Page 23 of That Reunited Feeling

Maggie decorated my sixteenth birthday cheesecake with stars, one for each year of my life, because she always told me I’d be one.

It was the inspiration for Tom and me to get the matching tattoos on our hands the week before he left.

One of the kids at school had an older brother who was a tattoo artist, and the kid “borrowed” the kit one evening, claiming to know what he was doing. He didn’t. That’s why both our stars are slightly wonky. Mine has one point longer than all the others, and Tom’s looks a bit like it’s been sat on. I wouldn’t be surprised if that kid launched a wave of hepatitis outbreaks. Thank God Tom and I were first in line.

Tom shakes his head, mouth curling at one corner. “She certainly pulled out all the stops tonight, huh?”

I smile and nod.

“Are you going to break it to her or am I?” he asks with one of those smart smirks.

“Break what?”

“That her little scheme has no chance because you hate me.”

Christ, I wish I hated him. I thought I did. It’s what I’ve told myself all this time. And it would certainly be easier.

But then he goes and does all this stuff. Insists on putting together a doggie bag for me, makes me laugh, and looks at me from under that piece of hair that flops across his face exactly as it always did back then, and I have no fucking clue what this is I’m feeling.

All I know is that in a couple months Dylan and I are moving to California and Tom’s going back to London.

“Iwantto hate you,” I tell him.

“I knew it.” He plunges the knife into the cheesecake, cracking several stars in half. “But I also knew that if you spent a few minutes with me you’d find me as irresistibly charming as ever.”

“The only thing I find irresistible right now is that cake.” Ignoring the flutter in my lower belly, I pick up a plate and hold it up for a slice.

“Tell me something fun about your life,” I ask. Not just to change the topic from where exactly I am on the hate-o-meter, but also because I’m interested.

“Not much fun about mine. But I can tell you something fun about my best mate’s life that happened today.” He slaps a huge chunk of cake onto my plate.

“Good God, Tom. That’s enough for meandDylan. And Dylan can eat.”

“I’ll put a hunk of this thing into a container to take back for him too.”

“What’s the story with your friend?” I slice the point off the cake with the edge of my fork.

“You know Hugo Powers?”

“The guy who dated the redhead from Girl Force? And the lead singer of The Rising Tide? And, I think, the woman from Fairport Hope?”

“Probably. But as a sideline in his spare time from famous singer shagging, he’s Britain’s most talented footballer.”

“As in soccer, you mean?” I pull the mouthful of creamy chocolatiness onto my tongue where it instantly starts to melt.

Tom shakes his head and throws his eyes to the ceiling. “No. As infootball. But sure. Yeah. Soccer.”

“What about him? Ooh.” I point at my mouth. “This isgood.”

“He’s my best friend.”

I stick my fork back into the cake. “And that’s your most fun story? That you know someone who bangs pop stars?”

“He punched a reporter this morning. Live on TV. Around the globe.”

“Holy shit. Why?”

“He has a bit of a short fuse. And he’s got a seriously bad injury. Will probably never play again.” Tom transfers a slice of cheesecake to his plate.

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