Say You Still Love Me

by Tucker, K. A.

  I let out a soft sigh, relieved at the sudden switch in topic, even if it’s to a more personal one. “I take it Rhett sent you one, too.”

  “Yes, and I told Greta to toss it, but the damn woman never listens to me.”

  I smirk. Greta’s been my father’s executive assistant for almost twenty-five years. She’s set to retire next year and he’s already talking about doubling her salary to get her to stay. The truth is, I’m not sure my father can survive without “that damn woman.”

  “I have no use for tchotchkes,” he mutters, fiddling with my iPhone perched within the cradle, shifting it this way and that.

  “Works pretty well. And it’s clever.” In a kitschy sort of way.

  Dad lets out a sound that might be approval—if he could approve of anything my brother does—before standing with a stretch. His hard gaze drifts to the office across the way. “You know . . . David really loves you.”

  I roll my eyes. “David really loves David.” And I’ll never be stupid enough to divulge anything to him ever again.

  “Confidence is important in a man—”

  “Dad.”

  His hands go up in the air. “You’re going to be running a multibillion-dollar company one day. You need to be with a man like David. Not like that last waste of space.”

  “Who?” I frown, confused for a moment. “Wait, are you talking about Ryan?” My ex from four years ago?

  Dad grunts at the name.

  Waste of space . . . “He was a published author!”

  “Who couldn’t pay his own rent, if I recall correctly,” he throws back.

  “He could have been a lot worse.”

  “Yes, you’re right. He could have been a criminal.”

  I sigh heavily. In my father’s eyes, a man’s worth is set by his family name, his bank account, and his shoes.

  And I want to be done with this conversation. “Say hi to Rita for me.”

  He pauses, seemingly caught off guard. “Actually, we decided to take some time apart. She moved out.”

  I feel my eyebrows spike in surprise. “Since when?”

  “It’s been at least a month now,” he says dismissively.

  “A month!” They were together for almost a year! I thought this was the one he was going to marry. “You should have told me.”

  He shrugs. “I didn’t think you particularly liked her.”

  Like would be too strong a word for my feelings toward Rita, but at least she’s a full decade older than me, unlike the thirty-two-year-old interior designer before her. Thankfully that one was short-lived.

  “I don’t like the idea of you being alone at night,” I say instead. He was alone at home when he had his heart attack. It was sheer luck that he managed to dial 9-1-1.

  “And I don’t like you being alone, period,” he smoothly pivots.

  “I’m not. I have Christa, and Ashley moved in, too.”

  “At your age, you should be—”

  “Enjoying my life.” I smile as I firmly cut him off. “Marrying David would have been a huge mistake. And have you forgotten that he suggested I quit CG so he could take over?”

  Dad waves it off with, “he wasn’t serious.”

  I stifle my groan. “I would have been miserable, married to him. Is that what you want, Dad? For me to be miserable?”

  Whatever rebuttal was formulating on his lips dies with a resigned sigh. “Tell the girls I say hello.” Dad reaches for the door handle.

  “You know who else is happy?” I tap the spoon sculpture. “Rhett is happy.” My brother moved back from Thailand a year ago with his Thai wife, Lawan. They started an up-cycling shop in a charming town an hour outside of Lennox. I’ve only been out to see it once, but it seems to fit the composting, rainwater-preserving, recycling guru he has become.

  Dad’s expression sours. “Well, of course he’s happy. His mother still pays his bills and he’s always stoned.”

  Unfortunately, Rhett’s altruistic lifestyle also seems to fit the pot-smoking, responsibility-shirking stereotype my dad still has him pegged for.

  I can’t help but laugh, even as I shake my head at him. “He doesn’t smoke pot and Mom doesn’t pay his bills.” She just made sure he got his trust fund, something my dad was adamant about revoking until Rhett passed this “stage” in his life. “He’s coming into town in a few weeks. I’m meeting him for dinner. You should come.”

  Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be away.”

  “Maybe some other time, then.” I’m not feeling hopeful.

  “Give me an update on the Marquee approvals by end of day.” He’s swiftly moving for his office, a room three times the size of mine and David’s, complete with solid wood walls, its own washroom, and mahogany wet bar.

