Page 28 of The Probability of Us

Ali forces us all out onto the dance floor once the crowd thins out a bit and the playlist switches over to more upbeat music. It’s not long before he grabs my hand and pulls me into him as the music slows. Slow dancing in the middle of a crowd has always been our thing and I feel trapped in this moment, in this memory, with him. When I finally get the courage to look up into his eyes, he’s frowning, and his jaw is clenched tight.

Instinctually, I reach up and run my fingers down his cheek and across his jaw. His eyes widen as I ask, “What’s on your mind?”

He nuzzles his cheek into my hand, his five o’clock shadow scraping against my skin, and I shiver at the feeling. He speaks into my hand when he says, “Are you going to tell me who did that to your face, or am I going to have to interrogate every person I know you were in contact with yesterday?”

I stop dancing. My arms go weak and would’ve dropped if he hadn’t caught my wrists and pulled my hands to his chest. I whisper, ashamed of the truth. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Are you going to make me wipe off the fresh layers of makeup you added earlier to prove a point?” He stares at me, and when I don’t move or speak, he moves his hand to my cheek. I press my lips together in preparation, but when his thumb hits a spot that’s still tender, I flinch and grab his hand to stop him. Anger flares in his eyes. “Analise, I swear if you don’t tell me what happened I will turn into a fucking FBI agent and track down whoever did this.”

“Right, because you’re just so good at everything,” I deflect, looking away.

“Analise.” His grip tightens on my hands.

I hesitate. I’ve wished he was here to talk to so many times, but now that he is, I don’t want him to know.

But if things continue down the path they are, I don’t want us to fall into the same patterns we did last time—not saying how we truly felt when things weren’t ideal, withholding certain important facts that had large implications on our decisions. I close my eyes and sigh. I don’t have a good enough lie anyway.

“It was my dad,” I mumble, so low that he can’t possibly hear me over the noise in the bar.

“What was that?”

I take a deep breath then look up at him with tears in my eyes. “My dad did it.”

Now it’s his turn to go completely still. “Your . . . dad?” he croaks out, blinking and shaking his head. “But . . . he was . . .”

He trails off, but he doesn’t have to finish.

I know.

My dad was the dad everyone loved to be around. He was the one always telling cheesy jokes that you couldn’t help but laugh at. He was an amazing man and an even better dad. He and Warren were so close back then. I can see in his eyes—Warren can’t connect that man with the cut on my face.

I blink and tears drop down my face. Before they hit my chin, his hand is there wiping them away. That simple gesture crumbles the last of my walls. The last of my resolve to keep him at a distance, to not let myself get too close, disappears. I don’t want to keep pushing him away, not when it feels so much better to have him close.

“A year and a half after you left, my mom died.”

“Your mom died?” He pulls me into his arms, but he has no clue that the worst is yet to come. “I’m so sorry, I know how close you two were.”

“It happened so fast, it was probably easier that way.” I shrug when he pulls back to look at me. I’ve had a lot of time to come to terms with all of this. I don’t need him to fix me, I’ve already fixed myself. “It was hard for me, but I dealt with it. I got through it. My dad didn’t.” I look away as another tear falls. “He didn’t know how to deal with it, so he turned to bourbon, and he never stopped. He’s not himself anymore. I tend to avoid him as much as possible, but yesterday was the anniversary of her death and I try to at least visit him then. She’d be so sad to see what he’s become, and I miss having my dad, but when I try to help him, he doesn’t react well.” I gesture to my cheek. “Yesterday, he threw a glass cup at my face.”

The way his face darkens at the words has me quickly adding, “I moved out of the way in time, but it shattered against the wall and a shard got me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Analise,” he says so loud that everyone near us looks our way. I glance around and catch Ali’s eyes, who takes one look at my tear-filled eyes and gives me a smile of encouragement knowing what I’m telling him. Noticing where Ali’s gaze has gone, Trent looks over and frowns. “I don’t care if he is your dad. I want to fucking kill him for hurting you.” His hold on me is tightening and his breathing picks-up. “What if you hadn’t moved out of the way? What if that shard flew into your eye? You could’ve been seriously injured.”

“But I wasn’t,” I say softly, trying to calm him. My hand moves to lay against his chest. His heartbeat is wild and fast. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this angry before and it brings more tears to my eyes. This anger is for me, because someone hurtme.

Because he still cares for me.

His eyes widen. “That’s why you reacted the way you did when I brought up your dad the other night.” I nod as he whispers, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” I say, matter-of-factly, and the unsaid words are clear:Because you weren’t here.

His face crumples in pain, and I don’t try to comfort him. No matter how much I’m enjoying having him back, he’s acting like he’s looking for something more than friendship between us again and I don’t think I can do that unless he understands and owns up to all of the hurt he caused. I’m not the same girl I was six years ago who was willing to overlook the signs that were right in front of her because he said he loved me. If we ever try again, I need to know things will be different.

“Are you going to seeyourmom while you’re in town?” I ask after a few minutes of silence. It’s only about a two-hour drive from here instead of the eight-hour drive—or a flight—from where he lives now.

“I told her I’d try, but I didn’t know what free time I’d have this trip.” He always wears the sweetest smile when he talks about his mom. “She loves coming out to D.C., and I still call her weekly, but she’d love it if I finally made it back home.”

“You haven’t been home recently?” I ask, pretending I don’t know this information already. Because he doesn’t know that while he hasn’t been back home in the six years since he left,I’vebeen to his home.

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