MIXEDSIGNALSB.K.BORISONCopyright?2022byB.K.Borison.
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Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyformorbyanyelectronicormechanicalmeans,includinginformationstorageandretrievalsystems,withoutwrittenpermissionfromtheauthor,exceptfortheuseofbriefquotationsinabookreview.
Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentsareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,eventsorlocalesisentirelycoincidental.
CreatedwithVellumForeveryonewhohassettledforcrumbs
Youdeservethewholedamncake.
AndforEliza.CONTENTS
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3
Chapter4
Chapter5
Chapter6
Chapter7
Chapter8
Chapter9
Chapter10
Chapter11
Chapter12
Chapter13
Chapter14
Chapter15
Chapter16
Chapter17
Chapter18
Chapter19
Chapter20
Chapter21
Chapter22
Chapter23
Chapter24
Chapter25
Chapter26
Epilogue
OtherBooksByB.K.Borison
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AbouttheAuthorONELAYLA
“You’renotwhatIexpected.”
That’saboldstatementcomingfromthemanslouchedintheseatacrossfromme.Hepickedmeupforty-fiveminuteslate,beratedthewaitstaffassoonaswegothere,tooktwoshotsof—andIquote,thecheapestbourbonavailable—andthenpromptlyorderedasteakwithoutbotheringtoaskwhatIwouldlike.
“Oh?”Iindulgehisattemptatconversation.It’spossiblethathe’snotasbadasheseems.I’mnotsurehow,butI’veseenstrangerthingshappen.Liketheguywhopickedmeupfordinnerinahorseandbuggy.“Howso?”
Icutmydessertintofourperfectlyportionedbitesandtrytomakemyfacedosomethingthatresemblesvagueinterest.HeburpsintohisclosedfistandIabandontheeffort.
“Prettier,”hetellsme.Hiseyesdipdowntomynecklineandhold.“Ihadnoideayouwerehidingallthat.”Hetwirlshisforkinmygeneraldirection.“Yourprofilepicturedoesn’tdoyoujustice.”
Gross.Ishovelanotherbiteofpassionfruitandcoconutinmymouth.
“Probablyallthebakingyoudo,right?Thosesweettreatsmakeyouthickinalltherightplaces.”
Idon’tevenknowwheretostart.“Yes,Iownabakery.”
IownalittlebakeshoptuckedinthemiddleofaChristmastreefarmaboutfortymileswestofhere.I’malsopartownerofthefarm.Ispendmydaysmixingandplatingandrollingandwrappinginsideofanoldtractorshedthatmybusinesspartner,Stella,andIconvertedintoabakeryassoonassheboughttheplace.Big,floor-to-ceilingglasswindows.Oldoakwoodfloors.Wallslinedincozyboothswiththrowpillowsandblankets.It’smyveryfavoriteplaceintheworld.
EverydayIflickonthelightsandsetoutthetablesandfeellikeI’mlivinginsideasnowglobe.EveninthemiddleofthesummerwhenthehumidityissothickitfeelslikeI’mwalkingthroughJell-O,thestickyheatmakingmyhaircurl.Iloveit.WorkingatLovelightFarmsisthebestpartofmyday,andbeingabletogotoworkwithmytwobestfriendsisicingontheproverbialcake.
StellamanagesbusinessoperationsandBeckettkeepseverythinggrowingandthrivingasheadoffarming.They’rethekindest,loveliestpeople—inrelationshipswithequallykind,lovely,beautifulpeople.I’msohappythey’rehappy,eveniftheirso-cute-I-want-to-dierelationshipsmakemewanttotipoveranentirerowofminicakesinafitofjealousy.
Theyhavethesortofromancesthatdreamsaremadeof.WhileI’mherewith…Bryce.
Ididn’tevenrecognizehimwhenhepulledupinfrontofmyhouse.Ourtiny,tuckedawaytownishardtofindonagoodday,andmostpeoplebypassInglewildcompletelyonthewaytotheshore.Whenthecarpulledupinmydriveway,IthoughtBrycesentaLyftdrivertopickmeupfortheevening.Butthenherolleddownthewindow,yelledHEYLAYLA,andIstupidlygotinthepassengerseat.
Ishouldhaveendeditrightthere.Iknowbetter.Hehadahamsterbobbleheadonhisdash,forgod’ssake.I’mluckyIwasn’tmurdered.
Theentiredrivetothecoast,Istaredhardathisface.Icouldhaveswornhisprofilepicturewasatallbrunette,andyet…
Hedragshishandthroughhisbottle-dyedblondehair.
Andyet.
Heprobablythinkshelookscharmingsittingtherelikethat,alllazyandlooseinhisseat,hisknucklesbeneathhischin.Unluckyforhim,I’mmoresexuallyattractedtothewarmrumbuttersauceonmycakeatthispoint.
Isighandglanceoverhisshoulderatthebar,tryingtocatchtheeyeofourbeleagueredwaitress.We’dsharedacommiseratelookearlierwhenhestaredtoolongatthehemofherskirt.I’mprettysureit’swhyshebroughtmethissliceofboozypassionfruitcakethatIdidnotorder.
Igraspforasubjectchange.“YousaidyouworkinEllicottCity?”
Henods,shovelinganotherbiteofsteakintohispinchedmouth.Hechewswithhismouthopenanddoesn’tbotherfinishingbeforehereplies,bitsoffoodflyingoutwithhisanswer.Iwantplexiglassbetweenus.Aten-footwall.“Yeah.That’swheremydad’slawofficesare.”
“Andyouworkwithhim?”
“Ijustsaidthat,didn’tI?”
Alrightthen.Welapseintoanotheruncomfortablesilence.HestabsathissteakandIdragthetipofmyforkagainstathicklayerofwhippedcream.Hetoldmeheownedthelawfirm,organizingprobonoworkacrosstheMid-Atlanticregion.Po-tay-to,po-tah-to,Iguess.Isighandcutanothercorneroffmysliceofcake.
“Whereareyoufrom?”heasks.
Thedepthsofhell.Senttodestroymenwholieontheinternetandaremeantothoseintheserviceindustry.
“Annapolis,”Isayinstead.Iamsotemptedtogetupfrommyseat,walkthroughthetables,andstepintotheocean.ItsoundsinfinitelymoreappealingthananothermomentwithBryce.
ThisisthethirdfirstdateI’vebeenonthismonthandIamtired.Tiredofmenwhoareentitled,small-minded,andgenerallydisappointing.WhatspiritdidIdisrespecttocursemyselfwithbaddateafterbaddate?Ipaymytaxes.Idon’tleavemypopcornbucketstuffedundertheseatatthemovietheater.Iobeytrafficlawsanddonatetothatonecharityforthree-leggedgoatsthatBeckettquiteliterallynevershutsupabout.
Whycan’tIfindasinglehumanbeingthatIconnectwith?Mystandardsarenotimpossible.Iwantsomeonewhomakesmelaugh.WhocaresaboutwhatIdoandwhatIsayandwhatIthink.Iwanttositonthecouchwithsomeoneinblissful,perfect,comfortablesilence—pizzaonthecoffeetableandmyfeettuckedundertheirthigh.Iwantsomeonetohandmetherecipesectionofthelocalpaperwhiletheyreadtheheadlines.Iwanttoshareallofmysmall,silly,silentmoments.
Iwantsomeonetogivemebutterflies.
IstareatBryce-who-lied-about-everything-but-his-nameandwatchashepicksatsomethinginhisteethwithhisthumbnail.
Maybethatsomeonedoesn’texist.
“Didyougotocollege?”
Thereisnocuriosityinhisquestion,justasmugsatisfactionandacallouscondescension.Afamiliarinsecuritypricksatthebackofmymind,atwistinmystomachthatpullstight.
“IwenttoSalisbury.”
HelaughslikeI’vemadeajokeandthenreachesacrossthetablewithhisforkforabiteofmycake.Idon’tslaphishandaway,butit’sanearthing.Tome,dessertissacred.“Ah,thepartyschool.Thatmakessense.”
