Page 41 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Peyton sucks in a slow breath. “The breaking point happened three years ago. We were at a dinner party with friends, and he was being extra handsy. He kept running his hand up my thigh under the table. I repeatedly told him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He joked that he had ‘boyfriend privileges,’ and I needed to relax—to quit being so stiff.”

“The fuck?” I say under my breath, barely audible. Her gaze moves somewhere far away, and I’m not sure she even heard me. She wraps her arms around her waist, like she’s giving herself a hug, and the dull look in her eyes crushes me.

“Anyway, I went to the bathroom to put some space between us. When I came back, he was in the hallway with his buddy, laughing and telling him that he needed to get me really drunk so he could have ‘fun with me’ at home. And I quote, ‘Drunk is how I like Peyton. She lets me do pretty much whatever I want to her and keeps her annoying mouth shut.’”

“Peyton,” I breathe, leaning forward and ducking my chin to meet her gaze. “No.”

“Then I thought back to a few other times I felt safe with him and let loose… and, yeah. I guess I don’t know what happened to me. If he… well.” Her shoulders cave inward. “And, um, I’m embarrassed to say it took me three more months to break up with him after that,” she adds quietly.

“That’s… I don’t even know what to…” I trail off. I’m never going to find the exact right words. So I go with the first thought that comes to my mind. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you went through that. That he put you in that position. You didn’t deserve it. No one does.”

“Now you know why I ran. And why I…” Peyton waves her arm in the air, then yawns. After being so emotionally open—especially given what happened today—she must be exhausted. I’m about to ask her if she wants to call it quits, but she starts talking first.

“God, sorry for trauma-dumping on you. I’ve told this story so many times as a part of my exposure therapy—in support groups, to really close friends. It gets easier, less emotional, each time, but I know it’s a lot. I just needed… to get it out there. But that’s probably enough of me talking about that,” she jokes.

While I want to ask questions or provide more support—even just sit with her in silence—it’s clear that she wants to move on right now. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I pull out my phone and try to bring some lightness back.

Squinting dramatically at my screen, I ask, “What’s his first and last name? I just want to talk. I have access to government resources, and I’m terribly afraid to misuse them—but this calls for an exception.”

Peyton laughs, sitting straighter in her seat. “Government resources, huh?”

I nod solemnly. “Yep. I’m authorized to view a database that tracks food recalls. Pretty high-clearance stuff.”

She puts a hand on each cheek in pretend shock. “Wow. Are you even allowed to talk about that publicly?”

My mouth presses into a thin line. “No. I actually have a memory eraser in my pocket.” I lift my pointer finger to eye level. “So if you could just look over here and not blink, that’d be great.”

She giggles. “If you wipe my memories, can you leave the first half of this day behind? I’m rather fond of it.”

I lower my hand and duck my head briefly, feeling shy about my wide smile. Because I’ve enjoyed today, too. And if it has to end, I don’t want it to be the end of this—whatever’s between us.

Fiddling with the cart key, I take a steadying breath. “I know today was a one-time thing. But I’m wondering if I could see you again? I don’t want to stop… running into you.”

“Even after the punching? Are you sure you’re not concussed?”

I lower my tone into something gentle. “I’m serious.”

She blinks slowly. “I don’t want to stop running into you either.”

A sigh of relief rushes through my lips as the four most comforting words in the human experience nestle in my mind: It’s not just me.

But I need to be honest with her about something. She should know what she’s getting into with me, how out of practice I am.

Rolling my shoulders back, I fix my eyes on hers. “I want to be up front. You’re the first person I’ve wanted to keep running into in a very long time. So I might… just, sorry if I don’t know how to act around you.”

“Well, you’re the first man—erm, friend, I’ve even considered touching in a very long time. So, sorry if I punch you in the face sometimes.” She shrugs.

A laugh falls out of my mouth. “‘Man-friend,’ already? Wow. Therapy is working wonders on my personality.”

She smacks her lips together. “Yeah, it was definitely your sparkling demeanor that reeled me in.”

“I bet my proficiency in food safety really sealed the deal.”

“For sure. No one knows raw poultry like you do.” Peyton grins. “So, when are we running into each other next, Inspector?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

She giggles, relaxing in her seat. “That soon, huh?”