Page 94 of Sweet Caroline
This is hypothetical. Not about us.
“No?” I repeat, searching her beautiful eyes as the train rounds the haunted houses.
Fuck, if I wasn’t already falling for her…
Creepy music and witchy cackles drift out from the smaller shack and strings of orange lights swing in the wind above the entrance where a line of families waits to go in.
“Never had the interest, to be honest.” She casts a guilty glance toward the mother in front of us. “I didn’t exactly get the best example growing up, either.”
“Then how’d you turn out like this?”
“Like what?”
The train chugs along past the second haunted house—the bigger and scarier of the two, a two-story converted barn geared toward teens and adults. A group of teenage boys clusters in the line to get in, bullshitting and joking around, one of them fucking with a lighter.
“Sorry, what?” I ask when I realize Caroline’s waiting for a response.
“How’d I turn out like what?” Her expression is open—genuinely curious. She really doesn’t know how incredible she is. How taken I am with her.
“Uh,” I hedge, dangerously close to spilling my guts. “Well, probably not a human nightmare.”
She lets out an adorable snort-laugh. “I deserved that.”
“I mean, jury’s still out!” I shrug and she whacks me gently in the ribs, reminding me of how she elbowed me earlier. Bumping my knee against hers, I drop my voice low. “Hey, why didn’t you tell Ada the truth back there?”
She looks sheepish but doesn’t answer.
“You called me your boyfriend.”
“I know.” Her gaze drops to the basket balanced on her lap.
“Thought we were, y’know, being straight up about this whole thing with?—”
“I know,” she says again, cutting me off. “It’s just… Ada’s kind of a newer friend, and I guess it felt complicated to explain in the moment.” She fidgets with the edge of the little checkered cloth in her basket, unable to meet my eyes.
“That’s not it, is it?”
She sets her jaw. “Maybe someone was eavesdropping. I dunno.”
That’s not it, either.
“Okay,” I say, pushing down the thousand questions fighting their way up my throat. Maybe if I offer up a slice of truth, she’ll cop to the real reason. “Can I admit something?”
She looks up, seeming nervous about what kind of bomb I might drop between us. “Of course.”
“It felt nice. To hear you say it. To pretend. It’sbeennice to pretend. With you.” It’s as close as I can get to admitting it. Thatpretendslipped away from me somewhere along the way. That I carry an aching regret about the clock running out. That I wish I could be a better man for her—the type who can give her everything she deserves. “And maybe… I dunno, maybe it felt nice that way for you too.”
She swallows and threads her fingers between mine, like I did in the car on the way to the fundraiser that first night—careful, slow, exploratory. “Yeah. I think it did.”
Just holding hands like this—for the sake of it—feels strangely intimate considering we’ve done it a dozen other times before. Because, this time, there aren’t any cameras. No one’s watching.
“Only a few more days, huh?” The thought claws at my heart.
“Right.” Her features cloud over slightly and she nods.
I remind myself she doesn’t want a relationship, either. Or, at least, that’s what she told me the night of the fundraiser. Butsomething about the way she’s looking at me has me wondering if it’s still true.
“I was actually thinking,” she adds quietly, throwing a hesitant glance my way, “maybe we could stay friends after? I know that wasn’t what we talked about, but…”