IclenchmyteethsohardI’msurprisedmymolarsdon’tcrackrightinhalf.“Whatdoes?”
“Bakersdon’tneedtogotoseriousschools,dothey?Itdoesn’tmatterwhereyouwentorwhatyoudid.Youprobablycouldhavegottenadegreefromcircusschoolandbeenjustfinebakingyourlittletreatsallday.”
Circusschool.
Littletreats.
Oh,mygod.
Ittakesmeasecondtocollectmybearings.WhenIdoreply,myvoiceisquietfurylacedwithexhaustion.Iamsotired
“Igraduatedwithhonorswithadualdegreeinmathematicsandengineering.”Notthatitshouldmatter.“I’mabakerandasmallbusinessowner,andIbetIdomoreinanhourthanyoudoinaday.”
Hescoffs.
Isetmyforkdownonthetable.ThiseveningjustrocketedtothetopofmyWorstDatesEverlist,andthecompetitionisrobust.Ican’tbelieveIputonmygreendressforthis.Whatafreakingwaste.“Ithinkyoushouldgograbthecheck.”
Heholdsupbothhands,hiseyeswide.“Woah,don’tbesosensitive.Ididn’tmeantooffend.”
Iignorehimandslipanotherbiteofcoconutintomymouth.Thisrumsaucereallyislife-changing.Maybeafterwewrapuphere,I’llsneakbackintothekitchenandsweettalkthechefintosharinghisrecipe.Ibethe’sbettercompanythanbampotBryce.
Hemakesnomovetogetthecheck,asrequested.Iwhipthenapkinoffmylapanddropitonthetable.“That’sfine.I’llgosettlethebillatthebar.”
Herollshiseyes.“Iwasgettingtoit.Youdon’thavetobesorude.”
Alright.I’mtherudeone.Okay.
Ipushmychairbackandheadtowardsthebarattheedgeofthesurf.Idon’tusuallycomethisfaroutforadate,butBrycehadbeeninsistentabouttryinganewtikibarrightonthecoast.Lowhangingstringlights.Acoupleoffiresburninginlarge,roundpits.Thetiderollsinbehindbottlesstackedonoldwinebarrels.Bartendersmovebackandforthbehindasmallrowboatthat’sbeenflippedoverandconvertedintobenchseating.
Itwouldbearomanticspotifmydatewasnotacompleteandtotalasshole
Ourwaitress,Celia,waitsbehindthebarwithherlipsinathinline,hereyeskindandunderstanding.ShehandsmethebillbeforeIcanevenask.
“Didthedesserthelp,atleast?”sheasks.
Isnortalaughandflipopenthebill.“Itwasthebestpartofmyevening.”
“Icangetyouanotherone,”sheoffers.WhenIshakemyhead,shemakesashort,contemplativesound.“Iwasn’tgoingtosayanything,butthatguyisajerk.Youcandobetter.”
“Yeah,you’renotwrong.”Unfortunatelyforme,Ihaven’tseenbetteronanyofthedatingwebsitesIpayanunseemlymonthlymembershipfor.Bryceisprettyparforthecourse.“Anyideasonwheretolook?”
Hergazetripsovermyshoulderasshepullsathickevergreenragoutofherbackpocket,shiningtheedgeofatumbler.Herfacemorphsintosomethingglassy,appreciative,andshetiltsherheadbehindme.“Thatlookslikeagoodplacetostart.”TWOLAYLA
Ifinishsigningthecheckandfollowherlineofsight,straighttothemaneffortlesslymovingthroughthecrowdedtablesclusteredtogetheronthebeach.Notmydate.Ofcoursenot.Bryceisaboutasmemorableasacrumpledupgumwrappershovedinthebottomofmypurse.
No,themanmakinghiswaytowardsusistall.Easilyoversixfeet.Brown,glowing,gorgeousskin.Idon’tgetagoodlookathisfacebecausehe’sbusylookingoverhisshoulderatthegrouphejustwanderedawayfrom,shoutingsomethingwithalaugh.He’swearingacolorfulHawaiianshirtthatshouldberidiculous,butwiththetopthreebuttonsundoneIcanonlyfocusonthejutofhiscollarbones,thematerialofthesleevesclingingtothecurveofhisbiceps.Thefabricisstretchedtootightthere,liketheshirtcan’tpossiblycontainthestrengthofhim.
Istareatthedancingpineapplesonhisbroadchest,distracted.Ikeepstaringatthemasheslidesrightuptothebarnexttomeandplacesbothhishandsflatonthebartop.HisforearmsflexandIresisttheurgetodragbothofmypalmsdownthesidesofmyface.
Whatisitaboutforearms?
Je-sus.
“I’dlikeanotherpi?acolada,ifit’snottoomuchtrouble.Thebirthdayboyisgettingantsy.”
Celialookslikeshe’llhappilygivehimmorethanapi?acolada.Ihidemysmilebehindmyfingertipsandfinallyglanceathisface.Ialmostsputterinsurprise.
“Caleb?”
CalebAlvarez.ThesamemanI’veseenatleasttwiceaweekforthepastfiveyearswithoutthinkingabouthischestonce.HecomesineveryMonday,Wednesday,andFridayandordersexactlyonecroissantandacoffee.Justcream.
Calebishere,sofarawayfromourlittletown.
Atabeachbar.
WearinganalmostindecentlyunbuttonedHawaiianshirt.
Hisheadsnapstothesideandhisbrowneyeswiden.Iwatchinfascinationasthedeeprichbrowngrowswarmerinrecognition,aringofamberaroundhisiris.NeverinmylifehaveInoticedthecolorofthisman’seyes.I’mreallyhavingamoment,takinghiminlikethis.Hairruffledbytheoceanbreezeandallthatwarm,oliveskinondisplay.AsmilekicksupthecornerofhismouthandIhavetoswallowcompulsivelythreetimesinarow.
“Layla,”hesays,asweetcombinationofsurprisedanddelighted.It’stheexactsamewayhe’salwayssaidmyname,butitsoundsdifferentherewiththesaltandthesand.Mymouthgoesdry.
“Hey,Caleb.”Igesturetooneofthepineapplesringedinbrightorangeflowersonhischest.Mymindisblank—wipedcompletelycleanbythreetinybuttons.“Niceshirt.”
I’veseenCalebinacrewnecksweatshirtacoupleoftimes.Wornjeansandbootsthatlaceattheankles.T-shirts,inthesummer.Ineverhadan…event…overanyofthat.
Hesmoothshishanddownthebuttons,afaintpinklightinguphischeeks.“Ah,well.Alexinsisted.”
Hejerkshischinoverthetables.IfollowhisgazeandspotAlexAlvarez—ourquiet,unassuming,smalltownbookstoreowner—doingsomedrunkenversionofasalsawithabeautifulredhead,thebothoftheminequallyterrifyingHawaiianshirts.
“Wehaveatradition,”Calebexplains.
“Clearly.”
“Helovesastrongpattern.Andacohesivetheme.”
Iguessthatmakessense.I’veseenAlex’swindowdisplays.They’realwaysaboldlook.LastHalloween,therewasatownpetitionaboutthegraphicinterpretationofTheRockyHorrorPictureShow.IblinkbacktoCaleb’sshirt.
“Icanseethat.”
“Healsolikesmakinghisentirefamilylooklikeabunchofidiotsinpublicplaces.”CalebcurlshishandaroundtheglassCeliaslidesovertohimandgivesherathankfulsmile.Wesighinunison.
“Whatarethechances,huh?”Heleansoneelbowuponthebartopandgivesmeaslow,unfurlingsmile.Whew—okay.Idefinitelyhaven’tnoticedthosedimplesbeforeeither.“Outofallthebars.”
“Yeah,”Isay,stilldistracted.MybrainistryingtoalignthisversionofCalebwiththeoneinmyhead.It’s…notworkingoutsowell.
WhatsortofvoodooisthisHawaiianshirt?
Hiseyesflickbrieflyovermygreendressandhissmilemeltsintosomethingearnestandsincere,thefaintpinkonhischeeksdeepeningintoarich,rubyred.“Youlookbeautiful.”
