Ray bit her bottom lip for a moment, looking up at me with those gorgeous, sparkling green eyes, and I wished I knew what she was thinking—what she thought of me. But she looked away just as quickly, pulled her purse higher onto her shoulder, and declared very affirmatively that I should be at her place by six for dinner.
Then, she told Noah it was time to check out, and he left with an enthusiastic, “See you later, Soldier!”
What the hell just happened?
I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to go over there. I wanted it to be. I wanted to believe that building this friendship with Ray and her son was one of those good things I apparently deserved, according to Harry. But that foreboding I couldn’t quite figure out was back, nagging in my gut with these little pangs and punches as I finished mopping the floor between the apples and oranges. I didn’t know what it meant. I wished I knew. I wished it were obvious and that I could figure out what it all meant. But I couldn’t.
Yet I didn’t bump my head on that sign for the rest of the day, and that had to mean something too.
***
Ray had made a pot of spaghetti and some of the best meatballs I’d ever eaten in my life. I even told her they were better than my grandmother’s, which was one of the greatest compliments I could ever give anyone.
“You were close with your grandmother?” she asked, making conversation as she spooned another meatball onto my dish.
“I was.”
I cut the meatball in half with my fork and popped one side into my mouth, eating like I hadn’t consumed good food in a really, really long fucking time. Which wasn’t entirely true. The weeks I’d spent with Harry’s family were filled with excellent food. But it’d been over a month since then, and Ray’s cooking, I’d found, was even better.
Ray studied me with a soft, albeit intense, stare, a slight curve to her lips as she watched me stuff the other half of the meatball into my mouth. I met her eyes mid-chew, and she didn’t look away. We held each other captive for a few thundering beats of my heart as the questions mounted between us, piling high on the table and cluttering the bowl of spaghetti and incredible meatballs.
Why is she looking at me like that?
How is she so fucking pretty?
Where is Noah’s dad?
Would a woman already involved with a man stare at another like this?
Noah sighed and shifted in his chair, breaking the spell between his mother and me. I diverted my gaze to the sauce smeared across my otherwise empty plate while Ray cleared her throat and addressed her son.
“Excuse me, are we boring you?” she teased, reaching over to nudge his arm.
“No,” he grumbled against a heavy breath, but he was lying, and I laughed.
“Go ahead,” Ray said, dismissing him. “I’ll let you know when we have cake.”
Noah didn’t need to be told twice, and we both laughed as he ran to drop his plate in the sink before throwing himself onto the couch and grabbing his Nintendo Switch.
Ray met my gaze with a smile and a glint in her eyes as she stood with her own plate in hand. I wouldn’t let her take mine and instead helped her clear the rest of the table.
“You didn’t need to do all this,” I said, leaving the bowl of food on the counter. “I haven’t really done anything for my birthday in a long time, so …”
“You know, Soldier”—she turned from the sink to lean her back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest—“you could just say thank you.”
I sniffed a short laugh and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Do you mind me asking why today is so bad?”
I was quickly finding that Ray shared that same no-filters-allowed quality with her son, and I liked it. It was a breath of fresh air when everyone else around me seemed to walk on eggshells. Nobody ever knew how to act or what to say while Ray and Noah simply didn’t care. They just said whatever was on their minds, and, man, it was nice.
I chewed at my lip, wondering if I even wanted to say it aloud when tonight had already been so nice. Would I ruin it all by allowing that persistent black cloud to hang over us? But Ray was so insistent with those soft, big green eyes, watching my every move, and I felt I couldn’t run away from this. I felt I didn’t want to.
“My best friend died today,” I admitted. “The same night I was arrested. Ten years ago.”
She held my gaze for a moment, not at all surprised by the admission, before letting her head hang as she nodded in a way that said she had already known and had somehow forgotten. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That must suck, having to share your birthday with such a horrible memory.”
“Honestly”—I laughed, beside myself—“it’s not the first. But it’s definitely the worst, and yeah, it does suck.”
Her hands clenched at her sides before she blurted out, “Did you actually kill him?” She shook her head immediately after and spun quickly on her heel, facing the sink again. “You know what? No, never mind. Don’t answer that.”
I swallowed, allowing a war to begin in my head. I had only known Ray and Noah for a few weeks now. They were my only friends in town, and I liked the bond we had seemed to build on honesty and a lack of judgment. But an admission like this was a heavy one. It could be simultaneously destructive and freeing, and what would I do if the only friends I’d made decided they no longer wanted to know me? What was I supposed to do then?
I can’t expect her—or anyone—not to care, but what if she simply accepts it?
Or she could just look up my damn name and find out for herself.
But wouldn’t it be better to hear it from me?
And with that thought, I let a breath whoosh from my lungs and was sure to keep my voice low—too low for Noah to hear—as I said, “His death was the result of something I’d done, but, no, I didn’t intentionally kill him.”
Ray turned from the sink, bringing her green gaze to mine. Her eyes were so kind, so bright, and I swore I recognized them from somewhere I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“So, you’re not really a murderer?”
I shook my head. “Despite what some people might want to believe, no, I’m not a murderer.”
She exhaled deeply, her cheeks deepening in color with a hint of embarrassment as she nodded. “I actually kinda knew that. I had googled you a while back. I knew you were convicted of manslaughter, but … you know … people cover stuff up, and—”
“Not in this case,” I told her, offering a reassuring smile.
“Still, kinda weird that a guy who killed someone is standing in my kitchen.” She swept her gaze around the small room before letting her eyes fall back on me. “Feels like it should be scarier.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and smirked. “Are you saying I don’t scare you?”
“Well, do you want to hurt me?” she asked, almost as a challenge.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“So, then, no, you don’t scare me.”
My eyes narrowed as I tried to peer into my past while déjà vu barreled through me like a freakin’ freight train. Where had I had a similar exchange before? And why couldn’t I remember, if the moment felt so familiar?