  With a heavy sigh—great, soon I’ll be reporting in to my father hourly—I grab my purse and phone and march out the door, sticking my head into David’s office long enough to tell him that the only thing Mark will be stapling for him is his goddamn tongue.

  “So, I have a favor to ask of you . . .” I set the fancy coffee on the security desk in front of Gus.

  “Whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles . . .” His brown eyes twinkle. “Must be a big favor.”

  It’s quiet in the lobby for the moment, Ivan somewhere else and no one waiting to gain access to the building. Still, I lean in and drop my voice. “I saw a man in the building yesterday around lunchtime and I need his name.”

  “A man.” His thick eyebrows arch curiously and I can almost see the wheels churning in his mind. Gus wasn’t impressed with my relationship with David, a truth he’s never shared out loud, but he never had to because the displeasure was plastered on his face every time David and I strolled in together.

  “An old friend from summer camp. I don’t know if he works in the building or if he was visiting. Anyway, I was wondering if you could scan your entry log. I’m pretty sure it was him.” I hadn’t even thought of asking Gus until Christa, ever the quick-thinking one, mentioned checking with security.

  Gus’s big brown eyes regard me curiously as he lifts the paper coffee cup to his mouth. When he pulls away, there’s a whipped cream mustache left that he doesn’t immediately wipe away.

  I press my lips together to stifle my laugh.

  “So what’s this friend’s name?”

  “Kyle Miller.” Just saying it makes my heart leap.

  “Hmm . . . Kyle Miller, from summer camp.” Gus finally wipes a napkin across his upper lip. “What does he look like?”

  “Uh . . .” I try to reconcile my memories of the seventeen-year-old boy with the man I saw yesterday who, if it was Kyle, is now thirty. “About six feet tall, really fit, dark brown hair . . . and he has these pretty hazel eyes. Golden, really.”

  Gus’s mouth curves in a thoughtful frown. “And was this Kyle Miller a good friend of yours?”

  “Yeah.” For a while, anyway.

  “Decent guy?”

  “He was.” I feel my cheeks turning pink and I’m mortified. I can’t remember the last time just talking about a guy made me blush and it’s happening in front of our security guard. I need to get back upstairs and to work, like the executive I am. “So does that name sound at all familiar? Can you maybe check your computer?”

  Gus’s chair creaks as he leans his girth back in it. “Don’t think I need to check the computer.”

  “No . . . ?” I hold my breath as I search Gus’s face, looking for a flicker of recognition.

  “Nope. ’Cause I just hired a guy named Kyle with dark hair and pretty golden eyes.”

  My jaw drops as a wave of shock rushes through me. “You what?” Kyle’s going to be a security guard in my building? I’m going to see him every day?

  Gus’s deep laugh carries through the cavernous lobby. “Ivan’s moving to Chicago, so I needed a new guard. Head office gave me a couple guys to choose from. I liked Kyle best. He’s in training now. Starts Monday.” Gus frowns. “Except, his last name isn’t Miller. It’s Stewart.”r />
  Wait. “Stewart?” My frown matches his. “Maybe it’s not the same Kyle, then.” As quickly as the shock flowed through me, a wave of disappointment barrels in.

  “Only one way to find out.” Gus juts his chin somewhere behind me.

  I whip my head around so fast, a painful snap explodes in my neck. But I barely notice the burn of heat that follows, focused on the two uniformed men strolling side-by-side toward us. Ivan on the left.

  And Kyle Stewart.

  I inhale sharply.

  It is my Kyle.

  My stomach clenches as I watch him approach, much like it did that first time so many years ago. He’s changed so much, and yet there’s no mistaking him. He still moves with that casual, unbothered swagger. The punkish two-inch Fauxhawk has been replaced by a more mature and stylish cut, though his thick mane of chestnut-brown hair still has volume on top. He’s grown taller, surpassing me by a few inches, even in my heels.

  It’s his body that has changed the most, filled out by weight and muscle in the best possible ways, his shoulders broad and strong but not bulky, his arms corded with muscle but not in an overdone way. His jaw is now hard and chiseled. His lip ring is gone, but the tattoo on his arm has grown, the ink sprawling over his forearm.

