4

Milo

Well isn't this terrific. Just when I thought tonight couldn't get any worse…

As I stride over to the car that hit me, I remind myself to cool it.

It's late.

It's dark.

The road is deserted.

The last thing I want to do is inadvertently scare the driver. My face has the ability to do that, apparently.

An image of Beth flashes in my mind.

I was rude to her tonight.

Even all the layers of makeup she had on couldn't mask the way her expression changed when I charged past her. I didn't mean to snap at her, and I can't even remember what I said exactly, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't nice.

My only excuse is that I'd just been told I was still in fatherhood limbo.

This whole paternity testing slash adoption process has been dragging on for three months now, and it's starting to take a toll on me.

I may not have known I was a father until recently, but now that I do, every day I don't spend with my daughter—and potentially my son—feels like an eternity.

Josie, who's five, and Jonah, who's two and a half, are currently living with their maternal grandparents in LA, so at least I know they're safe, well cared for, and loved. They're not bouncing around the system from foster home to foster home the way I did.

But still…they should be with me.

I go to run my fingers through my hair, only to be met with felted wool. I yank the stupid beret off my head and go to shove it into my back pocket, only to remember I'm not wearing pants but ridiculously tight tights because I left ordering my costume to the last minute—other things on my mind lately—and this was the last available outfit in my size.

Okay. Just relax, man.

I take a long, calming breath and tell myself that while whoever is behind the wheel may not have the best driving skills, they could be hurt. Although I doubt that. They barely nudged my rental.

It's probably someone on their phone, driving distracted.

I approach the car, and the window rolls down.

My jaw drops. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Do I look like I'm laughing?"

The door opens, and Beth struggles to get out of the car.

I want to help her out since her outfit looks as restrictive as it does incredible, but she may not be receptive to offers of help from me at the moment.

I cast my eyes down and notice she's only wearing one shoe.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, when she's finally standing in front of me, and then, because I can't help myself, add, "Or wait, am I not allowed to ask that since chivalry is supposedly dead?"

"What crawled up your butt tonight?" She swats me across the chest with the shoe she's not wearing. "You're even crankier than usual."

I'm taken aback.

Not that she hit me with her shoe—I barely felt it—but that she's paid enough attention to me to realize I'm more cranky tonight than my usual cranky.

Could that be a good thing? A sign that maybe she likes me?

Of course not, you moron. It's a sign that she's mad at you and thinks you're a grouch like everyone does.

The smart thing to do would be for me to shut up. Actually, an even smarter thing to do would be to apologize first then shut up.

So of course, my mouth does the exact opposite and baits her. "I suppose you're going to say this is my fault, too?"

The passenger side door suddenly swings open, startling me.

A woman dressed as a Greek goddess gets out. I recognize her from karaoke night. Amanda? Emilia?

I may not remember her name but that doesn't stop me from asking, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She glances towards Beth. "Listen, since no one is hurt, I'm going to leave you two…"

She trails off, and Beth tilts her head to the side. "How will you get home, Amiel?"

Headlights flash across Beth's face as an SUV pulls up on the other side of the road.

"I ordered a ride."

"Are you able to affo?—"

"It's not that far. It's fine." Her eyes flick briefly to me then back to Beth. "I'll leave you two to it."

That's the second time she's said that.

Beth makes a noise like she's annoyed at her friend for bailing, or maybe, if I'm reading between the lines, she could be annoyed at something else.

Yeah, being stuck alone with you, doofus.

Amiel gives a small wave before climbing into the SUV.

"Text me when you get home," Beth shouts before the door closes.

"I will!"

Amiel takes off.

Beth looks between her car and my rental, then swings her gaze to meet mine. I brace for an incoming onslaught of how this is somehow my fault because I slammed on my brakes too suddenly or one of my tail lights is out.

But instead, she speaks in a calm voice. "I'm sorry. This accident is my fault. Let's exchange insurance details."

"Um, okay…"

She narrows her eyes. "Why aren't you moving?"

"I'm waiting for the punchline. The jab. The gotcha moment."

