Page 54
“Nothing.”
The track girl snickers.
Kane pinches the wet fabric away from his stomach.
“This is the second shirt you’ve ruined.”
I recognize him then.
The beach.
The spilled beer.
The ego.
He studies my face.
“Sandy.”
I don’t correct him.
There is no reason Kane Haverhill needs my real name.
“You remember me,” I say.
“You’re hard to forget.”
“That almost sounded flattering.”
“It wasn’t.”
I glance at the soup dripping from his shirt. “Now we’re even.”
“How are we even?”
“You ruined my sweater. I ruined your shirt.”
“You walked into me both times.”
“That is a creative retelling.”
His track companion touches his arm.
“Maybe you should take it off right here.”
A cheer rises from one of the nearby basketball tables.
Kane looks toward them, and the corner of his mouth lifts. He grabs the hem of his shirt.
I turn away before he can pull it over his head.
“That’s my cue.”
“You’re leaving without apologizing?” he asks.
“I said I was sorry.”
“You said ‘shit.’”