“Thankyou,”Imanage,resistingtheurgetoclearmythroat.Idon’tthinkBrycetoldmeoncethatIlookednicetonight,beyondhiscommentaboutmebeingprettierthanmyprofilepictureleton.Andwhatacomplimentthatwas
Iputeffortintotonight.Iworemymintgreendresswiththethinstraps,aslitinthesideuptomythigh.Iwantedtolooknice.Tofeelprettyandcherishedanddesired.
AndIwastedallofitonBryce.
“AreyouherewithStellaandBeckett?”
IamusemyselfforamomentwiththementalimageofBeckett,ourresidentgrumpyheadfarmer,frowningwithacoconutdrinkinhishand.ButthenIfingerthestrapofmydressandletoutablusterysigh,glancingbackovertothetableIabandoned.“I’mhereonadate.Well,IguessIwasonadate.”
BecauseBryceisnowheretobeseen.OurtableisemptyandIswearsomeofthesilverwareismissing.Mydessertplate,too.
Asshole.
Calebisconfused.“With,uh,withyourself?”
“No.Withabigol’turdwhodinesanddashes,apparently.”IfrownasIthinkaboutwhatwillinevitablybeaverylongandveryexpensiveLyftbacktoInglewild.“Shoot.Hepickedmeupfordinner.”
“Andheleft?”Caleb’sfaceturnsintoastormcloud.Hisjawclenches,dimplesevaporatingasquicklyastheyappeared.
“Believeme,”Ioffer.“Thisisanimprovement.”
IcannotimaginesittinginBryce’scarforthethirty-minutedrivebacktoInglewild,staringbalefullyatthehamsterbobbleheadonthedash.He’dprobablyplayAceofBase.Orworse,Nickelback.
“Heshouldn’thaveleftyou,”isallCalebsays,stillstaringunseeinglyattheemptytable.Helookslikehe’sabouttochargeoutintheparkinglotandexactsomevigilantejustice.Thethoughtisoddlydelightful.
“It’salright.I’lljustgrabaLyfthome.”IturntolookatCeliastillstandingbehindthebar,hereyesdartingbackandforthbetweenCalebandI.“I’lltakethatextraslicetogo,Ithink.”
“Holdonasec.”Calebwrapshislongfingersrightabovemyelbowandsqueezesonce.Histouchisgentle,hispalmwarm.“I’lldriveyouback.”
“No,no.That’sokay.”IlookovertothefarendofthebarwhereAlexisbeingdippedbyhisdancingpartner,bothofthemlaughingsohardtheycanbarelystandup.TheirtableissurroundedbyacollectionofpeopleinvariousmatchingHawaiianshirts.TheentireAlvarezfamily,Ifinallyrealize.TheiruncleBenjamíniswearinghisshirttiedhigharoundhiswaistinaweirdbastardizationofacroptop.Igrin.“Youcan’tleave.It’syourbrother’sbirthday.”
Isquint,focusingononedark-hairedmanwithacoconutbraatthefarendoftheirlittlegroup.Hestandsalittlebittallerthantherest.“IsthatCharlie?”
Calebdoesn’tbotherfollowingmystare.“Yeah,itis.”
IwatchasStella’shalf-brothershimmies,adrinkineachhand.“HedrovedownfromNewYork?”
“Youknowhim.Henevermissesaparty.”Calebkeepshishandandhiseyesonme.“Alexwon’trememberanythingpastanhourago.Ipromise.Letmedriveyouhome.”
“Buthisdrink.”
“I’lldropitoffandthenwecango.”
“Howwillhegethome?”
“WerentedaMargaritavillebus.”Ofcoursetheydid.Calebgivesmeanotherbashfullook,hisblushdeepeningtoadeepcrimson.“Hereallylovesatropicaltheme,”hemumbles.
Irollmylipsagainstasmile.“Willwebestealingthebus,then?”
“What?No.”Helooksalarmed.“Idroveseparately.”
“DoyouhateJimmyBuffett?”
Asmilehooksthecornerofhismouth.“IthinkeveryonehatesJimmyBuffettalittlebit.”
“ExceptAlex.”
“ExceptAlex,ofcourse.”
Hissmiletumblesheadfirstintoagrin,sobrightandsuddenandbeautifulthatIhavetoremindmyselftobreathe.Thosedimplesblinkbacktolifeinhischeeksandit’sagoodthinghe’sholdingontomyarm.Histhumbrubsonceagainsttheinsideofmyelbow—anaimless,unthinkingtouch.Calebtiltshisheadforwardandalockofdarkhairfallsoverhisforehead.Somefarrecessofmymindisstillwhispering,whatinthehellisgoingon?
WhendidCalebAlvarezgetsohot?
“Ifyou’resure,”Imurmur.
I’mnotsure.I’mprobablytheleastsureI’veeverbeen.WhatsecretwillCalebrevealnext?Canheplaytheharmonica?Doeshealsohaveastrangeanimalbobbleheadonthedashofhiscar?Ishesneakyhotbutalsoaterribledriver?Ohgod,doeshedriveinsilence?Doeshehatemusic?Ihavenoidea.I’mtrulyjustalongfortherideatthispoint,mymindsufficientlyblownbyasetofstrongbicepsandashirtwithrotatingpalmtrees.
“I’msure.”Heisresoluteasheuncurlshisfingersfromaroundmyarmandpicksupthefruityconcoctioninfrontofhim.Iwatchthewayhisshirtstretchesacrosshischestwithrabidinterest.IfeellikeI’minanalternatedimensionwherethenice,unassumingguywhocomesintomybakerywithalmostmilitantprecisionissuddenlyadreamboatinaHawaiianshirt.“JustgivemeasecondtotalktoAlexandwe’llgetgoing.”
Heamblesaway,crossingthroughthetables,somehowmanagingtonotlookridiculous.Iwatchhimgo.
Sodoeseveryotherwomanintheestablishment.Afewmen,too.
Celiawhistleslow.Damn,Ididn’tevenrealizeshewasstillstandingthere.“Youmadequickworkofthat.”
IscratchonceatmyeyebrowandwatchasCalebattemptstoextricateAlexoutofhissloppysalsaroutine.AlexpullsanevasivemaneuverwhileCharliefist-pumpsaggressively.“Weliveinthesametown.Iknowhim.”
“I’dliketogettoknowhim,”shemumblesunderherbreath.
Iturntolookatherandraisebotheyebrows.“Don’tholdbackonmyaccount.”
Shewavesherhand.“Nah.Isensedvibes.”
“Therewerenovibes.He’sjustareallyniceguy.”
Thenicest.Iroutinelywatchhimhelplittleoldladiescrossthestreet.Hevolunteerseveryyearfordigdayatthefarm,whenresidentsofthetownhelpusprepthefieldsforthenewseason.HalfofthetimeIcan’ttellifhegenuinelyenjoysthebuttercroissantshereligiouslyorders,orifhejustwantstosupportalocalbusiness.Stellaoncereferredtohimaschronicallykind.Heissweetandfunnyandisnevertoobusytostopandhelploadseven50-poundbagsofsugarintothebackofmyhatchback.
Dane,ourtownSheriff,firedhimfromhisdeputypositionfourmonthsagoforbeingtoonice.FromwhatIhear,heacceptedonetoomanyparkingticketpaymentsintheformofIOU’swrittenonthebackofoldreceipts.IheardfromMattyatthepizzashopthatsomeofthemgotprettyexplicit.
He’sbeensubstituteteachingatthehighschooleversince.
IwatchasAlexattemptstodiphisolderbrother.Allofthepeoplegatheredaroundthetablecheer.Igrin.“Like,areallyniceguy.”
“Sure,sure.”Celiasetstheglassshe’sbeenpolishingforclosetofifteenminutestotheside.Picksupanother.“I’llmakeittwoslicestogo.”
CalebfinallywrestlesAlexintoastationaryposition.Iwatchthemwiththeirheadshuddledtogether.CalebsayssomethingthatmakesAlexbrightenandthenhe’stryingtogetontopofthetableagain,handshieldedagainsthiseyeseventhoughthesunsethoursago.Hespotsmebythebar.
