3. Vera

The touch is a complete surprise, as is the voice, the press of soft lips and coarse hair, and the shiver that shimmies down my spine. I'm leaning into the touch, eyes slipping closed even as my brains whirrs through every memory of this same greeting.

It has to be instinct that led Robbie Oakes to wrap his arm around the small of my waist, to press a kiss to the thin skin of my temple. The same instinct that has me turning into him, eyes lifting to his like they always used to, feeling my lips curve before I even know I'm smiling.

"It's good to be back," I say, and my voice sounds hoarse to my own ears. Breathy and raspy. Like my lungs are caving in as I drown in his proximity.

"Yes," he says, his dark eyes shifting over mine. Neither of us are talking about the town, the airport, or this tiny square of cement where my feet are growing roots.

The sudden flash of light is nearly blinding in its intensity. I turn away from it, seeking the darkness of the shadow cast by the man standing next to me. His arm tightens around my waist and I can feel the warm press of each of his fingers through the sheer fabric of my top. It's exhilarating even as I try to talk my heart rate back down to the normal range.

"Sorry," a voice laughs. "Just preserving this moment for posterity. Say cheese."

"Usually, that demand comes before someone blinds you with the flash." There's a quiet huff of sound at my words and I lift my chin, sure that I just heard Robbie Oakes laugh, but he has his gaze trained on his teammate.

Jack, for his part, doesn't seem at all phased by the death glare trained his way,

"Someday you're going to want to remember this moment and you'll thank me."

It's my turn to frown. Remember this moment? Does the kid mean seeing me? I shake that thought away. Fame can be a funny thing. Even when I'm aching for seconds of quiet, for a minute to slip under the radar, it's still way too easy to get used to a world that caters to me. A world where everyone is taking pictures because I walked into a room. It wasn't like that at the start. The tiny apartment I shared with four other girls in the center of Tokyo is a far cry from where I am now.

I promised myself once I'd never lose sight of the girl who didn't have two coins to rub together for a visit to the 24-hour laundromat and used to hand wash her clothes in the bathroom sink. Never lose sight of the girl who learned how to hem her own clothes in middle school because nothing fit right. That's hard to do when my current wardrobe is full of bespoke pieces. Things chosen for me by my stylist and personal shopper. Pieces sent to me by designers who imagined me in their clothes when they made their initial sketches.

I think society can forgive my gut reaction. Especially when it was borne from years of everyday experiences. It had nothing to do with this man, or that I haven't seen him in over a decade. Nothing to do with the catch in my throat when our eyes met again. As far as I can tell, Jack is the annoying baby brother that the whole team adores. Of course him being here is a big deal for Robbie.

I take a tiny step away from the man in question, just enough to get a few air molecules between his skin and mine. His hand flexes against my waist, stopping me dead in my tracks and the air punches out of my lungs.

"I'm just saying," Jack says, "This is a big moment. You've been waiting almost—"

"Take the damn picture, Spags."

The words ruffle the hair at my temples as Jack raises his phone again, a grin plastered across his face. I should smile. I should do something. I guess this is a big deal, but not because of our past, right? Pro hockey player and international model? A chance meeting at the airport? I should turn towards the flash, find the light and my angles. Use my picture-practiced smile.

I look up at Robbie Oakes.

And he's looking down at me.

The flash feels brighter than normal, the warm light reflecting off of the dark ring of his irises. I'm overheating, sweltering next to this man—this stranger who was once a boy I knew better than myself. My eyes drift shut and I sway on my feet, gravity pulling me right back toward him in a dangerous trajectory.

"I've got your bag V," Jack—Spags, Robbie called him—says, and his voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. I try to break through the haze.

My bag?

Wait.

What?

"You headed all the way to Kimmelwick?" Robbie asks and I nod my head without thinking.

