Page 156 of What I Like About You

“Nash,”I say.

He jumps and looks up. “What wasthat?”

“Um—an apology?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a PR move.”

I blink. “What?”

“To Book Twitter, I’m now the asshole who walked out on your extra public apology.”

I blink, shook by Nash’s anger. “No. That’s not—how could you even think that? I said I’m sorry becauseI am sorry. I know you don’t believe me, and I promise it’s the last time I’ll say it. But I need you to know that I am so,sosorry. I never should’ve lied to you, especially when things got real between us. There were so many moments where I almost said it—but then you said something or I got scared and … I couldn’t find the words. So I kept waiting for the right time, but I’d already missed it. The second I met you? I should’ve told you. The second I knew I loved you, I wanted to. But I didn’t.”

My words hang in the air, the weight of the rambling mess crashing on my shoulders.

“I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

“I can’t believe you said that out loud,” Nash says, his expression softening.

The scent of freshly made French fries wafts through the foodcourt and my stomach moans, reminding me that I haven’t eaten today. I want fries, and wow, I want themnow.

Shut up, stomach. So not the time.

I cover my face with my hands, wondering why I am the way that I am.

When I open my eyes, Nash has silently disappeared and I can’t believe it. I know he’s pissed, but to just run away? I clutch my stomach, which is still making the god-awfulgive me friesnoises, the panic of the empty table doubling the rate of my heart. But then I look over my shoulder and exhale because Nash is in the fries line.

He comes back to the table with two large fries, a packet of ketchup for him, and honey mustard for me. Because honey mustard is the superior dipping sauce of choice, obviously.

But I’ve never dipped fries in honey mustard in front of Nash.

My heart swells with this realization.

It’s a Kels thing. A running argument. We got into a stupid Twitter war over it. Polls and all.

But Nash got it for me, Halle. It’s a me thing.

Nash’s nose crinkles when the first fry makes contact with the honey mustard.

I dip another fry in the honey mustard and hold it out to him.

He shakes his head.

I shrug because it’s his loss, really. We eat the rest of our fries in silence and Nash sticks with his ketchup. It sucks because I already said so much, and there’s so much I still want to say. But I don’t want to overload him and Nash is giving menothing.

This sucks.

“This sucks,” Nash says.

I want to laugh or burst into tears or both.

“Yeah,” I say. “It really does.”

“I just …” Nash pauses. Breathes. “These last two months have been really hard, Halle.”

His voice breaks when he says my name and I can’t.

“I know,” I say.

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