Andthenhescreamsatthetopofhislungs.
“LAAAAAAAYLA.”
Caleblooksmortified.
Imakemywayovertothetablebeforehecanbeginlaunchingprojectilesacrossthebeachbar.AssoonasI’mcloseenough,hemakesaspectacularswandiveoffthetopofthetableandlandssomewherenearmyfeet.Hewrapsbothofhisarmsaroundmylegs.
“Laylaaaaaaa,”hedragsoutthesyllablesofmynameonawarbleinhisbestEricClaptonimpersonation.“Youcametomybirthdayparty!”
Itrytohaulhimupwithmyarmsbeneathhis,butwe’reimpededbythesix-foot-fivewallofmusclesuddenlybear-huggingusboth.Charliesmellslikeanentireshelfofliquor,hisbig,dumbfacepressedintomyshoulder.
“Layla.”Hesoundssuspiciouslyclosetotears.“It’ssogoodtoseeyou.”
Ipressmypalmtohisforeheadandpushhimoffme.“Yousawmelastweekend,youbrute.”
StellaandherboyfriendLukahaddinnerattheirplaceandIhadthedistinctpleasureofwatchingmybestfriendsandtheirsignificantothersfawnovereachother.CharlieleftafterfifteenminutesclaimingastomachacheandIconcludedmyeveningwiththebestdateI’vehadinmonths—ashinybottleofsauvignonblancandaplateofpeanutbutterfudgecookiesImademyself.
“Still,”Charlieslurs.Hepullsback,hisbigblueeyeswideassaucers.He’swearingacoconutbraandaflowerbehindhisear.Helooksridiculous.“Wannadoashot?”
Alexletsoutthathighpitchedscreechagain.Achantofshots,shots,shotsstartsupamongsttheentireAlvarezgroup.Ifeeltwostronghandsonmyshoulders,gentlyguidingmeawayfromthedrunklovebugshangingalloverme.
“Maybeweshouldn’thavesaidgoodbye,”Calebmutters.Oneofhisunclestriestohandhimatinyshotglass.Calebmakesafaceandshakeshishead,thenlooksovertopofmyhead.“Christ.IthinkCharlieisencouragingpeopletotakebodyshotsoffofhim.”
Idon’tevenwanttolook.“I’lltakeyourwordforit.”
“Right.Timetogo.”
Heholdshishandouttome,palmup
Itwistmyfingersthroughhisandtogetherwedashthroughthesand.THREELAYLA
Thankfully,Calebdoesnothaveanystrangebobbleheadsonthedashofhiscar.
JustoneofthepinetreeairfreshenerswiththeLovelightlogothatStellastartedsellingatthefarmacoupleofmonthsago.Anoldnewspaperwedgedbetweenthecenterconsoleandthedriver’sseat.AboxfrommybakerythathetriestohideassoonIslipintohisJeep.
Istareathimashegetssituatedinthedriver’sseat,adjustingtheairventssotheyblowonmylegsandnotmyface.HecheckshisrearviewandsidemirrorsandIsmile.OfcourseCalebcheckshismirrorseverytimehegetsinthecar.Ibetheknowshistirepressure,too.
Inarrowmyeyesandwatchhim,arestlessfeelingundermyskin.
“Didyougetahaircut?”
Hedragshisfingersthroughhishair,self-conscious.“No.”
“Didyougrow,maybe?Taller?”
Hesnorts.“Ihaven’tgrownaninchsinceIturnedeighteen.”Henarrowshiseyesrightbackatme.“Why?”
“Anosejob?”
Helooksoffended.“No.”
“Hipreplacement?”
Helaughsatthat.“No.What’sgottenintoyou?”
“Youjustseem…different,isall.”Hotter,mybrainscreamsatme.Level-tenattractive.IswearonmybutterandjambaguettesthatIhavenevernoticedCaleblookinglike…this…before.Apassingattraction,maybe.An—oh,he’scute—inanunassumingsortofway.
Thisis…notcute.
Thisisviolentlyattractive.
I’mrattledbyit.
IsettlebackintomyseatandwatchasCalebcontinuesadjustinghisdriversettingslikehe’sabouttolaunchusintospace.
It’stheHawaiianshirt.
Ithastobe.
“I’msurprised.”
Hegivesmeahesitantlookoutofthecornerofhiseye,makingsureIhavemyseatbeltonbeforeheguidesthecaroutofpark.Ithinkhe’sregrettingofferingmearidehome.“Bywhat?”
“Thatyoudidn’twanttotaketheMargaritavillebus.”
Anotherlaughrumblesoutofhim.Caleb’ssmilesarefrequentbuthislaughsarerareandIfindmyselfsinkinglowerintomyseatatthesoundofit.Hislaughisnice.Warm.“Nah.Thelightsgivemeaheadache.Plus,Igotoutlatefromschooltoday.Imissedthebus.”
There’sironyinthatstatementsomewhere.“Howisthatgoing?Theteaching?”
“It’sgood.Different.I’mlearning.I’mluckyKatieMetzlerdecidedtogoonthatsoulsearchingtripintheFloridaKeys.”
Anoddchoiceforaself-discoverytrip,butokay.
“TheschoolwasprettydesperateforaSpanishteacherfortheirsummersessionandtheydidn’tcarethatIbasicallyhadzeroqualifications.I’mgettingmycertificationwhileIfillin.HopefullyI’llbeafull-timestaffmemberbythestartofthenewschoolyear.Itcouldn’thavebeenbettertiming,allthingsconsidered.”
“Wereyouupset?WithwhathappenedattheSheriff’sstation?”
“YoumeanwhenDanefiredme?”Hehuffsoutalaugh.“No,notatall.Itwastime.Webothknewbeingadeputywasn’tagoodfitformeanymore.HeonlyfiredmesoIcouldgettheseverancepackage.”Calebglancesatmebriefly.“MaybeIshouldhavebeenupset,butIdon’tknow.Iwasmainlyrelieved.IthinkIcanhelpmorepeopleasateacher.Morekids,atleast.”
Especiallyinourtinytown,whereCalebspentmoretimekeepingMs.Beatricefromusinghercarasabatteringramoutsideofhercoffeeshopthanpreventinganysortofmajorcrime.I’msureDanehasithandledonhisown.
“AlexkeepstellingmeIshouldforgetaboutthecertificationandjustshowthekidsoldrerunsofthetelenovelamyabuelaalwaysmadeuswatch.ShenevermissedanepisodeofCorazónSalvaje.”
Igrin.Iseehimaroundtownwithhisgrandmasometimes.Hetowersoverher,andshe’susuallybossinghimaround,makinghimcarryhergroceries.“WildHeart?”
“That’stheone.”
Ihuminconsideration.“It’snotabadidea.”
“Theschoolboardmighthavesomethingtosayaboutit.”
Isnortalaughandpeerovermyshoulderathisbackseat.Hiscaristidierthanthemessofcrumpledreceipts,oldmixingbowls,andexpiredcandycanesthatlittersmine.Itsmellslikecinnamoninhere,likehe’sgotawholebatchofgingersnapssomewhere.Ireachfortheedgeofthepastryboxhalfwedgedbeneathmyseat,hopingthere’ssomethingsweetinside.Iforgotmydamnslicesofcakeatthebar,distractedbyCalebtryingtoherdtheentireAlvarezgrouplikeabunchofdrunkcats.
IrattlethewhiteboxIripoutfrombeneaththeseatwithayank.I’mconsciousofthefactthatI’mwearingaverytightgreendressandthematerialisprobablyallthewayuparoundmywaistatthispoint,butCaleb’seyesarefirmlyontheroad.Thankgod.“Isthereanythingleftinhere?”
“YouthinkIhavethatkindofself-control?”
Igivehimablandlook.“Iabsolutelydo.”
