Page 56 of I Love a Good Challenge

“Why are you mad?” I reach for her.

She evades my touch, turning her face away so that all I can see is the rise and fall of her shoulders.

“Lily, why are you mad?”

“Because . . . you . . . you know I lied!” She spins to face me, the force of her fiery and yet heartbroken attention enough to drop like a rock in my stomach. “You let me tell you all that crap, and you didn’t even call me on it. You just let me say it, and you walked away. You didn’t even fight for me.”

The tension in my shoulders intensifies at an unnerving rate. While I’d never yell at Lily, I’m instantly furious. I didn’t go after her? I let her go?

“Are you hearing yourself?” I ask quietly. “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. And you walked away. You did that, Lily. And call me irrational, but you wanted me to fight for you? Would you fight for someone who told you they didn’t want you?”

Tears are streaming down her face now. I know there’s nothing I can do to wipe them away, not as emotion chokes me up too.

“I still wanted you, even though I clearly see it’s too late.” She moves toward her things piled against the wall. “Oh, and kissing you? Yeah, I never stopped wanting to do that either.”

Rather than stay here and talk it out, rather than verbally sparring with me or proving her theory incorrect by grabbing and kissing me, she grabs her bag, hands still in those oversized gloves. Without even putting on a jacket, she leaves, the thud of the door reiterating her choice.

The excuse for a door opens. Edgar sticks his head out, looking from me to the empty gym. “Is she gone?”

I move toward my bag, my limbs numb as I pick up my hoodie and pull it over my head, trying to piece together how her words have reframed my past in a matter of minutes.

“Yeah, Edgar. She’s gone.”

I use the cloth and spray to wipe down the punching bags. Edgar politely watches my every move. Maybe he isn’t such a bad guy after all. As my jealousy dissipates and the toll of what went down here sinks in, I have an overwhelming desire to go home. Picking up my gloves from the floor, I pause at the sight of a folded piece of paper discarded on the mat where Lily stood.

Reaching for it, I open it to find what looks to be a list of sorts.

1. Finish Rory’s gift.

2. Learn a French phrase for D’Artagnan.

3. Tell G the truth. (Or forgive G.)

Out of all the things that happened today, she’s already checked one off the list. And if my dreams have been any indication, we’ll need to do the same for each other more than once.

Chapter Twenty

Lily

My skin is still itchy from the Regency-era costume I wore last week, which, in retrospect, was probably quite dusty. At least, that’s the excuse I give myself to explain why I keep fidgeting in the car and avoiding eye contact with the man driving it. I keep telling myself that the racing of my heart and the swooping sensation in my stomach have nothing to do with Graham and the memories of his face so close to mine while we danced, proving that while the night was a dream, the outfit sure wasn’t.

That evening, I leaned into the feelings and the romance of it all. Under the dim and moody lighting, it wasn’t hard to admit to myself that my feelings for Graham had deepened despite our time apart. When he held me close as we waltzed across the floor, it seemed as if, perhaps, he was feeling what I was too, just a little.

Acknowledging my feelings also ripped open a new wound—one that I’m not sure how to mend. (The unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach may also be the punch I managed to drink that night. I still don’t know what was in it, even days later.)

The Regency Ball was disorienting, that’s all. I see why women used to faint all the time. The influence of the music, the food, the dancing, and the men in great coats—they can change a girl. And knowing what Graham looks like in a cravat has now made this feeling of misplaced faith in what we could be stick like glue to my hands and my heart.

My discombobulation has nothing to do with the man that I once loved and lost choosing to linger beside me the entire night. Graham and I were in sync just like before until we nearly kissed under the twinkling lights of the dance floor. I could both see and sense the emotion breaking through his usually calm demeanor. I don’t blame him for leaving. And now, we’re stuck with each other once again.

“Don’t worry. It’s vegan,” Graham breaks the silence abruptly, distracting me from my thoughts.

“I’m sorry?”

“The seats. You keep rubbing the dashboard like it will grant you three wishes, but you’re unsure if you should accept it. I thought I would put your mind at ease and let you know it’s synthetic leather.”

“Why would you . . .?” It makes sense that Graham is conscious that I’m a vegetarian. I’m not vegan but avoid materials like real leather. He once joked that I fit right in with the LA crowd, but I never expected him to remember such a detail. I try not to listen to the little murmurings in my heart that whisper he bought the car for us. “How long have you had this car?”

With his hand on the shifter (because of course he can drive a stick shift), he risks a glance over at me when we’re stopped at the light. Birch Borough doesn’t have many stoplights, mostly stop signs, and this is the last pause before we cruise out of town.

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