The parking garage is empty, but the streets are full. I make a quick stop in Fiction Vixen for a purchase and then head to my destination. I’m one of the first patrons to arrive at the restaurant, so getting the same table as our first date is easy enough. I set my package on it and order two sparkling waters, with lemon. The thought of her squeezing the juice over her arms last night makes me laugh to myself. Moments later the door opens and there stands the hottest little number—her red hair tumbles in waves around her shoulders, her short green dress is anything but modest, her gold necklaces drape her neck, and she looks sexier than hell. Fuck me. I have no doubt now she’s trying to kill by asking me to meet her in public—yet again.

Trying to vanish my shit-eating grin, I rise from the table and stride over to greet her, but some older guy has his hands around her before I even make it over to the door. With the giant’s arms still enveloping her tiny body, I clear my throat. She breaks free of his hold and with a glint in her eyes she looks at me.

“Ben, this is Pebbles. Well, really his name is Rocko and he owns the place,” she says with an upward tilt of her lips.

I begrudgingly extend my arm. “Nice to meet you.”

He nods. “Same here. Heard a lot about you.”

“Really, don’t believe it all.” I grin.

“It’s all good, man,” he says as if I need the assurance.

Dropping my eyes to S’belle, I bend my elbow toward her. “Shall we?”

She gives a little wave to Pebbles or Rocko or whatever he goes by and then wraps her arm through mine with the most effervescent smile.

“Who is he?”

“A friend,” she answers.

“You know I’m jealous as f**k, don’t you?” I growl in her ear.

She tilts her head and lifts her hand to my face. Cupping my jaw, she whispers, “You have no reason to be.”

Heat surges between us before I even pull her chair out and I wonder why she insisted on meeting at a restaurant. As she sits, I lean forward and brush my mouth over hers. A slight tremble rocks her shoulders. “S’belle, what are we doing here? I thought the next time I saw you you’d be in that bikini sprawled out on your bed.”

She tosses her head from side to side as if trying to break free of the vision I just created. “I need to tell you something and wasn’t sure how or where to do it. This place just seemed right.”

She sets her napkin on her lap and immediately starts nervously clicking her fingernails against the tabletop.

I take a seat and grab her hand. “Okay. We’re here now, so tell me, let’s eat, and then I want to take you home and f**k you.”

She swallows and I notice her hands trembling.

“Maybe that was a bit crass. Let me try again. Okay. We’re here now, so tell me.”

She grabs for the water in front of her and drinks it down, all of it. Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

I can feel confusion wrinkling my brow.

Her gaze falls. “But I know I have to. I have a confession to make. Something from a long time ago. And I’m not sure how you’re going to react.”

My fingers creep up her arm to her chin.

She leans into my touch and her face looks almost pained.

“I already know what you’re going to tell me.” I try not to laugh as I reach for the wrapped brown package I set on the table.

She stares at it.

“Since you lent me some of your books, I thought it was only fair I return the favor. Although I’m not sure reading Fifty Shades of Grey is my thing,” I chuckle.

Her eyes widen like saucers as I hand her the package. She takes it with trembling fingers.

“It’s safe, I promise. You can open it. I’m cool with your half-truth.”

The waitress approaches our table and refills both our sparkling waters. “Are you ready to order?”

“Two peppered beef skewers with rice,” I tell her, and turn my attention back to S’belle. “So, go ahead, open it.”

Tearing open the wrap, she stares at the first book, Everything You Ever Need to Know About the French Riviera. Her eyes dart to mine.

“I know you never went there.”

She sits motionless.

“That first night we were together, when you told me all about what it was like on the French Riviera, I knew you’d never been there as soon as you said you went.”

She scrunches her eyebrows and purses her lips.

“It was written all over your face.”

Tears fill her eyes as she sets the stack on the table. “You’re right, I never went to the Riviera.”

Feeling like a real ass**le, I pull her to me. “Come here. I’m only playing with you. And I got you some other books as well.”

She sits on my lap and buries her head in my neck, not even looking at the other titles. Her lemon scent assaults me and her mess of wild hair brushes across my skin. I breathe her in. “Don’t cry about it. It’s nothing to cry over. I think it’s funny.”

She buries her head farther in my neck. “I’m not crying about that. But I can’t believe you knew the whole time. You should have said something and not let me go on and on.”

“But that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.”

She gives a faint smile and wipes her tears, but then she stands up and goes back to sit in her chair. She takes another gulp of her water and then looks at me.

I soften my voice. “Please tell me.”

She nods. “Do you remember yesterday when you asked me what the shamrock I wear is for?”

My mind recalls vividly the green emerald in her belly button and the thoughts I had about running my tongue around it. With a devilish grin I answer, “Yes.”

She sets her glass down. Her hands are shaking and she’s unable to speak.

I suddenly lose any sense of fun in this conversation. “Hey, look at me,” I say, leaning over the table and taking both her hands.

Her eyes cut to mine, the fire now dulled and consumed by sadness.

“What is it? Just tell me.”

She stays silent and draws in a breath as if gaining courage.

