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“Me?” she lets out a strangled laugh, snapping me out of the fall down memory lane. She tugs her hand out of my grasp, and this time, I let her. “You’re putting this onme?”
All the color has drained from her cheeks, making that dusting of freckles that always appeared in the summer months on the bridge of her nose stand out even more. Rebecca always hated those freckles. She thought they made her look like a little girl. I, on the other hand, loved every single one of them. I remember staring at them, tracing them with the tip of my finger, and later on with my mouth as I peppered kisses over every inch of her body.
Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
How is it possible that somebody looks so different and yet exactly the same three years later?
It feels like a lifetime, but also like not enough time has passed.
I raise my hand, pressing it against that aching spot in the middle of my chest. It’s the exact same spot in which a hole opened the day she walked away from me, not even wanting to listen to what I had to tell her.
I think that part was the one that hurt the most.
“Did you or did you not walk away?”
She, the only person who claimed to love me unconditionally, the only one I allowed myself to trust, turned her back on me and walked the fuck away.
Nails dig into my skin, a bite of pain shooting up my arm.
“What the hell was I supposed to do? Huh? Stay there and wa—”
Just then, the doorbell rings, cutting off anything she wanted to say. She presses her lips in a tight line before turning toward the door.
But I still can’t seem to move my gaze from her.
I’m drinking her in like a thirsty man in the desert, trying to memorize everything that is Rebecca Williams.
The way the red in her hair seems darker. The way the plain black tank top clings to her chest. The way the cutoff jeans show off her long, tanned legs and the curve ofher ass.
Get a grip, dude.I shake my head, snapping myself out of my thoughts and shifting my attention toward the door to find two of the biggest gossips standing in the doorway, gaping at the two of us with interest.
“Miguel Fernandez, I’ve heard the stories, but I couldn’t believe that you’d come home after all this time,” Mrs. Miller says as she moves further into the café, her bony hand clutching the handle of her wooden walking stick, and Mrs. Tyson at her heels. “What brings you here?”
I open my mouth, but before I can say a word, Mrs. Tyson scoffs. “What do you think he’s doing here? The boy finally got his head out of his ass, so he came home to make things right, Trish.”
“I know that, Milly.” The other woman shakes her head exasperatedly. “I just wanthimto realize it, too.”
“He’s aman. You know how they are. If it ain’t biting him in the ass, he ain’t seeing it. My late George was just like that. God rest his soul.”
“You mean the devil? That man was insufferable on a good day.”
“But I think Miguel still has hope. He’s back, after all.”
“What Miguel is isleaving,” Rebecca grits through clenched teeth, a fake smile plastered on her face. “I just heard Mrs. Fernandez called him to bring home some flour so she can finish preparing dinner.”
I blink, unsure if I heard her correctly.
“Oh my, you can’t keep your mother waiting.” Mrs. Tyson nods decisively.
Still glaring at Rebecca, I force out a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Mrs. Miller taps me on the shoulder. “After all, you have more than one woman in your life you have to make up to. C’mon, Milly, let’s see what Becky baked for us today.”
The women loop their hands together and go toward the glass display, but I didn’t doubt it in the slightest that they were listening intently to everything we said.
I move closer, leaning down so my lips practically brush against the shell of Becky’s ear. This close, her sweet scent fills all of my senses. Roses, jasmine, and sugar mixed with something that’s uniquely Rebecca.