Everyweekhecomesinandeatsexactlyonecroissantwhilestaringlonginglyatanentirecasefullofbuttercreamcronuts.Hisself-controlissteelenforced.HishandsflexandreleaseonthesteeringwheelandIshimmybackintheseat.Mygazecrawlsuphisarmstotheslopeofhisshoulders,thehollowofhisthroatandthestronglineofhisjaw.Onehandreleasesthesteeringwheeltocardthroughhisdarkhair.Withnightpressinginaroundus,italmostlookslikespilledink.Chocolatemeltingonthestovetop.
Honestly.I’veknownCalebforyears.HowhaveInevernoticedhowhandsomeheis?
ProbablybecauseI’vebeenlostinmymanicmotivationtofindalifepartner.OrthestringoflacklustermenI’veallowedtoyankmearoundforthepastcoupleofyears.Ormaybemyself-imposedruletonever,everdatesomeonewithintownlimits.Ithinkitmademehaveblinders.
Ourtownpopulationissomewherearoundseven.Ican’timaginehavingtoseeadate-gone-badeverywhereIlook.IfIhadtoseeBryceontheregular,waitinginlineatmybakery,orderingmyfavoritesaltedwhitechocolateoatmealcookies—I’ddie.Iwouldsimplyceasetoexist.
AndI’dprobablybearrestedformurder.
Calebclearshisthroat.“CanIaskyouaquestion?”
“YousavedmeaheftyLyftbilltonight.Notonlycanyouaskmeaquestion,youcanalsoenjoyfreecoffeeatthebakehouseallweek.”
Asmirkcurlsattheedgeofhismouth.“Youalreadygivemefreecoffee.”
“Well,nowyougetcoffeeandaquestion.”
Hepausesforasecond.“Justtheone?”
“Doesitmatter?”
HelooksshockedthatI’devenask.“Ofcourseitmatters.”
“Howso?”
“IfIonlygetonequestion,Ishouldpicksomethinggood.”
“Iguessyoushould,”Isaywithalaugh.
Hehums,thesoundrichandlowbetweenus.Iwatchthestreetlightspainthisfaceinshadow.Goldsandsilversandwarm,warmred.Thesmileslipsfromhismouthandhisgazetripsintosomethinghesitant.Hiseyesdarttomeandthenbacktotheroad.
“Whydidyougotodinnerwithaguylikethat?”
Ifidgetinmyseat.
“Aguylikewhat?”
HemumblessomethingIdon’tcatchbeneathhisbreath.“Aguythatleavesyouwiththecheckandstealsthesilverwareonhiswayout,”hesayslouder,clearer.
Isighandpresstwofingerstomyforehead.“Younoticedthattoo,huh?”
“IheardyoutalkingtoStellainthebakeshopacoupleofweeksago,”Calebhesitates.“Aboutaguywhousedalintrolleronyoubeforeyougotinhiscar.”
Ah,yes.Peter.Healsomademeputthoselittledisposablesurgicalbootiesonovermyheels,butIkeepthattomyself.Iglanceoutthewindowandtuckmyhairbehindmyears.Istraightenedittonight,somethingsleekandshiny.Ifeelsillyabouttheeffortnow.
“I’vehadsomebadluckrecentlywithdating,”Ifinallymanageasanexplanation.It’sanunderstatement,buthowelsecouldIpossiblyexplainthedumpsterfirethatismylovelife?
PeterandBrycearen’teventheworstofit.Ihadoneguyaskmeifwecouldpickuphismomafterlunchandtakehertoherdrycleaner.IhadanotherguybringhisbestfriendandproceedtoactlikeIwasn’teventhereatall.Theytalkedaboutfantasyfootballforforty-nineminutesanddidsevenpicklebackshots.
Each.
“Andthatguy—whatwashisname—Justin?”
“Jacob,”Isupplyquietly.
He’stheonethathurtsthemost.Alloftherest—Icanplaythemoffasamusingstoriestoentertainmyfriends.Foraysintothewildandweirdworldofdating.ButIhadbeenwithJacobformonths.Ihadgivenhimsomanypiecesofmyselfinadesperateattemptforittowork.Iwantedsobadlyforsomeonetojust…stick…thatImadeexcuses.Justifiedhiscrapbehaviorandtoldmyselfhewouldgetbetter.Hisambivalence.Hisindifference.Itoldmyselfthathejustneededtimetosettleintoacomfortablerhythm.Hejustneededsometimetolikeme.
ButthemoretimeIspentwithhim,themoreIfeltlikeIwaslosingthosebitsofmyselfthatIhadgivenhimsofreely.Hedidn’tprioritizemeorourrelationship.Hewasmorecommittedtohisphonethanheeverwastome.
Ideservedbetterthanthat.Ideservebetterthanthat.
“Jacobsucked,”Calebsays.Hisjawdoesthatclenchingthingagain.
“Hedid.”
“What’sgoingon,then?”Calebnudgestheturnsignalwithhiswristandwemergeoffthehighway,closertohome.“Theseguysallseemlike—”
“Douchebags?”Ioffer.Assholes?Giant,humiliatingwastesofmytime?
Helaughs,butitdoesn’tsoundveryfunnyatall.It’ssharpattheedges.“Yeah,”heagrees.“Theyallsoundlikedouchebags.”
Idon’tsayanythinginresponse.Idon’tneedthereminderthatmyromanticlifeisadisaster.ThattheonethingI’vealwayssecretly,quietlyhopedforisasmuchamysterytomeasdarkmatterandextraterrestriallife.Itdoesn’tmatterhowmanydatesIgoon,I’masfarawayfromitnowasI’veeverbeen.
Idon’tunderstandhowsomethingsoeasyforeveryoneelsecanbesodifficultforme.
“Layla.”Calebpressesoutmynamewithasigh.Whenhesaysmynamelikethat,itfeelsliketwohandscurledaroundmyshoulders,agentleshake.“Whyareyougivingtheseguysyourtime?Whyareyousettlingforcrumbswhenyoudeservethewholedamncake?”
Mychestpullstight.Anache,rightinthemiddleofme.“That’sareallylovelythought,butsometimescrumbsareallyou’vegot.”
Icantellhedoesn’tlikemyresponse,soIturnandstareoutthewindow,watchingthelandslowlychangeaswemoveawayfromthecoast.Everythinghereisrichandvibrant,latesummersettlinginearnest.Lightningbugsdanceoutsidemywindow,quickflashesofgoldaswespeedpast.
Iwaitforhimtotryandtalkmeoutofmysadlittleconviction.Whenhedoesn’t,whenhejustpatientlywaitsformetogoon,somethingunlatches,andmywordstumbleout.
“Idon’tknow.Iguess—IguessI’mjustlookinginallofthewrongplaces.Iwantsomeonetobemine.Andnoteveryoneisperfectrightoffthebat,youknow?Sometimespeopleneedalittletimebeforetheyshine.Everyonedeservesachance.”Ishrugagain,feelingnaiveintheworstofways.Imean,Petersteppedoutofhiscarwithalintroller.Notsosurehedeservedanyofmyattentionafterthat.“AndwithStellaandLukatogether,andBeckettandEvie,I’mkindofsurroundedbyit.IguessI’vebeenthinkingthatcrumbsarebetterthannothing.”Irestmyforeheadagainstthecoolglassofthewindow.“Maybethat’smyproblem.MaybeIshouldswearoffcakealtogetherforalittlebit,crumbsandall.”
Calebissilent,therumbleofhisJeepbeneathustheonlysound.Windatthewindowsandthelowhumofvoicesontheradio.
“Thisanalogygotweird,”hefinallysays.
“Itreallydid.”
ThetruthisIwatchedStellafallinlovewithLuka,amansheharboredacrushonforclosetotenyears.ThenIwatchedBeckettbegrudginglyfallinlovewithEvelyn,awomanwhocouldn’tbemorehisopposite.AndafterBeckettdeclaredhisloveviasocialmedia—ashocktoliterallyeveryone,Beckettincluded,probably—ourlittleChristmastreefarmbecameadestinationforanyonehopingtosnagalittleromanceforthemselves.Ihaveseenmoreproposals,firstdates,andsickeninglyaffectionatecouplesinthepastthreemonthsthananypersonstuckinadatingrutshouldhavetoendure.