"In that case, you'll be waiting a while. I'm an adult, and I can admit fault when I'm to blame for something. I ran into you because my stupid shoe was bugging me." She waves it in front of me. "The clasp was stuck, I got distracted, and here we are."

"And to think, I had it in my head you were a real-life Cinderella."

What is the matter with me? Why am I saying all the wrong things to her tonight?

The faintest glimmer of a smile appears on her face. "I've been called a lot of things, but never Cinderella."

Headlights beam in the distance, and I can see a car approaching. Due to the road construction, there's only one lane open, and our cars are currently blocking it.

"Are you okay to drive?" I ask.

"I am."

"In that case, let's meet at the diner to exchange insurance information." She opens her mouth—safe to say, it's probably to object—so I throw in, "Don't worry, I'll have you back before midnight."

Fifteen minutes later, we're seated in a booth at Bear's diner. He doesn't say or smile a lot. I like him.

It crossed my mind as I was pulling up, that Beth and I might look a little out of place in a Marie Antoinette and Renaissance poet's costume. But when we stepped inside, we found half of Comfort Bay, fresh from Fraser's party, stopping by on their way home. The place is filled with all sorts of historic characters, getting served by Bear wearing a flannel shirt and backward baseball cap.

Beth takes a sip of her strawberry milkshake then asks, "So, why are you in an extra salty mood tonight?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Why are you answering a question with a question?"

I cut my slice of boysenberry pie in half and slide my plate toward the middle of the table. "Want some?"

"No, thanks."

"I'll get you another fork."

"It's not that. I mean, it is that. Boy germs are the worst."

"Very true."

"But I'm not hungry. Thanks though."

I take a bite of pie, and as I chew, mull over a response to her question.

No one knows what I've been going through these past few months, not even my teammates, who are the closest thing to family that I've got. Who are the only family I've got. Without them, I'm all alone in life. Been that way since the state intervened and took me from my parents when I was seven.

But I can't tell Beth about the phone call with my lawyer that got me all riled up earlier. Why burden her with my problems when she low-key—or, more likely, mid-key—hates me?

I take another bite of pie, wash it down with a healthy chug of chocolate milkshake, and answer her question without really answering her question. "I got some bad news tonight."

"I figured. I overheard you on the phone."

"You were listening in on my private conversation?"

"No. I happened to overhear bits and pieces of it. I didn't do it on purpose. I actually came out to the terrace to apologize."

"Apologize in advance for your plot to crash into me later in the evening?"

That draws a smile out of her. "No. For being rude to you when you—when maybe we—bumped into one another on the street."

"Oh. I see."

"I reflected on my behavior, and I was a little…harsh with you. I'm sorry about that."

I'm speechless.

I'm not used to people owning their stuff. I guess when you've been exposed to a lifetime of foster parents who blame everything and everyone else for their woes—the government, their bosses, other family members—rather than take one iota of accountability for their own crummy lives, it's…refreshing.

"I'm sorry, too," I say. "I was rude to you on the terrace. I just had…"

"Some bad news?"

"Yeah. But that's no excuse to speak to you the way I did."

"Thank you for saying that." She lowers her head, bringing her full pink lips to an inch above her straw. Her gaze stays down as she says, "Because you should know, I don't verbally spar with just anyone, Milo."

Ah, that's right. I said something stupid about not being in the mood to verbally spar with her. I remember now.

Man, I'm an idiot.

I'd verbally spar with her any time, any day. Our run-in last week has been playing on loop in my mind. I loved every second of it.

I clear my throat. "I apologize for saying that because I enjoy verbally sparring with you. A lot."

She makes a satisfied noise, like she feels the same way but doesn't want to give me the satisfaction of saying she feels the same way.

"So…" I decide to push my luck, because what have I got to lose besides my dignity and self-respect? "Does this mean that we're friends?"

I smile at her, and it comes more easily than it has in a long time. She holds my gaze for a few seconds, and no children are running away screaming. Both good signs.

"I wouldn't go that far," she finally says, a playful sparkle lighting up her hazel eyes. "We're more like friends…ish."