Reaction by Jessica Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

of tall trees. But when I saw him find a seat on the small bench to the side, a frisson of pain crawled through me. In the past, our favorite place to hang out was the park. And our favorite way to lounge was with him sitting on the grass, leaning against a tree, my head resting on his stomach. How I used to love the feel of his torso rising up and down in time with his breathing. I loved the way his fingers played in my hair. Or how he’d tickle my bare shoulders with swirls and lines and architectural sketches from his head. Sometimes the sketches would go all the way up to my neck, and he would whisper in my ear little mathematical equations that went along with the sketches. There was nothing in the world more pleasurable.
    Those were our little rituals. For some absurd reason that’s the picture I had in my mind for today.
    But it was unpleasantly different now. We definitely would not be resting on the grass together. And unfortunately, I wouldn’t feel his fingers on my skin. And neither would he be whispering in my ear. And now I would never stop wondering if our little rituals had turned into theirs .
    Still standing, debating how to proceed, twiddling my thumbs in the process, I heard him say in a wry manner, “Are you going to sit down?”
    His off-hand tone made me grin, in spite of myself. “Bossy,” I pressed back, taking a seat on the bench and then brushing the non-existent lint off the front of my jeans. “So,” I pushed on, “how are things going with you?”
    “They’re going,” he answered after leaning over and plucking a little dead stem from the ground.
    “Did you know I decided to go back to school?”
    With a light, careless attitude, he responded, “Is that right?” He sat fully relaxed with his legs spread out, which for some reason fed the little flame already working inside me. The longer I stared at him and the longer his attention remained on the innocent little stem in his fingers, the harder it was to tamper the flame. Right then I realized I was done with the proverbial bush beating and suddenly ready to have a few questions answered.
    “So how long did it take to get over me?” I found myself asking, trying to copy his same careless manner.
    His face twisted into a sneer. “You never were the subtle type.”
    “A few weeks?”
    He leisurely shook his head, either not wanting to answer or not wanting to have this particular conversation altogether.
    “It’s okay, you can tell me. I want to know the truth. A month? Two? And then what, you decided to ask the first girl you met to marry you?”
    He kept his attention on the busy blade of straw weaving through his fingers. “Your second false assumption.”
    “So you’re not getting married?” I challenged.
    “I am.”
    Outwardly I allowed no emotion to show. Inwardly I cringed, the dart landing right on the jealousy mark. “When exactly?”
    “Already told you.” And the little blade of grass went into his mouth like a toothpick.
    Into his mouth! Like a toothpick! Like he could care less!
    “Already told you,” I mimicked back like a four-year-old. If I had been watching the scene from afar, I would have fell down laughing. The response was completely ridiculous coming from a grown woman; I was so lame around him.
    No laughter came from Nick, which probably meant he was also thinking I was lame. It almost looked like his lips were fighting a smile, though. But the look didn’t last and not a second later, he said, “Knock it off, Heather.”
    Though his words were a command, his tone was relaxed, almost as though we were still together, still intimate, still able to squabble and play, and then kiss and make up. Instead of consoling me, it burned.
    “Do you live with her?” I was ashamed of myself, but all the more relieved to finally get answers to all the questions plaguing my mind over the last few weeks.
    “Where are you living now?” he said in response to my question. “With your guy-friend?”
    I