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Tate’s smile is radiant. “And the boy prevails.”

32

EMOTIONAL CRASH

SEPTEMBER 2016 – 25 YEARS OLD

The scent of Italian heaven hits me as I step out of the cold drizzle into warmth drenched in spices and oils and cheese. The girl behind the counter slides off a stool, but her eyes don’t leave the gossip rag she’s reading. It’s one of those magazines that boasts of ‘one hundred ways to please your man’ along with beauty tips and tricks.

There was a time when I used to read those magazines while toughing out the slow hours in Foster’s Gear.

The memory makes me smile. The fondness surrounding it makes me feel like I’m getting old.

Am I getting old at twenty-five? I feel like I’ve lived so much life.

The girl drops her magazine onto the counter and my heart seizes in my chest. A swell of hot, sickly emotion swirls like a whirlpool in my gut as the photo on the front sucker punches me.

It’s Holt—and a really beautiful woman.

For a moment, I can’t look away from the photo. Can’t unsee the lazy grin that drips confidence from his lips as he looks down into her face or the way his hand holds her around the small of her waist as she smiles adoringly up at him. They photo is snapped outside a restaurant and the headline asks, ‘Has Holt Wilder Finally Found Love?’

“Hi.” The girl taps the counter with long gel nails painted a dark green. “What can I get for you?”

“Um—” I can’t tear my eyes from the magazine. I can’t find my voice beyond the shattered glass in my throat.

I shake myself free of whatever hold Holt has on me, forcing my eyes to the girl. “My name is Faye. I’m here for a pickup.”

“Oh, cool, yeah, your order’s up.” She pulls a brown bag stapled at the top from the side, punching it into the register before she tells me my total.

I swipe the company card, grab the bag and force myself to walk from the Italian Sub Shop without looking even once more at the magazine.

Outside, the drizzle has turned into a heavy rain that threatens to drench me through as I boogie to my car. Behind the wheel, I suck in breath after breath, but they all feel shallow. Like they’re not enough.

Holt’s lazy grin and dark eyes burn an image into my mind that I know will remain for the rest of the day, haunting me like the ghost of his memory haunts me.

Guilt strikes, like it always strikes, when this happens. When thoughts of Holt needle my heart.

It’s not that I spend my days pining after him, I don’t. I’ve not only accepted my life and future with Tate—but I want it. I’m in love with him. Waking up to him every morning is perfection. Building the family we’ve built is better than any dream I’ve ever dared to dream.

I don’t know why my heart still bleeds from the open wound of him that I can’t quite stitch up no matter how many times I run needle and thread through it.

I do try not to think of him, though. It can be hard when Owen hits me with an expression straight from Holt. Or when those dark eyes get excited by some sport or another. I see Holt in them, and I can’t help the ache that follows.

For a while, I stalked him online. It wasn’t only the games he played that I watched—still watch. I still cheer him on—I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

But I watched his personal life, too. Or as much as I could watch from the outside.

He moved through women fast. Too fast.

At first, it hurt me, seeing him with them. Then—as time went on—it hurt me for him.

I think of the headline again. Has Holt Wilder Finally Found Love?

I hope he has…I think.

Gosh, I don’t know what I feel for him anymore.

I manage to pull myself together enough to drive back to the office, but by the time I get there I feel chilled to the bone.