I look down at my hands and fidget. “Ben didn’t like tattoos. Always said they looked kind of trashy. It’s so ironic considering he slept with someone else a week before our wedding, which is the ultimate trashy look.” I scoff. “I decided that day it was time to start doing what I wanted and not give a shit what Ben did or didn’t like.”
And then something amazing happens. I realize that I just talked about Ben and what he did to me, and for once, it doesn’t sting. Not a bit. This is curious to me, so I force my thoughts down that rabbit trail a little further just to see if it was a fluke. I let myself remember picking up Ben’s phone when he left the room and finding a text from Hallie with a photo of the two of them snuggling under the covers as if they’d been a couple for a hundred years.
Huh. No pain. No knots in my stomach. No nothing. In fact, all I can really focus on is Ryan’s thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.
He peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “I’m glad you got the tattoo. It also looks superhot on you so that’s a plus.”
I don’t know why, but a blush creeps over my face. I think it’s a combination of the way Ryan is looking at me and what his touch does to me.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, but my voice betrays how much his words mean to me and it cracks.
—
The rest of the night goes by in a zoom. Ryan and I catch a flight to O’Hare International Airport, where we take a detour before going to baggage claim and stop at the food court. “I heard your stomach growling on the plane,” he says before once again shocking me to no end by steering us toward the Taco Bell. Once was a fluke—twice is certainly on purpose.
I squeeze his arm while we wait in line. “You know, that night you got us tacos while we waited on the locksmith, I thought for sure you were stooping to fast food because you liked me. Now I’m starting to think it wasn’t for me at all. Answer honestly, Ryan Henderson, is this your favorite restaurant?”
He grins down at me as we advance toward the front of the line. “I’ve tried to re-create the flavor of their beef. I can’t match it no matter how hard I try.”
A laugh rolls through me, completely delighted by this turn of events. Ryan, Mr. Michelin Chef, is a fast-food lover just like me.
After scarfing our meals in the food court, Ryan takes my hand as we both roll our suitcases behind us to the parking lot where a 4Runner truck is parked. But not just any ole 4Runner truck…it’s a nice one. He’s clearly had a lot done to it. It looks lifted, has big tires and blacked-out windows. It fits him. Still something I could 100 percent picture Ryan driving in high school, but with a much cooler twist. (An expensive-looking twist.) It’s a simple thing, but I love that I get to know what he drives. What his guilty pleasure food is. That he wears socks with his PJs.
I’m high on delight by the time we load into his truck and make our way toward his place, feeling so joyful I could bust.
And that’s why I rotate in my seat so my back is against the door and curl my legs up in the seat.
“What are you doing?” Ryan asks, glancing at me and then back to the road.
“Staring at you.”
This amuses him, but I’m dead serious.
“That’s creepy.”
“Maybe I’m a little creepy then. Get used to it. You’re too pretty not to stare at.”
Ryan just shakes his head slightly as he moves his hand to my knee and keeps his focus on the road. We don’t talk the rest of the drive, and he lets me stare at him the whole time. I lay my head against the seat and watch the interstate lights flash behind his head, something soft and folky playing on the radio.
I catch myself thinking something that I haven’t thought in a long time.
So this is what happy feels like?
Chapter 24 June
“Oh, I see now! You’re loaded,” I say as soon as Ryan and I walk through the front door of his“apartment.” And I mean apartment in the most sarcastic way possible, because this place is bigger than my house. And I have a pretty good size house.
He laughs. “Something like that.”
I give Ryan some serious side-eye before walking deeper into the apartment. My eyes bounce from the exposed brick wall to the six-foot windows and then draw a line all the way up the enormous ceilings more fit for a cathedral than a home. There’s a black slate fireplace against the exterior wall, and exactly the kind of kitchen you would expect to find in a famous chef’s home just beyond the main living room.
The thing that strikes me the most, though, is his apartment doesn’t smell like him. There’s not a hint of his cool, spicy man scent anywhere. Maybe it’s because every surface in this place is made from brick, or wood, or slate, or steel, and his scent has nothing to grab on to. I mean, don’t get me wrong, this place is INCREDIBLE. But it’s the kind of incredible that makes you want to just hover by the door and snap a photo while passing by instead of going inside and getting comfy.
It’s sterile and a little cold. But then again, maybe that’s just because Jake was right and it’s freaking cold outside here. How anyone survives with that wind chill is beyond me.
“You hate it,” Ryan says without even the slightest bit of offense in his voice.
I gasp and dramatically cover my heart. “Hate it? No! I’m just…taking it all in, and ohmygosh what is this thing?!” I rush into the living room and point an accusatory finger at the couch (if you can call it that).
Ryan isn’t surprised. He’s smiling. “My couch.”
“No!” I say, taking great offense. “This, sir, is an oversize brick covered in uncomfortable leather.” I tap the metal armrests. “A couch should not be reflective.”
“I agree.”
“Then why do you have it?!”
“It came with the apartment. All this did. I bought it fully furnished.”
I’m sure I look as if I’ve just witnessed a grisly murder. “Ryan. No. Tell me that’s not true. How do you manage to live here with it so…uncomfortable?”
His smile fades a little as he walks over to drop our bags by the kitchen island. “I don’t. Not really. I sleep here maybe five hours a night, and then I go to the gym, and then to work. Rinse and repeat. It’s how I’ve lived my whole adult life.”
My heart tugs for him. “That must be exhausting. How do you keep that up?”
He gives me a no-big-deal shrug and heads into the kitchen. I follow him, watching as he pours a glass of water and takes a long drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then sees that I’m still waiting for him to expound. “I haven’t had a choice. That’s what it takes to be successful in my industry.”
I don’t know how to feel about that. Something is prickling at me, but I can’t figure it out.
