The Choice - Nicholas Sparks [57]
As for Kevin . . . talking to him hadn’t done much to erase the memory.
She’d called him last night after she’d gotten back to her house. As his cell phone rang, she’d prayed he wouldn’t detect the guilt in her tone. No problem there, she’d quickly realized; they could barely hear each other at all, since he’d answered the phone while in a nightclub.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said, “I just wanted to call—”
“Hey, Gabby!” he interrupted. “It’s really loud in here, so speak up.”
He shouted so loudly that she had to hold the phone away from her ear. “I can tell.”
“What?”
“I said it sounds noisy!” she shouted back. “I take it you’re having a good time?”
“I can barely hear you! What did you say?”
In the background, she heard a woman’s voice asking if he wanted another vodka tonic; Kevin’s answer was lost in the cacophony.
“Where are you?”
“I’m not sure of the name. Just some club!”
“What kind of club?”
“Just someplace these other guys wanted to go! No big deal!”
“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”
“Speak up!”
She brought her fingers to the bridge of her nose and squeezed. “I just wanted to talk. I miss you.”
“Yeah, miss you, too, but I’ll be home in a few days! Listen, though . . .”
“I know, I know—you’ve got to go.”
“Let me call you back tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Love you!”
“Love you, too.”
Gabby hung up, annoyed. She’d just wanted to talk to him, but she supposed she should have known better. Conventions had a way of turning grown men back into adolescents—she’d witnessed that firsthand at a medical convention she’d attended in Birmingham a few months ago. By day, meetings were packed with earnest, serious-minded doctors; at night, she’d watched from her hotel window as they’d traveled in packs, drunk too much, and generally made fools of themselves. No harm in that. She didn’t believe for a moment that he had gotten himself into trouble or done anything he’d regret.
Like kiss someone else?
She threw back the covers, really wishing she could stop thinking about that. She didn’t want to think about the weight of Travis’s hand on her hip as he’d pulled her toward him, and she definitely didn’t want to think about the way his lips felt against hers or the electric spark she’d felt because of it. Still, as she headed for the shower, something else was bugging her, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Turning on the water, she found herself wondering if—in the brief instant it had happened—she’d also kissed him back.
Unable to go back to sleep after Stephanie’s call, Travis went jogging. Afterward, he’d tossed his surfboard in the back of his truck and driven across the bridge to Bogue Banks. After parking in the Sheraton Hotel lot, he hefted his board and made for the water. He wasn’t alone; there were a dozen others who’d had the same idea, and he waved at a few he recognized. Like Travis, most wouldn’t stay long; the best waves came early and would be gone as soon as the tide shifted. But it was still the perfect way to start the day.
The water was brisk—in another month, it would be nearly perfect—and he paddled over the swells, trying to get into rhythm. He wasn’t a great surfer—in Bali, he’d studied some of the monster waves and shook his head, knowing that if he even attempted to ride them, he’d probably be killed—but he was good enough to enjoy himself.
He was used to being alone. Laird was the other surfer in his group of friends, but he hadn’t gone with Travis in years. Ashley and Melinda, two former girlfriends, had gone surfing with him a few times in the past—but neither ever seemed able to meet him on the spur of the moment, and typically, by the time they arrived, he was just finishing up, which threw the