I'm ready to get out of here, to get away from him, but the thought of waiting an hour for a rideshare and then spending another hour in awkward silence on the drive to my parents sounds like absolute torture.More trouble that sharing a ride with my ex and a gleeful teen. And now that he knows I'm headed to our hometown, Robbie will offer me a ride. It's one of life's inevitabilities. The sun will rise tomorrow, the seasons will change, we will all march inexorably towards death, and Robbie will offer any stranded person a ride home.

I don't protest—much—as he takes the handle of my suitcase and starts across the crosswalk toward the parking lot. He doesn't even look both ways, just moves with the confidence of a man used to people giving him space. I'm jealous. People rarely move out of my way. They steer directly into it.

"You okay with this?" Robbie asks as I lengthen my stride to catch up. His friend is out of earshot, humming loudly enough to tell us he's elaborately unconcerned with our conversation.

Am I? In theory, yes. Who would say no to a ride? Even if I paid for gas—Robbie would never let me—it would still be a negligible amount compared to hiring a ride. And any discomfort I feel about getting in a car with my ex is not because I'm worried about my safety. Robbie has and always will put my comfort first. Even when it broke my heart, he put me first. It just took me several years to figure it out. I'm not worried that he or Jack will do or say anything. The problem is my own stupid heart and my hopeless romantic brain.

Can I handle being this close to him? Just for an hour?

There's a reason beyond my dislike of flying that kept me away from this town. I knew I'd see Robbie Oakes in every corner of my community, even if he wasn't there. At the local playground hanging from the monkey bars, skipping rocks over the shimmering water of the reservoir, the flop of his dark hair as he sat on the porch swing at his parents' house. It was hard enough to survive my last two years of high school after he'd skipped town.

Avoiding those old phantoms seemed like the best way to preserve my sanity. But the joke's on me. Even leaving New York didn't stop me from following his career, making mental notes of the colors and mascot he was repping, changing my team allegiance with each new season. Or it's possible my loyalty didn't change at all. Not when I was always rooting for the only player that mattered. Him.

What's a single car ride with this man when he's the gold standard no one else has ever measured up to? There's nothing he can do in a single span of sixty minutes that could raise my opinion of him. If I'm lucky, he might even pick his nose or roll through a stop sign or something to actually lower it. Maybe someday I'll meet someone who will replace him. It's not an impossibility, especially when I haven't exactly tried looking. Wasn't I just lamenting that I should start planning the next piece of my life? That could include putting myself out there. Trying to find a partner that can fill the aching hole in my gut.

I'll get on that just as soon as I'm back home.

"Thanks for the offer," I say and loop my arm through the crook of his elbow. I mean for the move to be proof of just how casual I feel about accepting a ride. So casual my heart is slamming a staccato beat against the cage of my ribs. I can do this. He's just a man. A man who turns my internal organs to jelly and sends goose bumps up and down my arms.

Snap out of it, I remind myself. It was sixteen years ago. I'm a full adult in full control .

"I'm not about to turn down a ride," I tilt my lips up in my tried-and-true photo smile.

Robbie looks right through me, as if he can read the truth on the backs of my eyes. His mouth opens, and he wets his lips. He looks older, which I expected, but also the same. Even with the dark beard and mustache covering the hard line of his jaw. There are threads of darkest red in the shadow of his facial hair. The dark swirl of a tattoo covers the left side of his neck. A tree, I think. I've seen it in photos, but never in person.

He's bigger than I remember. Not just taller, but broader, too. He's grown into his muscles and his hundred-yard stare. He's still every inch as attractive to me now as he was to teenage me at seventeen.

"As you wish," he says, and my eyes blink, blink, blink as I talk my heart rate back to normal.

I look around, desperate for a moment to breathe, and realize we're already in the parking lot. I keep forgetting how just how small Genosa is. Jack stands by the trunk of an old sedan, one ankle crossed over the other and scrolling on his phone. It's like peering through a window into the past. I'm back in high school and another junior hockey player is waiting for me. One with dark eyes and the five-o'clock shadow he could never quite get rid of. I refuse to let my eyes drift back to the man two steps behind me. I just have to get through this car ride and then I can make myself scarce during the week. I'm here for my family, after all. Not to rekindle past flames.

