“Hi,” she finally echoes, the word cracking from the dryness in her throat.
Shoving her gloved hands in the pockets of her puffy jacket, she rocks back on her heels, jolting herself back to life.
“Glasgow, hey? What are the odds?”
She tilts her head to the side. “When did you arrive?”
“Last week,” I tell her. “With Mom and Dad. We spent Christmas here.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” I hate the slice of envy in her words. The simplicity of my Christmas a fairy tale to her.
“You?” I ask when she doesn’t volunteer the information.
“I arrived about a month ago.”
“Green grass.” I smile.
She laughs lightly, her reddened cheeks balling on her face, lifting like apples, scrunching her eyes in delight. “The greenest I’ve seen so far.”
“I take my shoes off every chance I get.”
“You do?” She steps closer, the smile on her pretty face giving way to fascination.
“I do.” I smile. “Even though I’m pretty certain I’m about to catch frostbite.”
That laugh again.
“Tending bar?” I ask her, needing her to keep talking. Afraid the moment she stops, she’ll walk away from me, and it’ll be years before I can see her again. If I’m lucky enough to see her again. Maybe the universe isn’t that kind. Maybe it’s a one-shot deal. Grab it or lose it.
She points at the whiskey bar.
I stare at the small pub, antiquated and captivating in its old-world grace. Perfectly Henley.
“You stopped answering my calls.” I can’t stop the accusation in my tone, the pain of those months rearing their unwelcome heads.
“You stopped calling,” she combats.
She’s right. I did. After trying for months to make her talk to me, I gave up. I couldn’t stomach her rejection. I couldn’t stomach the thought that her thoughts about me were adverse when mine were filled with longing and attachment.
“I miss you,” I tell her honestly. “I think about you.”
She doesn’t say a word. Not an acknowledgment that she feels the same way. Not a single reaction that lets me believe she thinks about me too.
“My friend.” She points at the bar again distractedly. “She’s waiting for me.”
Stepping from the curb, she takes a single step before pausing, her body stiff in indecision.
“Henley,” I whisper.
Turning back, she throws herself into me, hugging me tightly. “I miss you, too.”
I let her embrace filter into my soul. I’ve felt cold for so long, craving moments just like this. I let her warm me, thawing the hardened wounds she caused two years earlier.
Hands around her waist, I pull back from her grasp to really look at her.
Her freckles are still there, scattered like artwork across her nose and cheeks. Her hair is shorter, not by much, but the change is there. It’s still the same rich dark brown. Her eyes hold a spark, a glimmer of happiness and freedom.
“You look good, Squirrel.”
She blushes at the nickname. “Still unimpressed by the rodent-inspired endearment.”
I ignore her comment, too consumed with looking at her.
It’s scary and exhilarating at how easy you can fall back into old habits. Having my arms around Henley doesn’t feel out of place. Not even in the dark and glacial streets of Glasgow at midnight. A place we ventured to for escape only to find one another. It feels right. Like a limb I’ve been missing. A part of me that’s finally returned.
“Some would call this fate,” I murmur.
She laughs nervously, the warmth of her breath tickling my frozen cheeks.
“I really do need to go,” she tells me. “Bridget promised me just one more drink.”
“You know how I feel about promises.” I drop my arms reluctantly as she steps out of my embrace. “You already believe her,” I tsk.
“Lucky she can only leave me sleep-deprived and not with a broken heart.”
I grin. “Can I see you again? Tomorrow?”
She takes longer than I’d care to answer. Doubt forcing her gaze away from mine. I’m convinced she’s about to say no. That she’s ready to reject me without an explanation.
“Yes.” She finally whispers the word. The single syllable a dirty secret, one she doesn’t want to admit aloud.
“I can meet you here?” I gesture to the empty street.
She nods. “Nine? I’ll show you some spectacular grass to photograph.”
“It’s a date.” I smirk.
A slice of guilt twists at her face. “Bye.”
I wait until she’s across the street. “Henley,” I call. She turns her body, expectation alight on her face.
“Can you give me one minute?” I ask loud enough to be heard from across the deserted road. “It’s been two years since I’ve seen you. Give me sixty seconds to look at you?”
I see the indecision in her posture and the way she pulls at her bottom lip nervously. But she gives in to me after a brief pause, turning completely.
We’re standing on opposite sides of the cold and vacant street, our eyes anchored and breathing mirrored.
She smiles first. A soft grin that presses her dimples in deep.
I smile back. Because of course, I would. She’s Henley, the puppeteer to my happiness.
17
HENLEY
“Where are you going so early?”
Dropping my phone into my bag, I lean over Aaron—still curled on his side with his eyes closed in slumber—to kiss his temple.
“Coffee with friends.”
Opening a single eye, he smiles sleepily at me. “Tell whoever it is, I said hullo.”
My gut twists uncomfortably. “Will do.”
I’m a liar.
A cheat.
A girl born into deceit. A woman, whether I cared to admit it or not, who had adopted that same persona, comfortable in her dishonesty.
“We’re on shift together this efternuin.” Aaron yawns, his accent thicker in sleep. “Stay again tonight, and we’ll walk in together.”
His suggestion is innocent enough, but I find myself agitated all the same. Shame will do that to you, though.
“I swapped my shift,” I bite out unnecessarily, my irritation projected unfairly.
He frowns. “Why?”
I laugh nervously. “What are you? My mother?”
“Och, I hope not.” He sits up, his bedsheet bunching around his waist.
In the month or so we’ve been dating, I’ve never been inflamed by Aaron’s presence. In fact, he’s always had
