Page 46 of The Waiter at Table 6

“Not because of you,” I hurry to reassure him. “Never because of you. Because of me. I’m not ready.”

I watch as he takes in my words. I should have told him all of this in the beginning, but I think a part of me didn’t want to give power to the worry by saying it out loud.

Finally, he nods sadly. “I get it. It’s—” He swallows roughly. “It’s hard for me. To see you, and be with you, and not want more. I forget that it might be different for you. I don’t know what it’s like to be scared of all of that.”

I smile and place my hand on his cheek, giving in to the urge for more contact. “I know. It’s one of the things that makes you you. This fearlessness, and knowing what you want, and then going for it. It’s what I like so much about you, Ryder.”

Something sparks in his eyes, something that looks suspiciously like hope. And I realize my words may have been too much after what is essentially a rejection.

I drop my hand into my lap, the smile sliding from my face. Clearing my throat, I force myself to say, “I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore. Since I can’t give you what you want.”

A small frown creases his forehead. “Vanessa…” he says carefully. “I just want you. In whatever capacity I can get. That won’t change.”

The breath whooshes from my lungs, a whole new fear racing to the forefront. The idea of not seeing Ryder again makes me a little dizzy. What is a day like without Ryder in it? Less laughter? Less sunshine?

When he looks away, it seems I might very well be about to find out. Because in a tight voice, he says, “I might just…need a little time. To adjust.”

I look down and nod, my chest tight and my eyes burning. “Of course,” I choke out. “I understand.”

And then I feel his hand cup my face and lift it to his. He doesn’t kiss me, but he touches his forehead to mine.

For a moment, he just holds me. Then he whispers simply, “I’ll call you. I promise.”

I nod, my eyes sliding closed, my hands coming up to clutch his shirt—trying to anchor myself to him, to this moment. Especially when he lifts my mouth to his.

I don’t know what I expect him to say when he pulls back. I don’t know what to say.

But then he leans back with a heavy exhale. His gaze tracks over my face one last time before he stands.

I want to call after him as he walks away. I hate that my voice—or my brain, or my heart—doesn’t work enough to do it. I can only watch as he leaves.

Leaving me with only my scrambled thoughts and the phantom feeling of his kiss.

I barely get a wink of sleep that night. I toss and turn, my conversation with Ryder running on repeat in my head.

I tell myself I made the right choice. That I’m not ready, and that my reaction to him admitting his feelings out loud is proof enough.

So then why hasn’t my gut stopped churning?

I try to stay busy. I make myself a cup of coffee, followed by a batch of homemade cinnamon rolls. I tan on the patio—in a two-piece bathing suit, my muffin top be damned—until it’s time for my pole dancing class. By the time I leave, I’m sweaty and buzzing from adrenaline, and I need a cold beer and a naked dip in the pool to cool down. When that doesn’t work, I throw on a silk nightgown that makes me feel sexy and settle on the downstairs couch with my iPad.

Working on the designing apps takes my mind off things for a little while, but not for long. I want to design something for real. I’m sick of just playing at this thing that I’m good at.

And I am good at it. Maybe it’s the glance around my house that makes me admit it, maybe it’s being raw from everything that happened with Ryder, but for the first time, I let myself believe that this is something I can do. Something I should be doing, for real, not just hiding behind apps and excuses.

Taking a sip of my beer, I absentmindedly swipe through my apps, too distracted to land on any one of them. It isn’t until I accidentally click on my email that my focus zeroes in.

Specifically on my Drafts folder. Because there’s only one email in there, and I’ve been sitting on it for a week.

When I first moved here, before I met Ryder, I was walking around town when I noticed new oceanfront condos being built. I stopped to look, lingering for long enough that someone noticed my presence. I just got lucky that that someone was the owner.

We got to chatting, and she told me about how construction would be done this fall and how eager she was for that phase to be over. She asked me if I knew anyone looking to rent a condo next summer, and if I lived around here. When I told her I was new to the area, and she deduced which house I had just moved into—small towns, I guess—her eyes went big. She said she’s always loved driving by my house because it’s so beautiful.

Even thinking about it now, I’m not sure how she got it out of me that I designed it. Because the next thing I knew, she was pressing her business card into my hand and telling me to email her if I had any interest helping with the condo design.

I’ve been holding on to that card ever since.

At first, I didn’t let myself think about it too much, because no way she actually meant that. But every time I pass by that construction area, I remember her wide eyes and the sparkle of awe in them when she found out which house was mine. And each time, I can’t stop thinking about what if.

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