"Shotgun," Jack calls out as we make eye contact, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins at me.

I smirk back. I'd intended to ride in the backseat. The further I am from Robbie, the easier it will be to disassociate for the drive and stare out the window. I can guess the over/under on the number of buggies we'll have to skirt around. I reach for the door to the backseat as a shadow blocks out the light. The rookie is already halfway in the front seat. I wrench the door open, feeling the wall of stifling hot air billow out at me. The car wasn't even sitting that long, but already the interior resembles a sauna.

"No." The word is a firm rebuke, one that takes me a minute to figure out. I stare into the tan upholstered interior, wondering what I did wrong until I hear the word, "Backseat."

"Right. Got it." Jack says, wiggling back out of the car. "Sorry Dad." He winks as he slides past me and across the wide seat and reaches for the seatbelt, buckling himself into the middle seat. Like a complete psychopath.

"I don't mind," I tell both men. "I'm the random addition to the carpool. I can take the back." Please let me take the back .

I eye Jack again and the fucker waves at me. Maybe it's a good thing my parents had no more kids. If the undeniable urge I have to beat this man with my handbag is any sign, I wouldn't have survived siblings. I remember a ten-minute window, at age nine, when I wanted a twin, but growing up with identical twin boys for friends definitely dampened that desire. Vic and Erik had the mind-reading thing down, but I had Robbie. Basically the same thing.

I lean down to get a better look at the baby hockey player sitting in my seat. I might be in good shape—not exactly a surprise given my profession—but my look is all about sleek long lines; toned but slender. Not a single bulging muscle I would need to drag the kid from the car. Not that I would do that. Vera-the-freckle-faced-new-kid adopted by three feral boys? She absolutely would. Vera-the-international-model who learned the art of not making a scene? She probably shouldn't.

Over the car roof, Robbie meets my eyes and I feel the shiver rush to the tips of my fingers and toes.

"No, no, no," Jack calls back, his voice echoing in the vehicle. "Ladies up front. Especially special ladies. Special lady friend ladies. Special—"

"Okay," I cut the kid off before he can make any more vague insinuations that make me sound like a sex worker. "You sure?"

This time I ask Robbie. It's a ridiculous question. Not only because he already told me to get in the front—or rather punted Jack to the back—but because I spent years living out of Robbie Oakes' car and he mine. From the day he showed up after lunch with his shiny new license and a beat up old truck, the passenger seat had an imprint of my ass. It was my sparkly AUX cord that controlled the music. It was my Chapstick rattling around his cup holder. My extra pair of socks on the back floorboards. My fingers he twined with his as he shifted gears. My thigh he gripped when he didn't.

But this isn't Robbie's car. It's most likely his dad's, and it's been years since I slid into the seat next to him. Things have changed.

He doesn't answer me, just ducks down into the driver's seat and closes the door with an audible click. By the time I fold myself into the seat next to him, he has his eyes trained on the rearview mirror, dark brows furrowed together, scowling at the third person in the car like he's a puppy who chewed through a seatbelt.

"No fucking manners—" Robbie says to his unfazed teammate. "Raised by goddamn wolves, Spags."

"I'm sorry for crashing your party," I tell them both. The humidity and the wait time are the only things stopping me from launching myself out of the car window as Robbie backs out of the spot. He clearly doesn't want me here, something I'm not too stupid to know Jack finds absolutely delightful.

"Don't worry," Jack's chin tips down, leaving his shadowed smile more on the evil-scheming side of things. "You're not the party crasher. I am. Dad's just grumpy that he waited sixteen years and didn't even get you all to himself."

