Page 18 of If It Can't Be Us

She looks up, calculating how long it’s been, ticking off her fingers. “Nineteen months.” She sighs out a long breath.

Un-fucking-believable. I’m shocked. Vivian is gorgeous, funny, charismatic, and just down-right cool.

“That comes as quite a shock to me,” I say honestly.

“Yeah… it does for me too.”

I lower my voice, giving her a teasing look. “Are you saving yourself for marriage?”

“No. It just is what it is…” Vivian shifts her weight, giving me a pointed look, her voice becoming lighter. “Moving on! It’s my turn.” She goes easy on me. “What makes you tick?”

“Hmmm. What makes me tick? Probably people not being vulnerable or honest with themselves or others. How many tattoos do you have?” I know she has at least one, I can see it on her arm, but I want to know what else she might be hiding.

“I have three.”

I still have plenty of cash in my pile compared to hers. I put a five down. “What are they?” I ask, hoping the question is vague enough that she’ll answer with what they are and where they are.

“I have this one for Utah.” She points to a UT on the inside of her forearm. “A floral piece on my hip, and two butterflies on my left shoulder.”

I peek behind her to look at the tattoo on her shoulder. It’s two monarchs–one slightly smaller and flying just above the other. It’s bloody cool. Damn, I want to ask if it means anything but need to hold on to my remaining cash.

“I like it.” I cock a brow, giving her a mischievous grin. “Will you show me the one on your hip?” I know she won’t, but I can’t help myself. Just thinking about that part of her body turns me on.

A shy smile creeps onto her face. “Maybe some other time,” is all she says. She puts down her dollar, only two left. “Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes.” I answer truthfully. “Yes, I’ve been in love.”

She’s trying to figure me out, as I am with her.

We are both done with our food, and our drinks are almost empty. I have two one-dollar bills left, better make them count.

“Why did you move to Chicago?” I ask.

I can sense her hesitation, her smile faltering. She wants to pass but can’t, and if she half-truths, she’s close to losing.

She slowly exhales. “To move on,” she says finally.

Alright, I can work with that. I practically read people for a living, but I need a bit more to paint a clear picture. I put down my last five, leaving her vulnerable.

“Explain. Move on from what?” I know it’s invasive, but she can still half-truth or fold.

“If I place my twenty for a half-truth, do I lose?”

“I’d say you’re in until you’re forced to fold.”

While placing the twenty in the pile, the last remaining cash aside from two one-dollar bills, she scrunches her face. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“Say the half-truth,” I offer.

“Okay… I guess I moved here to work through some stuff, you know, dealing with PTSD. You’re the therapist, piece it together.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to maintain my composure.

Whoa.

Shit.

PTSD.

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