Page 85 of Huckleberry Hill
“You think you can put that on hold for a moment and get a cup of coffee with me?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Wade said.
“I know, but I want to. There are some things I want to—we’re old friends, okay? I don’t want you to think—just have coffee with me? Please?”
“You don’t have to beg,” Wade said with a grin. “I’ll have coffee with you.”
I closed the truck and locked it.
“You locked your truck,” Wade said.
“Yeah, so?” I frowned and looked at him.
“Nothing it’s just—well, it reminds me that you haven’t lived here in a long time.”
We fell silent as we walked shoulder to shoulder to Sweet Teeth. He opened the door to the bakery, and I walked inside first, greeted by Abby’s friendly smile and the scent of warm, buttery croissants.
Wade tried to pay, but I said, “My treat. You bought my drink the other night.”
“My family owns the bar,” he pointed out. “It hardly counts.”
I handed over my card and looked at Wade sternly.
“Fine,” he relented.
We took our orders to the corner table and sat down. My latte was too hot to sip, but I tore apart the croissant and popped a buttery bite into my mouth.
Wade watched me intently, his hand wrapped around his coffee cup.
“What’s New York like?” Wade asked suddenly.
“Loud.”
“Is that all?”
“Congested.”
“You sound like you hate it.”
I paused for a moment and then I shrugged. “I don’t know if hate is accurate. But it’s just so hard. Everything is a fight. And at the end of the day, you shouldn’t fight where you live.”
“So why did you stay so long? I mean, obviously you stayed because you got engaged, but before that. What made you stick it out?”
“Salem. And Wyn and Poet. My roommates and best friends,” I clarified.
“Ah.” He lifted his mug and took a sip. “So now that you’re no longer engaged . . . do you plan on going back?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “The idea of living far away from my sister . . . I don’t know if I can handle it. And my friends . . . they might as well be my sisters.”
But what else was there for me?
I’d been asking myself the same question since the first night I came back home and slept in my childhood bed.
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch,” I said quietly.
“Hey, don’t be sorry. We broke up five years ago. You were living your life, moving forward. It’s not your fault I haven’t gotten over you.”
I reached across the table and took his hand. “You were a good boyfriend. A good friend. I shouldn’t have cut you out.”
