Page 16 of Across the Boards

“I know,” I admit, meeting her gaze steadily. “But I wanted to.”

“Why?” The question is simple but loaded with history—three years of it.

I could play it safe. Make a joke, keep things light. But looking at her in the fading evening light, vulnerability peeking through her carefully constructed walls, I decide on the truth.

“Because I’ve been thinking about our conversation at that Christmas party for three years,” I admit. “And I’d like the chance to finish it.”

Her eyes widen slightly, surprise and something else—hope, maybe?—flickering across her face.

“That was a long time ago,” she says finally.

“Not to me.” I hold her gaze, letting her see my sincerity. “Some conversations are worth waiting for.”

She doesn’t respond, but as she slides into the passenger seat, her hand briefly squeezes mine—a touch so quick I might have imagined it.

As I round the car to the driver’s side, my heart is pounding like I’ve just finished a triple-overtime game. I haven’t even made it through dinner, and already I’m in deeper than I expected.

But watching her through the windshield, her profile outlined against the twilight sky, I know one thing for certain: I’d wait another three years just for the chance to make her smile like she did when we talked about books.

3

ELLIOT

Marcel’s hasn’t changed. Same starched white tablecloths. Same pretentious lighting that somehow makes everyone look ten years younger. Same leather-bound menus with no prices—because if you have to ask, you clearly shouldn’t be here.

I hate that I notice these things. Hate that I remember which table Jason preferred (the corner booth by the wine cellar). Hate that I know the sommelier’s name is Antoine and that he always wears mismatched socks for luck.

But most of all, I hate that I’m nervous. Not because of the restaurant. Because of the man sitting across from me who keeps looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“You okay?” Brody asks quietly, his voice pitched low enough that Sarah and Tommy can’t hear from across the table. “We can leave if this is too weird.”

The offer catches me off guard. Jason would never have suggested leaving a restaurant like Marcel’s. Image was everything to him.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, then pause. “Actually, it is weird. But not in a bad way. Just...”

“Memories?” he supplies, understanding in his eyes.

I nod, oddly relieved that I don’t have to explain. “But new ones can replace old ones, right? Isn’t that what people say?”

“That’s what I’m counting on.” His smile is slow and warm. “So, tell me more about Boston. Tommy mentioned you went to college there before originally playing here?”

“Smooth subject change,” he says with a knowing look, but lets me have it. “Yeah, three seasons in Boston. Beautiful city, terrible traffic, decent food scene.”

“The important things,” I note, smiling despite myself.

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows on the table in a way that would have made Jason wince. “I judge cities on three metrics: food quality, bookstore-to-population ratio, and whether strangers say hello on hiking trails.”

“And how does Phoenix rate on the Carter Scale of Urban Livability?”

“Food scene: improving but inconsistent. Bookstore ratio: tragically low. Trail friendliness: surprisingly high for a city this size.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Overall grade: B-plus, trending upward.”

“Trending upward?” I raise an eyebrow. “What’s changed?”

His eyes meet mine over the rim of his glass. “Recent improvements in the neighbor quality.”

I feel heat creep up my neck but refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me blush. “Careful, Carter. Your smooth talk is showing.”

“Nothing smooth about it,” he counters. “Just honest.”

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