Page 159 of Three Reckless Words

Things have been going remarkably smoothly ever since I spilled my guts to Winnie.

I told her the hard truth, almost everything, all the reasons why I walled myself off. And now, things are—well, they’re damn good.

Like all I needed to do was break down the last unspoken barriers between us.

She wasn’t expecting me to go there.

To talk about Rina, to cough up the past and the ugly way I feel about life.

If she were anyone else, it never would’ve happened.

But holding that broken girl in my arms with her wrecked hives must’ve rewired my brain, or at least woken me the fuck up.

Now, it’s undeniable.

There’s something about Winnie that’s worth lowering my shields.

The weirdest part is I’m not scared shitless. I have no regrets.

There’s only one last nagging talk I dread, but it feels almost manageable.

I’ve chosen a small café away from anyone connected to us. I want privacy for this.

No Junie eavesdropping over my shoulder—however well meaning—and no memories of anywhere we used to visit back when we were young and stupid.

Nothing but the present.

Just two people, who we are now, Rina and me.

It’s high time we sorted our shit out for good and leveled with the truth, assuming she’s as determined as she seems to be in Colt’s life.

So I choose a small independent place on the other side of the city with clean round tables and a small pastry case that might’ve looked impressive a few years ago. After Junie and The Sugar Bowl, it’s hard to get excited over anyone else’s sweets.

I’m nursing a cup of hot dark roast when Rina walks through the door, her shoulders tight and her brown eyes wary. I know that look.

I lift a hand, gesturing. She comes over to join me after a pause.

“Hey,” she says cautiously, taking the chair across from me.

I nod at the menu.

“You want a drink?”

“Oh, yeah. Just an iced vanilla latte, extra espresso.”

I smile as I get up because it’s the same drink she’d always order. Some things never change. But others do, and there’s that nervous hand around my throat again, stalling my words.

Fuck, I need to do this as soon as her coffee comes.

The barista is a slim girl with glasses too large for her face and an apron tied tightly around her waist. I put in the order and she makes idle small talk as she gets it going.

With Rina’s latte and a fresh refill of black coffee for me, I head back to the table.

She’s made an effort today, I see. I wonder why.

Even if we didn’t have a history between us that’s pure dry rot, after Winnie’s curves, I could never go back to anything else. Rina’s slim frame always verged on bony.

Modelesque, I used to think, back when I was younger—until she had Colt and blamed him for destroying her figure with ten or fifteen pounds of baby fat she could never lose.

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