Page 9 of The Probability of Us

“Fine, don’t believe me.” He shrugs and takes another bite of the blondie. It looks like he has to actively stop himself from making a noise at the taste. “I’m only telling the truth, though.”

I try to hold back the smile that only he can pull out of me, but when I catch a glimpse of his bright smile, mine shines through too.

This is bad, this isreallybad. I can lie to myself as much as I want, but I’ve been talking to him for all of fifteen minutes and that pull is back. He was once the sun,mysummer sun, and I’m already caught back in his gravitational pull.

I jump when my phone dings with a new text, already forgetting where I am and what I’m doing here. My lips pull into a frown at the message on my screen—confirmation of the reservations for tonight. This is about to get interesting, that’s for sure.

“Something wrong?” he asks before I’ve even looked at him.

“Not exactly,” I say, but look up hesitantly. “Before I knew you were coming, I made reservations at Il Piacere for the group.” His eyes widen and his breath catches. I take that as a bad sign. “I can cancel and find somewhere else if it’ll be too weird.”

“No, keep it,” he chokes out, swallowing and blinking until his eyes aren’t glassy. “I’ve missed that place.”

My chest constricts at the emotions behind those words and all I can do is nod.

It’s a welcome reprieve when he has to go to the conference room. My mind is racing, my thoughts are all over the place. Is this real life? It can’t be. What are the chances that he works for the company that’s buying mine?

But really, whatarethe chances?

Five

AUGUST CURRENT DAY (MONDAY)

Ashiver runs through me when he steps beside me. As everyone takes in the view from the top of the hill where the restaurant sits for the first time with awe, we both take a deep breath. It’s different being back here with him, being here feels right again. The surrounding park is where he asked me out for the first time, and this restaurant was our first date—it was our spot.

“How did you find this place?” Jason asks, standing on my other side, so close that his hand brushes against my thigh and I subtly step closer to Warren just to get further away from him. “I had no clue this was even here.”

Small, conspiratorial smiles bloom on both Warren’s and my lips as I answer. “A friend showed it to me.”

Thankfully our table is called, and I don’t have to answer any more questions. But as we take our seats, I quickly realize there’s nothing to be thankful for. I don’t think I could be in a more uncomfortable spot if I tried. I’m sitting between Warren and Peter, with Jason directly across from me. And since Warren and I are in the middle of the table, we’re squished together tightly. Our arms keep brushing and it’s threatening to make me lose my shit in front of everyone.

Polite conversation flows until everyone has a menu, then it’s obvious everyone’s hungry because it gets eerily quiet.

Warren leans toward me and whispers, “Did they get rid of the lobster tortellini?”

I laugh softly at the panic in his voice. “They removed it from the menu, but they still stock all the ingredients so it can still be ordered. Like a secret menu item.”

“Oh, thank god, I’ve been dreaming of that dish since I moved.”

Since you left me,I want to correct.

A flash of pain runs through me, but I smile. “You always did say it ruined all other pasta for you.”

He laughs, loud enough to draw attention to us, and Serge, who is sitting on Warren’s other side—who we didn’t realize could hear us the entire time—says, “Do you two know each other?”

Jason’s head snaps over to us. His eyes lock onto Warren and narrow, sizing him up like he’s suddenly been revealed as an enemy.Fuck me.Figures we couldn’t even make it twelve hours without everyone figuring out we knew each other. Not that it was a secret, but it was a hectic day and there wasn’t a good time to bring it up.

“Yeah, I used to live here in Hartford,” Warren says.

“We both worked at Triniti for a few years together,” I add quickly and notice that Peter has a smile on his face. If Serge heard us, Peter must’ve been able to as well, but he doesn’t look surprised. Maybe Warren wasn’t lying when he said Peter walked in as he spit out his drink on his computer, and maybe he told him . . . Whatdidhe tell him?

That he knows me? That we used to date? That we used to live together? That, to me, he’s the one that got away, and I wonder daily what life would be like if he hadn’t left?

Although, Warren doesn’t know the last part so he probably wouldn’t have said that.

“Why didn’t you tell us you knew him?” Clara asks, and I laugh.

“Becauseyoutold me his name was Mitch, not Warren Mitchell so I didn’t know it was him until they walked through the door.”

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