Page 9 of If By Chance

Wow!

“Oh, okay.”

He scrubs a hand across his stubble and rolls his eyes. “Young people.”

I slap the back of my hand against his arm. “I’m twenty-eight.” His eyes go to the skin I’ve just slapped and back to me.

Too flirty?

Yep, rein it in, Claire.

He smiles, and I relax.

“Tell me something good.” He turns to face me, and his deep brown eyes lock with mine. “Like I said, we have to find good in our days. Even the shitty ones.” He runs a palm down his slacks.

I drum my fingers against my leg, thinking, and not going for the obvious answer right away. “I’m getting drunk tonight.”

He raises a brow, uncertain and almost concerned.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not to drown my sorrows. Well, not all sorrows.” A slow smile pulls at my lips. “I graduated today. I got my PhD.”

He moves back, his eyes wandering over my face as the corner of his lips curl up. “You’re a doctor?”

“Not the type that can prescribe medication, but a doctor all the same.”

His eyes grow larger, and he grins so wide I think his face will crack. “You mean you’ve been sitting here crying over a scumbag who doesn’t know your worth—and the night before your graduation, no less—when you should be celebrating? Congratulations”

I hate that Caleb’s actions have tainted what should be an amazing day, and I hate myself even more because I can’t shake the heaviness in my chest.

“Thank you. But we need to balance this out. Tell me something bad.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment.”

“Maybe. But come on, misery loves company, remember?”

He takes a long breath, and his gaze darts away from my face to the beach and back again. He’s contemplating.

“Come on,” I urge. “I’ve just told you about my asshole boyfriend. Give me something.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s my wedding anniversary today.” I see the gold band on his ring finger.

“Aren’t wedding anniversaries supposed to be joyous occasions? How long are you married?”

His eyes narrow to slits, and his nose scrunches.

Pain.

I’d recognize it anywhere because it sometimes creeps its way out of my shadows and says hello in the mirror. It doesn’t scream as loud as his pain, though.

“Eight years,” he answers, smiling but clearing his throat.

“Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife?”

More pain.

I didn’t think it was possible to see so much agony in the flecks of amber dancing torment in his eyes. I can almost see his pulse throbbing in his neck.

“I should be,” he whispers, kneading a hand over his chest.