  Those beautiful golden irises with rings of green, they haven’t changed a bit. And they’re locked on me.

  “Oh my God! Kyle!” I burst out in a near-squeal, shocking both myself and Ivan, by the wide-eyed look he gives me. I clear my throat and add with a touch more dignity, “Long time, no see.”

  “Hey.” Kyle’s chest lifts with a deep breath as he watches me evenly. He doesn’t make a move forward. Is it just surprise to see me here that holds him back?

  “Seems like you already have a friend in the building,” Gus calls out.

  “Looks like it . . .” A slight frown pulls his brows together. “Sarah, right?”

  “What? Oh, right. Funny.” I laugh, waiting for his face to crack with a smile.

  The moment drags on.

  “Uh . . . Piper,” I stammer, my excitement deflating instantly. “From Camp Wawa?” You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t look that different. And there’s no way I meant that little to him that he’s forgotten about me.

  Is there?

  I pause, waiting for a hint of recognition. “You know . . . turtles?” Really, Piper? Of all the things you could use to try to jog his memory . . . I peer into those eyes of his again, in search of the youthful, curious spark I remember. And realize that it’s missing.

  So is the friendliness.

  “Right. So . . . you work here?” he finally asks, calm and collected. Sounding every bit the stranger to me.

  “Yeah. This is my company. I mean, my dad’s company, but I’ll be taking over one day.” I jab a thumb toward the “Calloway Group” emblem on the wall. Did that sound obnoxious?

  Kyle’s gaze drifts to the sign. “That’s why that name seemed familiar,” he murmurs more to himself.

  Oh my God. Kyle truly has forgotten me.

  The disappointment that comes with that realization is staggering. That I could have meant so little to him . . . My chest aches.

  Silence lingers as Kyle and I face off against each other, with Gus and Ivan an ever-attentive audience to this painfully awkward reunion.

  An elevator dings and voices sound, snapping me out of my trance. “I have a meeting to get to,” I lie, feeling my face burn. Yeah, a meeting with myself, to lick my ego’s wounds. Collecting my tray of coffees from the counter, I clear my voice. “Good luck with the new job. I’m sure you’ll like working with Gus.” I don’t wait for an answer, heading for the bank of elevators, the speedy click of my heels a hollow echo. I jab at the button several times, urging it to open quickly so I can disappear.

  Still, I can’t help but steal a glance back.

  Ivan and Gus are discussing something on a clipboard and Kyle seems to be listening, his back to me. I’ll admit, he makes that dowdy security guard uniform look good, as if it were customized specifically for his body.

  Suddenly he turns, just enough to give me his profile as he scans the newspaper sitting open on the desk.

  I hold my breath, willing him to turn a bit farther, to look my way, to show me he hasn’t dismissed me from his thoughts so easily.

  But his focus never strays.

  When the ding sounds and my elevator doors open, I dive in, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here.

  Chapter 6

  THEN

  2006, Camp Wawa, Day Two

  Avery’s perfectly shaped brows spike as I set the can of Coke and ten packs of Fun Dips on the makeshift counter—a barrier of plywood atop stacked wooden crates.

  “They’re for a bet,” I say, as if that explains everything. Well, not the Coke. That’s to help me survive the fact that they don’t serve coffee to camp counselors.

  “I never took those bets with him,” she murmurs casually, her crystal-blue eyes on a clipboard of paper as she makes a few quick tick marks, her long red hair pulled to one side in a loose braid. Last night, I didn’t notice how milky white her skin is, nor how long and slender her arms are.

  “Yeah, well . . . I like Fun Dips.” I shrug, because how else should Kyle’s potential summer fling for this year respond to Kyle’s summer fling from last year in a way that doesn’t guarantee an enemy?

  “Hope you won,” Avery says, finally. She’s wasted no time altering her Camp Wawa T-shirt, cutting off the sleeves and collar and cinching the waist with a knot, a style that makes the bulky red cotton thing not quite as unflattering and her waist look that much tinier in comparison to her chest. I noticed a few other counselors at breakfast had done it, too. I guess they didn’t get Christa’s speech about “the rules.”

