Page 12

Sunday

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” I ask Lara, wincing as my ears are assaulted by pop music when we walk into the restaurant.

My head pounds—obviously, I did what any emotionally intelligent man would do when confronted with his past mistakes and got absolutely blasted in my apartment last night.

Can I give up? Can someone just taxidermy me?

“Because it will be nice,” she assures me, reaching up to yank my hood off my head. I dodge her as she tries to snatch the sunglasses off my face, too. I cannot cope with fluorescent lighting. Not today. Nuh-uh. No way, José.

“Plus, I think Bellamy could do with a pick-me-up.”

My ears prick up. “What do you mean?” I ask as I slide into a blue suede booth, Lara slipping in next to me.

“He got teary this morning when I asked why he moved to Salem. Poor guy only got divorced a few months ago,” she sighs, picking up the menu. “Having to find a new home and job on top of all that? Not surprised he got a bit watery-eyed.”

Divorced? No wonder he shut me down after I asked him why he moved. Hope, of all things, blooms in my chest, unfurling violently between my ribs.

No—I take that seed of hope and bury it back where it came from. I should only feel sorry for him. And I do; I never really stopped caring about him, even though I tried not to.

I was okay for the first few months after our breakup, distracted by going out into the world after graduation, earning myself a reputation for being easy like Sunday Mourning. In hindsight, fucking my way through half of London while on my internship was probably a sign I wasn’t coping with my decision to end things as well as I thought.

“So, what should we order for him?” Lara looks at me expectantly, because she’s a nosy little ostrich.

“Maybe a burger, or…” she ventures.

“Veggie burger,” I grind out, lifting the menu, pretending I don’t know what I’m going to have even though I order the Philly cheesesteak every time we come here.

A manicured finger creeps over the top of my menu and pulls it down. “Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

I narrow my eyes at her. There’s no point playing this game.

“He’s a vegetarian.”

She continues to stare at me.

“Okay—we were friends as teens and roommates in college,” I relent with a partial truth, my heart kicking at the admission.

“There it is. I knew there was history between you two when your mouth did that weird thing you call smiling.”

The server arrives to take our order, robbing me of my chance to chirp something back. As she leaves, the bell jingling above the entry door grabs my attention. Séverin enters first, his slim frame doing little to hide Bellamy behind him. I haven’t seen either of them all morning, opting to stay holed up in my workshop, avoiding people like the plague and trying not to throw up.

My body doesn’t know the difference between being shot and seeing Bellamy in the same outfit he wore in his engagement announcement photo: pastel-striped T-shirt, light-wash denim jeans.

The image was burned into my retinas the moment I first saw it three years after our breakup—shirt rucked up to his ribs, the dainty gold band glinting on his finger as he laughed, showing it off to whoever was standing above him, presumably his fiancé. Seeing the embodiment of that moment makes me want to flip the table, Monopoly-style.

Séverin gestures for Bellamy to slide into the booth first, opposite me. His knee knocks into mine as he settles in, eyes glossing over me. Séverin mumbles something about having already eaten, prompting Bellamy to ask Lara for a menu.

“Sunny already ordered for you,” she beams, settling her chin on her hand. “He’s nice like that.”

Bitch.

Bellamy finally looks at me, a spark of uncertainty flitting across his features. His mouth opens and then abruptly closes, cutting off whatever he was about to say. I fidget in my seat and my dick gives a weak attempt at stirring to life.

“I…uh…” Words, Sunny. “…guessed you were still veggie.”

I shift my legs awkwardly under the table, accidentally brushing up against him. They never make these booths big enough for people with long legs like me.

“You guessed correctly,” he says bluntly, sliding the menu back into its holder. He catches my eye again, tacking on, “Thank you, Sunday.”