Iwantthatformyself.
“Didn’t—”Calebstartsandthenstops,handsflexingonthewheel.“Didn’tJesseaskyououtacoupleofmonthsago?”
IraiseaneyebrowathimandIswearheblushesallthewaytothetipsofhisears.Cute.“Itwastrivianight,”hemutters.“I’mprettysurethewholetownheardhimaskyouout.”
That’sright.HepracticallyyelleditintothemicrophonewhileIwasgettinganotherpitcherofbeer.Ishrug.“Idon’tdateanyonewithintownlimits.”
Calebblinks.“Oh.”
“Withmytrackrecord,I’mnotexactlyeagertorelivetheghostsofdatingpasteverytimeIneedanartichokefromthegrocerystore.”
“Isthatoften?”Caleb’ssmileisaslowthing.Itstartsatoneedgeofhismouthandtugsuntilhiswholefaceisalightwithit.Ican’tstopstaringathim,confusedandcaptivated.Ineedabucketofcoldwaterovermyhead.“Thatyouneedartichokes?”
“You’dbesurprised.”
“I’msureIwould.”
Welapseintosilenceagain,thesteadyrumbleoftheroadbeneathusandthehumofsomethingslowandsoftontheradio.Exhaustionsettlesdeepinmybonesandmyshoulderscurlin.Iamso,sotired.Tiredofdoingthesamethingoverandoverandgettingnothinginreturn.Calebisright.Iamsettlingforcrumbs.
“IthinkI’mdone,”Ideclare.Thesedatesaregettingmenowhere.Justhardeningmyheartmoreandmorewitheveryfailure.Idon’tunderstandwhyfindingsomeoneissodifficultforme.“Nomorecakeforme.Nocupcakesoreven…jellyrolls.Strictlyvegetablesforthisgal.”
Calebdoesn’tcommentonmydeterminationtocarryonwithhisanalogy.Hejustpropshiselbowupagainstthewindowandrubshisknucklesagainsthisjaw.“Ifitmakesyoufeelbetter,”hesays.“Ihaven’thadmuchluckwithdatingeither.”
Ican’thelpit.Isnort.Calebwiththehairandthefaceandthedimplesandtheshoulders.Anyofthewomenatthetikibartonightwouldhavehappilyhaddinnerwithhim.IbetwhenheunbuttonsthatridiculousHawaiianshirtwhenhegetshome,phonenumbersfallfromitliketinypiecesofconfetti.
“Ifindthatveryhardtobelieve.”
“What?Why?”Heistheverypictureofconfusion.
“Lookatyou.”
“Lookatme?”
Ibroadlygestureatthewholeofhim.LikeVannaWhite.Oroneofthoseprettyladiesatthecarshows.IfeellikeIshouldbeholdingacardboardnumberovermyhead.Tensacrosstheboard.“Lookatyou.”
Aconfusedsmiletwistshismouth.Heclearshisthroat.“Whenwasthelasttimeyousawmewithsomeonearoundtown?”
“BesidesAlex?”
“Yes,besidesmybrother.”
Iusuallyseehimwithhistinygrandmother.Hismomanddad,too,atthefarmer’smarketsonSundays.Anentirefleetofcousinsthatalwaysseemtobebickering,Calebtrudgingalongattheveryfrontofthegroup,tryingtokeepeveryoneorganized.
“I’mnotsomeonethat’s—”Hestopsabruptlyandsighs.“Ican’tbelieveI’mtellingyouthis,”hemumbles,embarrassed.Hetakesadeep,fortifyingbreathandblowsitout.“Okay.I’mreallybadatdating,Ithink.NotPeter-with-the-lint-rollerbad,butIdon’treallyknowwhatI’mdoing.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“MaybeIsaythewrongthing,ormaybeI’mtoohesitant.Ortooforward.IhavenoideaifI’mdoingtoomuchortoolittle.Allofmyrelationships,ifyoucanevencallthemthat,stalloutaroundthefourthdate.EvenwhenIthinkit’sgoingwell.”
“Everytime?”
Henods.“Yeah.Everytime.Giveortakeadate.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”Helookslikehewantstoopenhisdoorandrollrightoutofthiscar.Hereleasesasighfromtheverydepthsofhissoul.“IthinkI’m—IthinkImightbetoomuch.Forsomepeople.”
Somethinginhisvoiceloopsaroundmychestandsqueezes.“Toomuch?”
Pinklightsuphischeeksagainandclimbsallthewaytothetipsofhisears.“Ihavetroublereadingcues.Igetaheadofmyself,probably.ThelastwomanIdated,shetoldmeIwasaniceguy.Butshesaiditlikeitwasabadthing.AlextellsmeI’madoormatinrelationships,thatIputpeopleonapedestaltheydon’tnecessarilydeserve,but—Idon’tknow.Idon’tthinkseeingthebestinsomeoneisabadthing.Idon’tthinkbeingniceisabadthing,either.”
“It’snot.”Ithinkaboutthattimehegaveatinylittlegirlhisuntouchedcroissantaftershedroppedhercakepoponthegroundrightoutsidethebakehouseandburstintotears.Thewayhegotdownononekneesohecouldwipehertearswiththesleeveofhisshirt.“Beingniceisthebestthing.”
Heshrugslikehewantstodisagree.Ifeelthatlikeaplucktomyheart.Calebshouldn’tchangeathingabouthimself,hiskindnessespecially.Ifrownathisprofile,theclenchofhisjaw
Heshouldn’tbewastinghistimeoncrumbseither.
WerumblepasttheInglewildtownsign,anoldfadedthingwithhandpaintedlettering.Home.Finally.
Thestarsarecastlikegemstonesacrossthenightsky,brighternowthatwe’rewiththegrassandthetreesandthefields.IthinkaboutCalebandIthinkaboutme,thebothofusstumblingthroughourrespectivelovelives.
“Whatapairwemake,”Isay,justforusandthemoonlight.“Wereallyhavenoideawhatwe’redoing,huh?”
“It’snicetoknowthatI’mnotaloneinthestruggle.”Hetiltshisheadtotheside,thoughtful.“Maybethat’stheanswer.”
“You’reabsolutelyright,”Isaywithanod.“Let’sdrownourfeelingsindessert.”
“Thatis…notwhatIsaid.”
“Oh.”ThatmusthavebeenwhatIwasthinkingabout.IspentthelasthalfofmydatewithBrycedaydreamingaboutwhatI’deatwhenIgothome.Chocolatecakewithathinmintdrizzle.Strawberryshortcakeandicecoldlemonade.Peachcobbler.Blueberrycrumble.Myoptionsarelimitless.
Calebdrumshisfingersagainstthesteeringwheel.ThatdamnHawaiianshirtstretchesoverhisbicepagain.Thankyou,AlexAlvarez,foryourcommitmenttoatheme.“Maybeweshoulddateeachother.”
Mygrinfalters.Iprobablylooklikeoneofthosefreezeframephotosyougetattheendofarollercoaster—theshotafterthatfirstbigplunge.Alittlebitdelightedandslightlyconfused.Kindofterrified.Iwasneverpreparedforthosepicturesasakid.
I’mnotpreparedforCaleb’ssuggestioneither.
“Areyou—”Somethingcoldstealsovermychestandpressesdownonmylungs.“Areyoumakingfunofme?”
“What?No!”Hiseyesdartbetweenmeandtheroad.Thankfullywe’veslowedtoacrawlwithintownlimits.“No,Layla.Iamnotmakingfunofyou.Thinkaboutitforasecond.”
“I’mthinkingaboutit.”Andcomingupblank.I’mnotexactlysurehowhearrivedatweshoulddatefromwow,we’rebothreallybadatthis.
Caleb’sfacefallsatmylacklusterresponse.“Isitthatunbelievableofanidea?Todateme?”
