspects of your life.”
“Well, then you’ll know we’re not supposed to talk about it either.”
“Maybe not, but I know you don’t punch people for nothing. If you got cut up over Nila, I don’t think you should let it affect you. Flings happen all the time when two people are forced to be around each other for long periods.”
“That makes me feel so much better,” I quip, reaching for the door handle and tugging on it.
Tucker groans and shakes his head but lets me slam the door and end the conversation.
Again, I’m not in the mood to talk about Nila. I don’t even want to think about her—but that’s appearing to be impossible. And you can’t move on if you’re constantly talking about it.
I start the car and throw it into reverse. As I pull out of the parking lot, I turn the radio to a classic rock channel. My eyes drift over to the passenger seat, and instantly I’m picturing the adorable redhead sitting in my car, clinging to the door handle like her life depended on it.
Shaking my head, I push the memory away and zip across town to the Italian restaurant. As I pull into one of the parking spots, I check the time.
I’m almost twenty minutes early.
Ugh.
I consider calling my dad, but I know he’ll be here in a few minutes. Plus, I’ve been avoiding him as much as possible since I got back. I know he’s going to pry into why I haven’t mentioned Nila—and then I’m going to have to tell him the truth about the whole thing. Which, again, means talking about it. Which means not moving on from her.
Picking up my phone, I notice the notifications from social media. I turned them back on once I got home, telling myself it was so I would be more engaged. But really, I know it’s just so I’ll know immediately if Nila likes something. Or sends me a message.
Like she even would.
I open up the app and start scrolling through the newsfeed. It’s happy face after happy face, with a mixture of food in between. I’ll never understand the need to post what you’re about to eat on the internet. But whatever. I keep flipping through the posts, liking things that my friends have said, but otherwise, keeping it to a minimum. Sarah is going to be taking care of this now, anyway.
But then I freeze, my finger hovering over Nila’s handle popping up on my screen. My mouth grows dry as I scroll further to see what she posted.
In the time since I’ve been back, nothing has shown up—and I haven’t seen anything on her page. Until right now, obviously.
I take a deep breath and take in the photo. Nila has a bright, toothy grin, and her arm is wrapped around a dark-headed woman—one I don’t recognize.
I read the caption beneath the photo.
Dinner is better with your best friend.
“Her best friend?” I ask the question aloud as I squint down at the woman.
In all the time that Nila stayed with me at the retreat, she never once mentioned her best friend. In fact, she never talked to me about anyone other than her family.
I shake my head, feeling a pang of rejection.
Maybe she didn’t let me in the way I thought she did.
Maybe she was just doing her job, and in that, she strung me along.
The thought tears into my heart like a serrated blade, and I have to admit it makes me feel sick. Was I really that naïve?
My finger hovers over the picture. Part of me wants to double-click—to like the photo—so she knows that I’m still here.
