Why then, was this memory still so raw?
She steeled herself—and half-lied.
“I think you got really drunk at a party, and I drove you home. That’s all,” Lauren said.
His eyes flickered with something she prayed wasn’t a memory. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that. I was a mess. Did I throw up in your car?”
If only.
She shook her head. “No. I got you home safe and sound.”
His eyes darted back and forth, as if he were working to recall, “I. . .don’t remember that at all. Did you, like, come into my house?”
She hitched her breath. “I got you to your door, and,” she lied again. “You took care of the rest.” She was not confronting this. Not now.
“Wow. I’m so sorry, Lauren. I don’t remember that at all.”
Thank goodness.
As soon as the relief washed over her, it was replaced by disappointment. He didn’t remember. Any of it.
He turned and looked at her, sincere. “Thanks, Lo,” he said. “You were a good friend even then.”
She smiled and nodded.
Right. A good friend. And again, like before, I want to be so much more.
Chapter 17
Will hadn’t intended to bear his soul—not to anyone, but especially not to Lauren.
He’d been carrying around his regrets like Atlas, desperately holding up the world, for too long. Somehow, telling her about it helped lighten the load.
She’d helped him. Again.
Then she’d asked that question—you really don’t remember, do you—and his heart sank. His palms turned clammy, and horror welled up inside of him.
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that question.
You really don’t remember running down Main Street in your boxers, do you?
You really don’t remember stealing the trophy from Coach’s office, do you?
You really don’t remember passing out in centerfield that night we broke in to the stadium or your teammates carrying you home, do you?
But this was different. The look on Lauren’s face told him so.
Oh, no. What did I do?
“We should get out there.” Lauren’s tone brightened the mood. “We don’t want to miss it!”
“Right,” he said dumbly. “Right.” He was unable to shake the dread that had parked itself in his chest.
They got out of the car and followed the crowd of people to the open space at the bottom of a snowy mountain. Off to the side, twinkle lights outlined the resort buildings, and at the top of the hill, Will could see activity. Still, he had no idea what to expect. He’d never been to a torchlight parade, and despite the community excitement for it, nobody had explained exactly what it was. That made the anticipation all the greater.
He stood close enough to Lauren that their arms touched, and he had no intention of pulling away. She knew his secrets now, and so far, she wasn’t running away. That counted for something, right?
“You know, I just told you basically my whole life story.” He glanced down at her.
She met his eyes. “You did.”
“And I still don’t even know why you hate your birthday.”
She looked away. “Nope. You don’t.”
Christmas music filled the air. A live band of five men wearing Santa hats and overalls was situated at the base of the mountain. Not too far away, a bonfire blazed, and beyond that, rows of small booths had been set up to face each other, a wide walkway between them, lights hung from one side to the other creating an illuminated tunnel. People milled through the space, buying hot chocolate and warm apple cider and roasting marshmallows in the large flames.
The band finished their rendition of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” then directed everyone’s attention to the mountain. A hush came over the crowd, and pairs of opposing streetlights flicked off, one at a time. The booth lights dimmed. Bright red flares glowed against the white snow as skiers moved into place.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” a booming voice crackled over the loudspeaker, “Welcome to El Muérdago ’s Annual. . .Torchlight. . .Parade!”
The crowd erupted in cheers, and Lauren looked at Will, mouth open with excitement, and smiled. For two Midwestern flat-landers, this was foreign tradition—but the excitement of those who knew what to expect was infectious.
In spite of the heaviness of their conversation in the parking lot, Lauren seemed to be enjoying herself. Regardless of her professed hatred of this—and every—holiday.
“Please, direct your attention to the top of Mount Tapa Blanca, where our expert ski instructors from the Tapa Blanca Ski School are getting into position.”