  “I did win.” I pull out a twenty from my jean shorts pocket, which should just cover it, and set it next to the candy. “And you’ll want to order more razz apple.” There were only nine, so I grabbed a cherry flavor, as well.

  “We went through, like, fifty cases of Fun Dips because of those two fools last year.” She jabs the buttons on the archaic cash register, the printer churning its tally.

  Does she still like him? Is this air of indifference a cloak for her feelings? Why did they break up?

  Did they sleep together? How many times?

  I realize that I’m staring at her now, so I avert my eyes, letting them wander over the canteen’s interior again. It’s a modified mobile trailer with the wheels replaced by concrete blocks. From the outside, it looks like it belongs in the Louisiana bayou of a Disney cartoon, the typical white vinyl covered by cedar shingles painted a forest green and plastered with at least fifty kitschy metal signs. A loose string of patio lanterns dangles unevenly from the roof’s edge. The inside has been gutted of all the traditional mobile home amenities to make room for a perimeter of thin metal shelves that house everything from licorice, candy bars, and chips, to cans of Coke and Dr. Pepper, to bug spray and sunscreen, to tampons and maxi pads. In the corner sits a chest freezer with a laminated sign listing available ice cream flavors. Tubs of dime candy line the front of the cash register, tongs and small brown paper bags at the ready to fill up.

  “Does all this stuff actually sell?”

  Avery snorts. “You kidding? Those candy shelves will be empty and the kids will be broke by Wednesday.”

  It can’t be that hard for a kid to go broke, I note, scanning the prices. Definitely no candy discounts around here.

  “Of course, Christa won’t let your kids do that. She’ll have a whole speech about saving money prepared for the first day.” Avery laughs, a musical sound. “Who tries to teach money management to a bunch of eight-year-olds at camp? Just let them have fun!”

  “That’s right. You guys shared a cabin last year.”

  “Yeah . . .” The cash register drawer pops open with a ding, and she slides my money into the slot. “That was fun.” Her voices drips with sarcasm.

  I match it. “Well
, I’m the lucky winner this year. Any tips on how to deal with her?”

  “Pretend she’s not there.” She rolls her eyes, parroting Christa with, “ ‘You need to do’ this, ‘you need to do’ that.”

  I laugh. Avery seems friendly enough toward me, even if it’s at Christa’s expense.

  “Seriously. It’s brutal. Just wait ’til you try to get out after the kids are asleep. She threatened to go to Darian because I didn’t come back until, like, four one night.” Avery shakes her head. “So I lost it on her. She stayed out of my way after that.”

  I frown. “So, we are allowed to leave our cabins at night?” Darian had alluded to counselors “unwinding” after a day of refereeing, but I forgot to ask Ashley.

  Avery’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “Wow. You really haven’t been to camp before.”

  “Not really. I . . . no.” There’s no point trying to describe White Pine.

  “Some of the counselors go out after the kids are asleep, to hang out for a bit. It’s no big deal. There’s always someone around if a kid wakes up. That’s the one good thing about bunking with Christa—she always stays back. Which is great because nobody likes her anyway.” Avery stuffs my purchase into a brown paper bag just as the air-conditioning unit mounted in the far window kicks in. A fresh wave of cool air blows into the shop, ruffling the dusty and tattered floral window valance.

  It feels heavenly. “So, how do you get a job in here, anyway?” I don’t remember canteen being on the activities sheet.

  “Seniority. It can get boring, but when it’s ninety-five degrees out and you’re not in the lake, you want to be in here.” Avery reaches behind her to grab a can of root beer. She takes a long draw from her straw as she eyes me, as if sizing me up. “Talk to Darian. There’s four of us taking turns in here, but she has a backup list. She might be willing to put you on it.” She hesitates. “Or, I could mention it to her when I see her next.”

  “That’d be . . . great. Thanks.” I frown as I wonder why she’s being so nice to me, but quickly decide that it’s better than the alternative, whatever her motives may be. I grab my paper bag. “Enjoy the cool air. I’ll just be out there, dying in my own sweat.” I head for the door, my stomach beginning to flutter with anxious nerves at the thought of tracking down Kyle.