(COMPLETE)
After dropping out of college to join the military, Mike wasn't heard from again. Now, six years later, he's sauntering back into town with new hair, a new physique, and... a new personality?
He's definitely not the man Lindsey remembers...
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My attention stays riveted to the signature at the bottom right. No other note has been signed, but it seems the sender is ready to start offering clues. There's no denying it's a star scribbled on the page and it doesn't take a genius to figure out who that might refer to. Seems my admirer is one of the Starling brothers. Though, based on Braydon's behavior tonight, I was wrong in assuming he was even slightly interested in me. That leaves Alec.
Could Alec like me?
I chalk the disappointment in my gut up to the note not having come from the one person I was hoping it'd be from. Mike doesn't seem to just need a little time to heal before pursuing me again. It seems he's finished with me completely. The way he stuck to Michelle's side all evening was a clear sign of that.
I get that they're friends, but part of me ached for him to seek me out, even just to explain himself. I want him to tell me that he couldn't keep his eyes off me all evening. I want him to tell me that he regretted inviting Michelle because it prevented him from getting any one-on-one time with me. I want him to apologize for stirring up any confusion or doubt in me.
But it's too late.
The doubt is there and it's been growing since the day he walked into the clinic for the first time. Five years is a long time. Even without the horrors of war creating a massive chasm between us, it's very likely we just wouldn't be compatible anymore. We've both grown up and it seems he's already moved on.
But then I remember that kiss. Sure, he was drunk, but that should solidify the truth within me even more. He's trying to push me away because he wants me to hate him-as he admitted the same night we kissed-which might mean his feelings are still strong. A faint flicker of hope rumbles in my stomach but is quickly doused when I recall the way he's treated me over the weeks.
If I dare use the word tolerant, that's the feeling I get when I'm around him. Like he's simply tolerating the fact that I'm there. He likes me well enough, but not enough. A cord winds itself around my windpipe and I reach a hand up to my throat to massage away the tension. If I start crying now, I probably won't stop until I get home. I'd hate to have to explain my puffy eyes and red nose to my parents if they happen to still be up.
Swallowing, I fold the paper up, wipe the moisture from my eyes and glance up, my heart nearly splitting open my chest when I find Mike watching me through the windshield. I gasp into the claustrophobic stillness of my small car and watch a smile tug Mike's lips upward. Pushing away from the light pole he'd been leaned up against, he makes his way to the passenger door and knocks lightly.
With a stabilizing breath, I stare ahead while he opens the door and slides inside. We sit in silence for several seconds, my eyes staring at my hands housing the folded paper. I can feel Mike watching me from my peripheral vision, but I fear what looking at him might do to me. I feel fragile-breakable. Just one glance at his sharp eyes might slice me right open.