“S’belle? What the f**k is it?” My impatience is getting the better of me.

Her stare searches the table. “The shamrock represents St. Patrick’s Day.”

I nod, agreeing with her that it does.

Silence falls again for another few short moments and then she looks up at me. “That’s the day I gave birth to our child.” Her voice is shaky and broken. Her words come out in alternating whispers and squeaks.

The floor drops from beneath me. My ears ring and the room doesn’t seem quite so square anymore. I take a deep breath, replaying what she just said in my head, but it doesn’t make sense. I sit there motionless. I couldn’t have heard her correctly. When my senses recover, I flash her a look that seeks answers.

Through gritted teeth I ask, “What did you say?”

She squeezes my hands, but I jerk them away. Unbearable silence passes between us, and nothing except the overhead music of Frank Sinatra crooning a love song can be heard. There’s a look of desperation on her face, but there is no way I can help her.

“What did you just say?” My voice takes on an aggressive tone I’ve never used with her as her words register in my brain—I have a child out in the world.

Tears now slide down her face. She leans forward and through sobs says, “On March seventeenth, almost six years ago, I gave up my child, our child. I gave it up for adoption. That’s why I wear the shamrock. It symbolizes the love I have for the baby I wish every day I never let go.”

My body goes limp. Looking around, I can’t figure out why she’d tell me this in a public place. Oh God, my stomach lurches when I think about how I wanted to run my tongue over the sparkling green emerald in her belly button. I start to get up but sit back down, needing a chance to understand what she’s telling me. The words catch in my throat and nothing comes out. I stare at her in disbelief for the longest time, trying to see anything but the truth, but I can’t find it. I glance around at the empty restaurant and feel as if I’m suffocating.

“I . . . I . . . didn’t want . . . I didn’t want to have to tell you, but I knew I couldn’t start this relationship with a lie. That’s—that’s why I wanted to keep it casual. I . . . I thought you’d get me out of your system and move on,” she stammers.

My eyes flare to hers, but the fire I feel is not from want or lust. “Why didn’t you tell me then? Why?”

She holds my gaze. “Because I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Then you don’t know me at all,” I spit out.

“No, I do know you. I do.”

“So what? Is this one of those half-truths? Because I’ll tell you something—you’re only fooling yourself.”

Standing up, I reach in my pocket and toss a fifty on the table. With her chest visibly rising and falling, she watches me silently. She stares at me with a blank expression and says nothing else. I look at her one last time and then walk away, leaving her sitting there. As soon as the cool air hits my lungs, I feel I can finally breathe. I pace the sidewalk with my hands behind my head and stare through the glass at her. A few seconds later she’s standing in front of me.

“Ben, let’s talk about this. I want to explain everything. It’s not easy for me, but I understand you’re upset.”

My eyes burn into hers with an anger I’ve never felt for anyone. “What exactly are you going to explain? Explain how you had a baby, my baby, and gave it up without ever telling me?” I hiss.

“It’s not like that. It wasn’t that easy.”

“Really? What part wasn’t easy? The part you skipped about informing the father?”

Her eyes drop. “Please, Ben, let’s go back in and sit down.”

“Why would you think you should tell me something like that in a public place?”

“You said you wanted to put the past behind you. I just wanted to meet somewhere neutral and do the same.”

“Are you f**king kidding me? That is not the past.”

“It is. It’s mine.” Her voice is a whisper.

My voice is tight. “How could you not tell me back then?”

“I tried. I called you twice.”

“I remember your calls. You called and left a couple of messages that said to call you back. There was no urgency in your tone. You knew I had a girlfriend. I couldn’t call you back. That wasn’t trying.”

“I called,” she cries again, her voice fading.

I throw my hands up in the air. “You knew I couldn’t see you again. You had to know that’s why I thought you were calling. So you may have called, but you didn’t try to tell me this. Don’t fool yourself.”

“What difference would it have made if I had told you?”

“What difference?” My voice spikes up in anger.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

I stare at her with coldness in my eyes. “Fuck, is that another one of your half-truths?”

“No guy wants to hear he got a girl pregnant,” she says, her voice raspy.

“How would you know what I wanted to hear when you never gave me the chance?”

“What would have been the point?”

“The point in telling me we conceived a child? The point in telling me there’s a part of me out there in the world? I don’t know, maybe that I deserved to know.”

“I’m sorry,” she cries, and closes her eyes.

I stare at her, my heart feeling pulled in so many directions I don’t know what to do. Then without another word I turn and walk away.

CHAPTER 20

Little White Lies

Bell

The dogwood trees blow in the wind and their white blossoms whirl in the air. One sticks to my arm, but I swat it off. I don’t want to make a wish on it today. I watch him, following his back as he walks away from me until I can’t see him anymore. I bolt down the street as fast as I can, running nowhere. When another blossom blows in my path, I pause for a brief moment and decide to make a wish after all. I wish for him to understand—even when I know that’s impossible. Still, I’m not sorry I told him. I know I had to. I am, however, sorry I didn’t do things differently from the start. I’m sorry about how I messed my own life up again. I’m sorry I can’t go back in time and change everything.