No.Maybe?Okay,probablyyes.Ihaveneveronceentertainedtheidea.Notforafractionofasecond.Myruleaboutdatingintown,certainly.But,also…
He’sCaleb.Theguywhocomesintomybakeshopandhitshiselbowonmycounterdisplay.Theguywholeansupagainstmycounterwithhislegscrossedattheanklesandmakesdumbjokesaboutdonuts.Hehasalwaysbeenfirmly—perfectly—intheacquaintancecolumn.Afriend,even.I’veneveronceconsideredexploringanythingelsewithhim.
ButcouldI?
“It’snotyou,”Iofferandhehuffsasoundthatshouldbealaughbutsoundstooself-mockingtocontainanyhumor.“Caleb.Youcaughtmeoffguard.Iwasn’texpectingyoutosaythat.”
“That’sfair,”heconcedes.Hisshouldersrelaxfromwherethey’repressedbyhisearswithagustingbreath.“Iwasjustthinking.We’rebothfedupwithdating.Itcouldbelikea—likeasocialexperiment.”
Alaughburstsoutofme,brightandloud.“Justwhateverywomanwantstohear.”
Hetossesagrininmydirectionandokay,maybeit’snotsuchaninsaneidea.TodateCaleb.ExperimentallydateCaleb?Whateverthisis.“Wouldn’titbeeasier,though?Togoonadateandgetactualfeedback?Maybewecanbothfigureoutwhatwe’redoingwrong.”
“Ifyousuggestasurvey,Imightpunchyouintheface.”
“IfIsuggestasurvey,Imightpunchmyselfintheface.”
Iarchaneyebrowathim.“So,what.We’llgoonadateandyou’lltellmeallthethingsI’mdoingwrong?”
Myvoicewobblesaroundtheedges.Anold,tenderbruiseflarestolifeinthecenterofmychest.AnachinginsecuritythatI’mthereasonnoneoftheserelationshipsareworkingout.ThatIsomehowmanagetoattracttheworstkindofmen.ThatthesedisappointmentsaresomehowmyfaultandexactlywhatIdeserve.
“No,”herepliesquickly,voicesureinthequietbetweenus.“That’snotitatall.Ithinkyouneedtobetreatedrightbysomeone.Ithinkyouneedtoseethatyoucanbetreatedrightbysomeone.We’llgoonacoupleofdates.I’llhelpyouintoyourjacket.I’llholdyourhandandlistenaboutyourday.We’llgotodinner.Eatspaghetti,orwhateveryouwant.”Aslysmiletugsathisbottomlip.“Iwon’tstealthesilverwareonthewayout.”
Well,damn.Okay.Thatactuallysoundsreallynice.
“Andwhatdoyougetoutofthislittlearrangement?”
“Besidestimewithabeautifulwoman?”HeatflushesthebackofmyneckandIshiftinmyseat.“HopefullyyoucantellmewhyI’msobadatdating.”
“Asocialexperiment.”
“Yes.”
Heslowstoastopinfrontofmylittlehouse.IpainteditapalepinklastspringandplantedenoughflowersinthegardenstomakeitlooklikeMotherNaturethrewupalloverit.Liliesandgardeniasandbig,brightsunflowers.Iliketositonthefrontporchintheeveningsandsmellthelavender.Sinkmytoesintothecoolgrassandwatchtheskyblinkawakewiththestars.
IunbucklemyseatbeltandslipfromCaleb’scar,holdingthedooropenwiththepalmofmyhand.Istareathimsittingthereinhisdancingpineappleshirt,hairindisarray,stickysummerheatclingingtomyshouldersandthebacksofmyknees.Hestaresrightback,asmileinhiseyes,hisgazenowherebutrightonme.
CalebAlvarez.Whoknew?
“Forsomeonewhoissupposedlybadatdating,you’reawfullysmooth.”
Thesmileinhiseyesslipstohismouth.Itracetheanglesofhisfaceinthemoonlight.“Justwithyou,Layla.”
Badatdating,myass.
“I’llthinkaboutit,”Ipromisewithalaugh.
Helookslikehewantstosaysomethingelse,butheswallowsitbackandgivesmeanodinstead.“I’llseeyouonMonday?”
Abuttercroissantandacoffeewithjustcream.Hesurewill.
“I’llseeyouonMonday.”ItapthehoodofhisJeeptwice.“Thanksfortheride.”
Hissmilespreadsintoagrinandthosebrowneyessparkle.Oh,boy.
I’vegotafeelingI’llbethinkingaboutalotofthingswhereCalebAlvarezisconcerned.
Startingwiththosethreedamnbuttonsandthesmilelinesbyhiseyes.FOURCALEB
Idon’tseeLaylaonMonday.
Darlenefromdispatchcallsmeonmycellandinformsmethatmybrotherissevenminuteslateopeninguphisbookstore.Whythisismyproblem,Ihavenoidea.Shestillhasn’tgottenthememothatInolongerworkfortheSheriff’sdepartmentandcallingmesixteentimesadaywiththerandomhappeningsaroundtowndoesnotfallundermyresponsibilityanymore.
That’sgreat,Darlene.I’mgladtheyhavehazelnutlattesatMs.Beatrice’sagain.
I’msorrytohearthatMabelcutyouoffinfrontofthehardwarestore.
Ican’tdoanythingaboutwhoeverisdumpinghundredsofplasticducksinthefountaininthemiddleofthenight.Thekidsloveit,though.
No,IdidnotcatchthelatestepisodeofTheBachelor.IhaveneverwatchedTheBachelorinmylife.
Ihangupmyphoneandflexmyhandsonthewheel,staringhardattheroadthatleadsdowntoLovelightFarms.Alexishungover.Iknowheis.ButifmymotherfindsoutIleftAlexaloneonthefloorofhiskitchen,she’llsmackmeallthewaydownthedrivewayandbackupagain.
“Shit,”Isigh.Iturnleftinsteadofgoingstraight,headingbacktowardstownandmyidiot,indulgentbrother.Themassiveweepingwillowsthathugeithersideoftheroadmockmeinmyrearviewmirror,theirbranchesswayingsoftlyinthebreezethatdriftsinfromthefields.You’relate,theywhisper.She’sgoingtochangehermind.
Great.Inadditiontoimpulsivelyproposingdatingexperimentstoprettybakeryowners,Iamnowtalkingtotrees
IhadhopedtoseeLaylathismorning.Iwantedtosalvage…something…fromourconversationSaturdaynight.Iblamethesadlookonherfaceandthewayshekepttryingtosmileherwaythroughit.Ialsoblamethatdressshewaswearingandthewaythemintgreenmaterialhuggedherthighsinthepassengerseatofmycar.Icouldn’tthinkwhenshewassittingthere,lookinglikethat.Icouldn’tthinkwhenIsawheratthebareither.
Iamninety-ninepercentsureImadeatotalassofmyself,sharingthedismalstateofmyromanticlife.Withaset-uplikethat,thechancesofheragreeingtomypropositionareslimtonone.
Dateme,Layla,Ibasicallysaid.I’mreallyfuckingterribleatit.
Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.
Iwasjoking.
Kindof.
Notreally.
Alright,Iwasn’tjokingatall,butI’mpreparedtosellthatlieifIneedto.
Idostrugglewithdating.That’sthetruth.Icanneverseemtofigureouttherightthingtosayatexactlytherighttime.Ioverthinkandthenovercompensateforoverthinkingandthenoverthinkmyselfovercompensating.It’saviciouscycle.
Butthere’sanotherreason,too.I’mconvincedI’mpickingthewrongtypeofperson.Becausetherighttypeofpersonisaboutfive-foot-three,hascroppedbrownhairandhazeleyes—acollectionofridiculousapronsandabsolutelynoclueaboutmycrush.I’mnotsureshe’severthoughtofmeasanythingmorethantheguywithacroissantproblem,amblingintoherbakerythreetimesaweekfortheexactsameorder.
I’mnotsosureexplicitlytellingherI’mbadatdatingisgoingtohelpherseemeinadifferentlight,buthereweare.
