Page 72 of The Sweetest Chirp

His brows furrow as he exhales. “You were never a whore.”

“I am well aware,” I tell him. “And even if I had been, it wasn’t like you locked me down.”

“I didn’t, like a fool.”

My heart skips a beat as I stay locked in his gaze, and I can’t help but wonder if everyone was right. If we were both truly blind to what was right in front of us. I chew on the words as the first round of hors d’oeuvres is brought out. While my mouth waters at the sight of all the food, nothing compares to what Thatcher makes me feel.

The waitress prattles on as I volley the question I want to ask back and forth, unsure if I’m ready. “Goat cheese and salami stuffed dates, burrata and prosciutto shortbread, phyllo-wrapped Brie with hot honey and anchovies, and a huge favorite right now, chef’s special carrot, onion, and spinach bhajias with a mouthwatering mango chutney.”

“It looks incredible. Compliments to the chef,” Thatcher says, reaching for his fork. I don’t move, though. My eyes are fully trained on him. My heart slams into my ribs, begging to show itself to him in the hopes he’ll take it and keep it safe. But I don’t allow that to happen. I have to know. With a voice as brittle as the phyllo dough, I ask, “Is it true?”

He pauses, his hand holding a date that he was bringing to his mouth, as his brows rise a bit in question. “Yeah. No one?—”

I shake my head, interrupting him. “No, I mean, have you truly had feelings for me since we were younger?”

Time stands still. Thatcher doesn’t look away as I assumed he would. Instead, he nods ever so slowly as he sets his stuffed date on the plate before him, wiping his fingers on the napkin. “Yes.”

The simple word has my eyes blurring with tears as I take in my next breath. “How long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe forever?” he answers sheepishly.

“No, when did you know?”

He swallows hard, and yet, he holds my gaze. I can tell he’s nervous—hell, I know I am—but still, his eye contact doesn’t waver. “That winter we moved to Attleboro when William took that coaching job for the Giants.”

My heart stops dead in my chest. “We were only eleven.”

He nods, but his smile curves ever so sweetly. “You made a big deal about wearing my number instead of having ‘the coach’s daughter’ on your back. He was hurt by it, but you didn’t care. You wanted my number. I decided at that moment, I never wanted any number on your back but mine.”

Chills run down my spine as I look over at my wine, remembering how pissed my dad was. I felt bad, but I was so proud of Thatcher. He had worked so hard to get into the AAA league. He had made it, and I wanted him to know I was proud. I think that was when Mom and Maeve started to encourage our little coupling. I still only saw him as a brother, a friend. Until I didn’t. “That summer, we turned twelve, and we were at the beach when a bunch of my friends were drooling over you.”

“I was rather fine for a twelve-year-old,” he says smugly, waggling his brows at me.

I give him a dry look. “You had a pigeon chest and limbs like a squid’s.”

He chuckles loudly, and we share a smile. “You wound my twelve-year-old ego.”

“Can’t have you getting too big for your pants,” I remind him, and his smile is infectious. A tether that insists I yank him across the table. “You kept asking me to play soccer with you guys, and the guys were teasing you for it. And when they said it was them or me, you chose me.”

“Those guys were jealous of my hotness and the fact that the hottest girl could outplay them.”

I scoff. “Hardly. I, too, had a pigeon chest and squid limbs.”

“You were gorgeous. Always have been,” he says breathily, which has my heart pounding in my chest.

I try to breathe through the pounding, not to let it affect me, but it’s all I feel. My vision goes blurry from how hard my heart is slamming into my ribs. My voice is uneven and barely there as I try to hold back my tears. “You should have told me.”

“You could have told me.”

He’s not wrong. “I thought you were just being an overprotective brother type.”

He shakes his head at that, but his eyes are very serious. “Never in my life have I thought of you as a sister, Audrina.”

My chest goes tight as a tear escapes, rolling down my cheek. He looks tortured as he grips the table, like he wants to gather me in his arms to hold in the tears. “I wish things had been different.”

An agitated look comes over him, and I notice how white his knuckles are. “I don’t.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

---