Page 32 of The Crush
Isabel
I’ve always liked the idea of large cities. Something about the anonymity. The possibility for reinvention every time you step outside the door.
How, then, can one person in a city of more than half a million make me afraid to step out of a truck cab?
What if Aarón is here?As soon as we’d hit downtown, the thought had occurred to me, distracting me when all I should be thinking about is the fact that I am on adatewith Daniel.
Wait, is it a date?
He got flowers, so it must be a date.
Oh my God, it’s a date.
“Isabel.” Daniel moves in front of me, blocking out everyone else walking past and effectively tucking me between himself and the side of the truck bed after he helps me get out. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry,” I say, trying my best to push back the encroaching worry. “I think I was trying not to think about it.”
“About what?”
“Aarón.What if he’s at this restaurant?”
Daniel laughs, and I narrow my eyes at him, thinking he wouldn’t find it so funny if my brother really was here.
“Bonita,it’s”—Daniel checks his watch to be sure—“eight o’clock. I can tell you exactly where your brother is.” He puts his hands on my waist. “He’s in a hotel room, drinking some shitty liquor so he can get a shitty buzz before he goes to the bars and inflicts his shitty company on the women of Austin.”
I snort. “Howwould you know that?”
“Because it’s exactly what he used to do eight years ago, and while you have certainly changed in that time, your brother hasn’t at all.”
“That’s…” I consider his argument. “That’s true.”
Daniel gives me an enticing look. “Come on, let’s go eat. Iknowyou’re hungry.“ He leans in closer, murmuring in my ear as his tone turns teasing. “I also know you’re going to need your strength later.”
I roll my eyes, but my apprehension flips over to something more pleasant, and I think of nothing else while he presses me up against his truck. Letting him claim my mouth with his and holding on to the edges of his jacket until a passerby lets out a loud whistle sharp enough that it startles me.
Daniel chuckles and pulls away, but not without tugging me along and fitting me firmly against his side, so at ease that by the time he’s sliding in next to me at a cozy corner booth, I have accepted that the idea of Aarón showing up at a place like this is pretty unlikely.
Everyone here is either a couple or part of a small group, situated around high top tables in the center and booths along the outside. On the walls, colorful murals from Austin artists stretch floor to ceiling, framed by tall wooden beams that travel all the way up and across. For the dinner crowd, the light has been turned low, aidedby candles on each table, though not so dim that you can’t see the food in front of you.
Taking it all in, I settle back into my seat as Daniel reaches for a menu, casually closing his other hand over mine where it rests on top of the table, in full view of anyone who might walk by. After that, I don’t worry about Aarón again for the rest of the evening.
Instead, the night wraps around us like a ribbon, drawing us tighter and tighter together with each passing half hour. My head against his shoulder and our fingers still intertwined as we each talk about the future like it’s ours to plan. All the things we’d like to try, all the places we’d like to visit if we ever got the chance. Daniel’s list not nearly as complete as I would have guessed.
“I was always working,” he explains. “Wasn’t really a lot of time for sightseeing…”
The more he talks, the more I can feel the subject of his time away hovering nearby. One of the few topics that neither of us have fully introduced, though what becomes clearer and clearer is how much Daniel istryingto make up for it.
Trying to relearn the ranch, trying to help his dad, trying to recover what he seems to view aslosttime. Trying to be satisfied with something that he, from what I can tell, never intended to be his life.
“Would you ever join the police department again?” I ask him, wondering if it would make him happier even as the thought of him back in the line of fire turns my stomach. “You always seemed to like it.”
“Pretty sure that’s no longer an option for me,” he says with a slight frown, but before I can ask him why, he arches an eyebrow inmy direction. “I can’t believe yourememberme being in the police department.”
I bite my tongue trying not to let on precisely how much I remember, the proof still hidden away in my diary back at home, safely tucked between my mattress and the bed slats. “Oh, well, hard to forget something like that.”
“Yeah, but what were you…” He appears to count backward then holds up a hand. “Wait, no, don’t answer that.”
I grin. “I was—”
