Forty minutes later, we were sitting cross-legged on my bed, pigging out on fried calamari, french fries, roasted meat, and assorted veggies. We shared stories about our college days and were surprised to find out our paths had nearly crossed several times during those years at parties and festivals. Christian said he hadn’t been into the whole partying scene, that Arsène and Riggs were the hellions in their trio, and that he’d focused on finishing at the top of his class, because he’d known competition was going to be tight out there once he graduated. I told him I was much the same, actually. That I’d disappointed many people by being so straitlaced and not channeling the inner Paris Hilton everyone had predicted they’d see in me.
“And Jillian has always been your best friend?” Christian bit into a piece of calamari and sucked his fingers clean. I had an inkling fried food wasn’t a part of his usual diet, with a body like that.
“Pretty much.” I popped a piece of cucumber into my mouth. “I’ve always been kind of an ambivert—definitely for someone in my field—and people often mistake my assertiveness for bitchiness. I’m not in the business of cooing and playing nice. Some people appreciate it. Few, but some. She’s one of them, so we keep each other close.”
“Men must be intimidated.” Christian popped a devilish eyebrow up.
“Not the ones worth dating.”
“And yet you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who goes on a lot of dates.”
I shrugged. “Not everyone’s worth my time.” But even as I said that, I knew it was my shaky self-esteem speaking.
“Who’s the one who got away?” Christian leaned on my headboard, using his chopsticks to pluck a piece of carrot from his paper plate. His shirt was unbuttoned, and there was a lazy, predatory air about him that kept me on my toes and yet made me want to bask in his attention. “There’s always that one person who got away.”
“Hmm.” I scrunched my nose. I didn’t have to give it any genuine thought, though. The answer was clear. It just sounded bad. Fortunately, I wasn’t supposed to care what he thought of me. This was temporary at best and already over at worst. “Don’t laugh, but this goes way back.”
“High school sweetheart.” He made an adorable, albeit mocking, face. “Where’d he first kiss you? Under the bleachers or against your locker?”
“Actually, before high school.” I felt my cheeks pinkening, dropping my gaze to my food, moving it about with the chopsticks. “We were both fourteen. He was . . . well, he was a badass kid and my best friend. I was low-key obsessed with him. We had a little thing over the summer. His mom worked for my family. He’s the one who got away for me.”
When I looked back up, the expression on Christian’s face made my pulse stutter. He looked like a semitrailer full of feelings had slammed into him all at once. He dropped his food on my bed—by accident—and didn’t even realize as he did.
“Shit, don’t worry about it. I hated those sheets anyway.” I made a half attempt to scrape the oily french fries from my linen. Lies. These were brand-new Belgian flax from West Elm.
He was still looking at me weird.
I sat a little straighter, feeling my cheeks heating despite myself.
“I told you it was weird.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “I mean, it’s not like I’m still pining for this teenager or something. Anyway . . .”
“No, this is interesting. So he was your boyfriend?” Christian swung his gaze back to me, all business.
I eyed him. “Um, are you sure you didn’t just have a stroke? You looked . . . off.”
“Sorry. Thought about an email I need to write someone tomorrow. I’m completely on now.” He smiled.
Nice. So he thought about work when I poured my heart out. Duly noted.
I got back to the subject at hand, feeling self-conscious. “No. We shared a kiss. That was all. But we were close.”
“And why did it end?” Christian’s eyes bored into mine with intensity that could light up a carnival.
“He moved away.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
I licked my lips, feeling my nose burning with tears all of a sudden. What in the ever-loving hell was happening to me? It had been years. “He went to live with his father in Belarus.”
“I see.” He nodded tersely, taking a bite of another calamari. “Did he tell you that?”
“Um. No.” I rubbed at my face, struggling to understand why I was so upset and, even more importantly, why Christian was looking at me like I’d just told him I’d murdered his dog. “My dad told me. It was all very . . .” Abusive and insane. “Sudden.”
“Did you ever try contacting him?”
His interest in this story seemed peculiar. So many years had passed. Besides, like he’d said, we weren’t in it for the long haul. Why did he care about my past?