Page 23 of The Rest is History

“You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice down so the words remain between us.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.” Code for we’ll talk about it later. I let it go.

Inside, he takes the cake and my keys from me, setting the cake down on the kitchen counter and dropping my keys into the bowl where we keep such things. Then, with a nervous wipe of his palms on his hips, he smiles and says, “Come and meet Reece.”

Reece Carter has been an enigma for the entirety of the seven years I have known Asher.

The one that got away. The best friend ripped away from him, never to be heard from again. Until now.

The very first conversation Asher and I ever had was about Reece. It was May sixteenth. Reece’s twenty-first birthday. He was drunk, hanging off the edge of the bar counter, asking me if I would please be a good barman and listen to his sob story about the best friend he fell in love with, and then had to leave because the best friend’s father was an asshole.

I listened. That day and every day after that. Some days he drank himself into a stupor, other days he was sober as a judge. On all days, everything was about Reece Carter.

On Reece’s twenty-second birthday, Asher walked into the bar and told me he was in love with me, and we never looked back.

Until today.

The sum total of Asher’s past now stands in our living room. I told myself a million times that they were only seventeen. Hardly anything good can come from an age when you don’t even know who you are. Except for love. Except for the uncontained, unstoppable madness of young love.

I’m brave enough to admit that Reece Carter is as much the raging storm standing here calmly in our living room as he would’ve been when he lived inside Asher’s heart when they were boys. There is the potential here for a catastrophe I don’t know I’d be able to withstand if I wasn’t so sure of Asher’s love for me.

“Reece?” Asher says. Despite my confidence in my husband’s love for me, it takes all of me not to investigate and dissect Asher’s tone. Is it soft? Too soft? Too familiar? Purposefully cold and distant for my benefit? I can’t tell. The neutrality of Asher’s voice sends shame skating down my spine. We’re in this together – we made the decision for Reece to visit together. The first year I spent getting to know Asher was enough for me to understand how necessary this is for him. And I know Asher’s heart. He would never allow anything to come between us.

Reece turns.

It’s his eyes I notice first. Not their color, although the soft, deep browns are surprisingly . . . lovely. It’s the thing behind his eyes. An unsureness. A sad hesitancy.

His eyes move from Asher to me. My stomach drops. I frown. Why this reaction?

Maybe it’s the fact that I finally get to meet the infamous Reece Carter. The one who caused my husband so much pain. But also the one who, in a way, brought my husband to me.

He’s exactly the way Asher described him in the early days of our conversations in the bar:

Asher wanted to cry so I distracted him with unnecessary details about this great love of his life, who he could never, ever have again. “What color is his hair?” I asked while I wiped down the counter in preparation for closing up.

“Brown like shit. Curly. So pretty.”

“And his eyes?”

“Brown with these gold spots like the sun exploded inside his eyeballs. But sometimes they get so deep it’s like they’re black. But his hair isn’t like shit. I lied. His hair is so pretty.”

“Got it. Did he have a nice voice?”

“Like an angel.”

But Asher never came right out and said just how . . . beautiful—

I stick out my hand. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Sawyer Reed.” Nice polite smile. My face hurts from the effort.

He takes two steps and holds out his hand. His movements are hesitant. His handshake, soft and unsteady. “Reece Carter. Thank you for having me in your home. I appreciate it. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you too much.” He sounds like Asher. City-smart and well-rounded words. I could never talk like that. He’s rich folk, but . . . he seems different.

The muscles in my face ease, leaving a smile that doesn’t need so much effort anymore. I expected a pompous jerk. Or someone with a little more confidence, at least. “You’re Asher’s friend. You’re always welcome here.” You’re Asher’s first love, is what goes through my head. Why are you here, especially when you’re so fucking beautiful it’s making me sick?

He’s dressed like those people who work in the city. What do they call it? Smart casual. Expensive-looking jeans. A knitted jersey that looks so soft and delicate I might rip it to shreds if I simply hold it in my hand. Perhaps he’s not coping with the cold because he still has his scarf wrapped around his neck and a glove still on one hand. Altogether, he looks like he belongs exactly where he came from.

I’m suddenly acutely aware of how dirty I am, and I want to say my words right.

Asher fills in after an awkward silence. “We should get dinner going before everything gets cold.”

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