I turn in the seat, almost recoiling when it leaves Jack and me nose to nose. He's leaning so far forward he reminds me again of a puppy. Like the dogs I've seen on the internet, desperately trying to break through the safety nets their humans put up to keep them in the backseat. Then again, this car wasn't built for people our size. The guys have me beat on width, sure, but I'm a respectable five foot eleven and my legs are accordion-folded just to fit under the dashboard. Jack probably can't help how much space he takes up, although I can't help but think that he could've sat sideways and been more comfortable. My eyes dart to Robbie's quads. He must be in actual pain driving this car.

Ten minutes later and I'm valiantly trying to pretend I'm anywhere else, even back in Porto for my SI swimsuit photoshoot. Even though we shot in the winter. And the high was fifty. Jack is humming what sounds like a mashup of songs off the newest Taylor Swift album, and Robbie has been grinding his jaw to the point I think his teeth might be actual powder.

This car ride is on a one-way road to hell and I'm regretting every single decision in the universe that put me here. Tandy's dad for mainlining a diet of only beef and pork products that caused his heart to punk out without warning. My dad for being supportive and wonderful, but living too damn far away. The boy to my left for leaving me on his back porch at the tender age of sixteen, tears dripping down my freckled cheeks.

"What kind of dog do you think I'd be? If I was a dog." Jack's question breaks the silence sitting over all of us like a musty seat cover. "If I were a dog?"

My tenuous grip on alternate reality slips away—to be fair, I wasn't doing all that great with the distraction anyway—and turn to raise an eyebrow at him over the side of my seat. He wiggles his phone at me, the grin still permanently etched across his face.

"Gagey sent me this quiz thing. He got a Doberman, but I don't think this is right, so I'm using a lifeline to poll the audience."

I roam my eyes over the folded body of the hockey player. Just going on vibes alone—I have nothing else to base my guess on—he reminds me of a hyperactive puppy. The kind that steals socks, pisses in only the most expensive shoes, and then falls asleep in a tangled heap somewhere totally in the way.

"Uh," I stall. Do I know dog breeds? Cooper Wells likes to watch the American Kennel Club dog show instead of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. When was the last time I spent the holiday with him?

"I don't know you that well." What's the least offensive dog breed I can come up with?

"That's fair. We can start easy." He lifts his hips to slide the phone back into his pocket. "What kind of dog would Robbie be?"

This is what he considers easy?

"I'm not sure. I could tell you what teenage Robbie would have been, but it's been—"

"Sixteen years, I know." Jack's head tilts in a way that is utterly canine. "Was that when he left left? Or after he came back for…"

I open my mouth to—I don't know—cut the kid off, but music blasts out of the radio, loud enough to make my whole body flinch. Jack slams his body into the back of his seat and raises his hands to his ears.

"What the fuck, Dad?"

"Sorry. Crappy signal," Robbie says, and I watch his fingers curve into a fist where he rests it against the gearshift. This car is an automatic transmission, but it's clearly an old habit, and the urge to slide my fingers into his is tempting. It must be an old muscle memory, flexing her claws as she finally sees the light of day.

It's been sixteen years since Robbie Oakes left me for real, headed to the juniors and his budding hockey career. I don't count the one night he came back the following year. It might have been prom, and my first sexual experience, but I couldn't enjoy it, not with the entire spectrum of emotions flooding my entire system. I didn't know Robbie would show up. Didn't know he even kept track of my prom, or that I was dateless. It's a wonder I didn't stroke out from the stress of seeing him again, with a looming countdown hanging over our head. It's part of the reason I keep that memory locked deep inside the recesses of my mind. Something I dreamed up.

I guess Jack's knowledge of my junior prom means Robbie has some stories he's shared with the team. That thought never occurred to me before. I wonder if I'm the party trick he pulls out of a hat. Fun fact about Robbie Oakes, he once dated Vera Novak. Two truths and a lie: Robbie's eyes are slate blue, he grew up a few houses down from Vic and Erik Varg, and he took the virginity of the most successful American-born model of our generation. That thought hurts even more than the idea that he forgot about me.

Robbie glances over at me, dark eyes shining like raw honey in the sunlight streaming through his windshield.

I turn away, swallowing hard. I need to get out of this car.