Page 63 of The Accidental Dating Experiment
She wiggles. “Maybe you should remind me.”
I can see it so perfectly. I can feel it too. “You were reaching for a heart-shaped soap. I was grabbing the one next to it. Maybe, possibly, I let my hand slide so it touched yours.”
“And here I thought you were good with your hands.”
“I was. It wasn’t accidental, Juliet.”
A tremble moves through her body. It’s beautiful to see. “Fine, tell me more about this un-accidental touch.”
I close my eyes too. I can’t look at myself in the mirror as I tell this story. “I recognized you. I hadn’t seen you in a few years, but there you were. My good friend’s sister. And none of that mattered. All I thought was, I have to see her again.”
“I’m starting to remember this,” she says, but then tilts her head closer to me, tapping her chin. “Did we see each other? It’s a little fuzzy with this headache.”
I laugh softly. “We saw each other. At the arcade, at the movie theater, the beach. The tent.”
“Ahh. It’s coming back to me now.”
But so’s the ending too. That’s the problem. We’d only spent a week together, but I wanted more. Only, it wasn’t feasible. Hell, it’s not feasible now. We have too much at stake. But more than that, I don’t trust myself to be the man she needs. One failed marriage and a handful of short-term relationships that fizzled, too, are proof that my skills lie elsewhere. If I even tried, I’d probably turn out just like my dad, which means I’d be just as unworthy of her as the other guys she’s met. I won’t do that to her.
I can’t have a future with her, but maybe I can rewrite the past. “I wanted to see you again, Juliet.”
She inhales, exhales, like she needs more breath for this. “Yeah?” There’s hope in her voice. Such a dangerous thing.
“I did,” I say, with regret in mine. “But what could we do? I was moving across the country to New York.”
“And I wasn’t,” she says, wistful.
I could stop this conversation, but maybe we need this—an admission that it ended too soon, before either of us wanted it to. Since we reconnected when I returned to San Francisco, we’ve been friends and co-workers, but we never truly acknowledged that week.
“I couldn’t string you along,” I add.
She says nothing. Just sort of hums thoughtfully.
“I wanted to though. Not string you along. But see you more. Again and again,” I say into the reflection, forcing myself to face the truth of how I felt back then. I felt so much more than I told her. Than I told anyone.
“Me too. I wanted that too.”
My heart thumps, missing what never happened. But at least that week no longer hangs unspoken between us. I squeeze her hand tighter. “How’s your head?”
“A little better. You mobilized quickly to heal me.”
“I hated to see you sick. I want to make it better.”
She smiles. “The doctor in you.”
I shake my head. “It’s not the doctor in me,” I say, firm and clear.
She takes off the mask, sets it on the pillow, turns her gaze to me. “No?”
My breath hitches. Her bright eyes on me are turning me inside out. “It’s just you.”
She sighs softly, then curls up in my arms. “How was it? Seeing your dad?”
I snort. Then scoff. “He wants me to give a speech at his retirement party this weekend.”
“Will you?”
“I said yes,” I say. “And he invited everyone. All our friends.” Wait. She probably knows that. He said his assistant invited her. But what if I could do it first? “Have you checked your email?” I ask with some urgency.