Page 51

She frowns. “I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“That’s easier said than done, Alex.”

We’re quiet for a second.

“So he’s married with a kid on the way, huh? Christ. What’s in the water around here?”

She lets go of a soft giggle. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to drink it.” Lifting her mimosa, she taps it against my orange juice. “Cheers.”

Chuckling, I lift my glass and drink some more as our waitress brings over two plates piled with food.

The silver-haired woman with more wrinkles than the shirt I took out of my overnight bag winks at me. “I made sure to put extra whip cream on the cinnamon waffles for your girl, just like you requested.”

Your girl.The two words echo in my ears and do some weird fuzzy shit to the back of my head. Clearing my throat, I murmur a quiet “thanks” and grab my fork and knife to start cutting into the eggs on my plate.

Olive is quiet, and I don’t bother looking up to gauge her reaction to the words that settled in my chest.

It’s a few minutes of thick silence with nothing but chatter from other tables filling the air around us. Staring at the sunny side up egg on my fork tongs, I loosen a sigh. “I’m surprised youasked me all of those questions about her music, but not which song makes me think of us.”

This time, I’m met with parted lips as she stares at me unblinking. “You…?” Her head shakes, those jewel-like eyes narrowing in confusion. “Why would I ask that? What makes you thinkIhave a song for us?”

I lift a shoulder, bringing the eggs to my mouth. “That’s sort of her thing, right? She has songs for every phase of life. It’s why people like her. You said so yourself. Is it that farfetched to think out of all the songs you’ve listened to by her that one makes you think of us?”

Something in her eyes shifts as they move down to her plate of cinnamon waffles withextrawhip cream. Her fork pokes at one of the cut pieces, contemplating her answer.

“I guess I never thought to waste my time thinking about us that way when you made it crystal clear that was pointless,” she answers, her lips twitching downward.

I can taste her lie like bitter citrus on my tongue that has nothing to do with the juice in my cup. But I let her think I believe it.

Because then I don’t have to tell her that I do have a song and can practically hear the violins playing in the background. She’s haunted me since the day I pushed her away and pretended it was for the best.

An apology is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. And right as I’m about to try breaking the silence, her phone goes off and her eyes immediately turn to the screen. A small smile tilts the corners of her mouth, making that fuzzy feeling dissolve.

When I see the name, I grind down on my teeth. “Hoffman?”

Her shoulders straighten. “How did you know? Wait. Did you see the photo?”

“Kind of hard not to,” I say dryly. “It was everywhere.”

The faintest hint of pink settles into her cheeks. “Don’t worry, I doubt anyone will film us together or post it anywhere. But if they did, you’d get praise for all yourcharity work.”

A ball of hot anger rises from my chest. “Hey. Look at me.” When her head picks up, I lock eyes with her. “Those people are fucking assholes for even implying that bullshit. You feel me? And if you ask me, Hoffman was a goddamn coward for not making sure those comments were handled before they blew up. If I were in his shoes, I’d make sure anybody who claimed to be my fans knew I wasn’t going to tolerate that.”

Her eyes widen a fraction at my cool tone.

“You and I both know that you have ten times more self-confidence than any of those dickheads posting those asinine remarks. They’re lonely, jealous assholes with nothing better to focus on in their lives. I don’t want to see what any of them said impacting you. And the next time I see Hoffman on the ice, I won’t hesitate to tell him the same thing.”

All Olive does is blink slowly, unable to form a response. I don’t realize my grip on the fork is as tight as it is until I release it and see the harsh red indents in my skin from the edges of the handle.

Leaning back in the booth, I set it onto my plate and take a deep breath. “You’re the kind of girl that people should be damn proud to be in a photo with, Olive. I’ve always thought so.”

After a few minutes, she wets her lips and mimics my posture. “Normally, I’d be inclined to agree. But where’s all the photos we took together, Alex?”

I go to answer but stop myself.

Because we have none.