Page 31

Scanning the underlayers of the moment. Listening to what’s not being said. Calculating. Frowning.

Peter, meanwhile, watches me as though fully anticipating this holly jolly moment to be the icing on today’s cake.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. The shackles are tightening their grip around my throat now, squeezing with the force of invisible triangular demands from three men all watching me at the same time with different hopes.

Peter is waiting for an effusive glow of gratitude and joy.

James is wanting me to be strong, resist, and push the coffee away.

And Dom—married, life-of-the-party Dom, who broke my heart every day in a fresh way through my teenage years just so he could be the one to piece it back together like a jigsaw puzzle—is looking at me now with hope simmering in his eyes as he waits to see exactly how much I’ve changed over the years, and exactly how much he can get away with again.

Well.

Turns out, too much.

The two-to-one pressure overwhelms me, and I take a sip and smile.

James blinks and looks away.

Pathetic. I know. I’m pathetic.

The coffee brings back a flood of memories. But of course Dom did it this way. Back in high school I had no concept of how sugar affects the body and certainly no interest in the actual taste of coffee. Caffeine was a grown-up thrill and my coffees reflected that. And Dom remembers. Which he’s silently communicated by sending me a double peppermint, double English toffee latte with extra whipped cream. A diabetic’s nightmare and a teenage girl’s dream.

The terrible sugary mixture sloshes around my tongue, and after a moment I swallow quickly. Set it down. And give the brightest, politest smile. “What a treat,” I say to Peter, grinning with a lie that stretches a mile wide.

Satisfied, he drifts off toward the speaker system and small stage beside us and begins working on a mic not far off.

But I have matured, at least in baby steps. Seven years ago, I would’ve caved and walked up to the table and thanked Dom personally. Shoot, a week ago I would’ve caved and walked up to the table and thanked Dom personally. And I would’ve felt obliged to sit there the rest of the evening because he spent five dollars on me. I would’ve volunteered myself to babysit his child, make him a meal, drive him somewhere just to try to make amends for the fact that he went above and beyond by spending five bucks on me.

I would’ve done just about anything for him. He could have owned me.

Well, that’s not what’s going to happen today. Today my feet stay planted to the ground.

I look at James. He’s not saying anything. His own coffee sits untouched before him, steam billowing away; his arms are actually crossed as though touching it might kill him.

I frown. “What?”

The Christmas music from the speakers stops. Peter taps the mic, announcing the start of the karaoke contest all while holding up what appears to be a giant ball of cheese wrapped in an equally gigantic bow.

People begin to rise.

James just shrugs. “Nothing.”

My brows furrow deeper. “What?”

“Nothing,” he retorts, matching my tone. But after a couple of seconds, he adds, “Are you enjoying your coffee?”

I hear the little tinge of sarcasm in his voice and scowl. “Immensely,” I say, and take a sip of the pure sugar to my bloodstream for good measure.

His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “That so?”

“Mm,” I reply.

He leans forward. Picks up the mug. Sniffs it.

“Smells like somebody lit every candle in a Dollar Tree for Christmas.”

“Very much,” I say.