I’vealwayshadathingforsweepinglovestories.Iusedtositatthelittlewoodentableinmygrandparents’kitchenwhenIwasakidandlistentomyabuelotalkabouttheexactmomenthemetmygrandmother,theloveofhislife.I’dscuffmyshoesacrossthefloorandwatchmyabuelo’sfacechange.I’dwatcheverybitofhimlightup.
Thefirsttimemygrandfathersawmygrandmother,hewasbuyingfishattheirlocalmarket.Shehadherhairpulledbackinonelongbraidandwassellinghuarachesfromatinywoodenstand.Hesaidhetookonelookatherandboughteverythingshehad.Whatheintendedtodowithoverthirtypairsofwomen’ssandals,Ihavenoidea.Butshewalkedhimhomewithbagshangingoffboththeirelbowsandtheyweremarriedonemonthlater.Loveatfirstsight,hesaid.
Mydadmetmymomwhenhewasstandingonthebalconyofhisapartment.Hewaswateringhisplantsandsawherstandingonhers.Unasanta,he’dalwaystelluswhenwewerekids,climbingalloverhim,askingtohearthestoryagainHethoughtshewasasaint.Hewouldwhistlefromhisopenwindowtohersandshewouldappeartherewithabottleofwineandacorkbetweenherteeth.They’dtalkuntilthesunwaslowinthesky,bothofthemintheirwindows,thewinebottlepassedbackandforth.
Igrewupwiththesestories.Tenderandromanticandabsolutelyuselessathelpingmaintainmyexpectationsforrelationships.IknowwhatIwantandwhatIdon’tandI’mnotwillingtosettle.
Laylashouldfeelthatway,too.Sheshouldn’tsettle.Sheshouldn’tbeoutondateswithguysthatstealthesilverware.Guysthatleaveherstandingatthebarbyherselfwithapenbetweenherteeth,payingforamediocredinnerandbadcompany.Isawheronceatthefarmer’smarketwiththatJacobguyshewaswithforawhile.Shewasholdingupabouquetofflowers,tryingtoshowhimthedifferentblooms.Heignoredhercompletely,busyonhisphone.Icanstillrememberthewayherfacefell.Thewayshecarefullyputtheflowersbackandcurledinonherself.
AngerburnssharpinmygutandIslapatmyturnsignalharderthanImeanto.
Shedeservesbetter.
I’dliketotrymybesttoshowherthat.
Ifshe’llletme.
Alex’scarisinthedrivewaywhenIpark,thecurtainsdrawnoverthewindows.Idon’tbotherknocking.Ijustgrabthekeyfromwhereit’swedgedunderasmallstatueoftheVirginMaryinhisgardenandelbowmywaythroughthedoor.Ourgrandmotherboughthimthatstatuefouryearsagoandwe’rebothafraidtomoveit.Everytimewesomuchasstareatitfortoolong,ourabuelaappearsatthefrontdoorasifwesummonedher.
“Riseandshine,”Ishoutdowntheshorthallway.Imakesuretoslamthedoorbehindme.Agroanechoesfromthedepthsofthehouse.
Ihearhisvoiceinthekitchen,faintbutthere.“Solodéjamemorir.”
AlexalwaysrevertstoSpanishwhenhe’sfeelingdramatic.IgrinasIfollowthesoundofhiswheezingandfindhimsprawledacrossthefloorinfrontofthefridge,hisglassesonhischestandabottleofGatoradeclutchedinhishand.Hisbagisstilloverhisshoulderandhisshirtishalftuckedin,shoesunlacedonhisfeet.Itlookslikehemadeavaliantattempttogetoutthedoorthismorning,buthadachangeofhearthalfwayacrosshiskitchen.
“I’mnotgoingtoleaveyouheretodie,”Ireply.Hemakesapitifulwhimperingsoundandrollsontohisside,hiskneestohischest.
“Isatdownforaminute,”hewhines.“Idon’tthinkIcangetupagain.”
“Youcan.”
Hegroans.Longandloudandobnoxious.“Fine.Idon’twantto.”
“You’resupposedtoopenthestore.”Inudgehimwithmyfootandheswatsatmyankle.Ikindofexpecthimtosnaphisteethatme,too.He’salwaystheworstwhenhe’shungover.“AndIhavetogettoschool.Let’sgo.”
“Iamten—”Heturnsslightlyandsquintsattheclockabovethemicrowave.“—Iamtwelveminuteslate.Iownthestore.Thisismyright.”
“Peopleareworried.”
“Darlenedoesn’tcountaspeople.Theoldbat.”
Isnicker.Sheisanoldbat.“I’lltellheryousaidthatifyoudon’tgetyourassingear.”
Heglaresatmeandslipshisglasseson.“It’snothingIhaven’tsaidtoherface.Theonlyreasonsheknowsthestoreisn’topenyetisbecausesheshowsupeveryMondayandsitsinthebackandreadsallofthesaucypartsofmyparanormalromancenovelswithoutpayingforthem.Icaughthertakingpicturesonherphoneafewweeksago.”Hesitsupwithahuff.“Itisnotoutofthegoodnessofherheart,Ipromiseyou.”
“Eitherway,Ineedtogettoschool.”AndpanicaboutmylifechoicesandthebargainsImakewithprettywomeninthepassengerseatofmycar.Notscoophimoffthefloor.“I’lldropyouonmyway.”
“Isn’titsummer?Whyarethesekidsinschool?”
“Summerschool,Alex.”
Hegivesmeabalefullook,hunchedoverinahalf-standingversionofthefetalposition.“Thereisaseventy-fivepercentchanceI’llthrowupinyourcar.”
Iblowoutasigh.“I’llrolldownthewindow.”
“Fairenough.”Hepushesuptohiskneesanddryheavesintohisfist.“Dios.IthinkImightdietoday.”
Ifrown.“Howareyoustillthishungover?”
“Luis,Aaron,CharlieandSofiastayedoverthewholeweekend.TioBenjamín,too.Therewastequilainvolved.”Hesquints.“Ithink.”
“Ah.”
Alexshuddersasheunrollshimselftohisfullheight,handsbracedonhiships.“Youdidn’tseeBenjamínwhenyoucamein?”
“Ididn’t.”
I’msurprisedhewasn’tinthebusheswhenIpulledup.Itwouldn’tbethefirsttime.
Alexfrowns.“Icouldhaveswornhewasstillhere.”
Mymother’syoungestbrothernevermissesacelebrationandneverforgetstobringthetequila.I’mnotinterestedenoughtosolvethemysteryastowherehe’sdisappearedtothistime,alreadyannoyedwithhavingtostopbyinthefirstplace.
IpromisedLaylaI’dseehertoday.Idon’twanttostartout…whateverthisis…withabrokenpromise.
Alexfinallymanagestopickhimselfupoffthefloorandbeginaslow,creepingshuffletothefrontdoor.He’shalfwaydownthehallwaywhenhetripsonsomethingandtumblesheadfirstintothewall.Apictureofusfromwhenwewerekidsrattlesintheframeashecatcheshimself.
Apainedmoanfloatsoutfromthecoatcloset.Webothlookdown.Twolegsstickoutfromacrackinthedoor.Idon’tknowhowImissedthemwhenIfirstcamein.
“Leavemeheretodie,”warblesCharlie’svoicefrominside.
Alexlaughsandwedgesthedooropenfurther.HetosseshisbottleofGatoradeinsidewithoutbotheringtolookwhereitmightland.There’sathud,anothergroan,andthetwolegslayingoutintothemiddleofthehallwayshiftslightly.
“Stayaslongasyou’dlikebutlockupwhenyouleave,yeah?”
There’ssilenceforhalfasecond.“I’meatingalloftheleftoversinthefridgebeforeIgo,”Charliegrumbles.
Alexrollshiseyes.“Iassumedyouwould.”
Neitherofuscaretohearhisresponse.WemakeourwaytomyJeep,Alex’swalkmoreofastaggerthananythingcoordinatedandpurposeful.ThethirdtimeIcheckmywatch,hegruntsatmeandslidesintothepassengerseatlikehisentirebodymightcombustatanymoment.Giventhepalecolorofhisusuallydarkskinandthesweatbeadingathistemples,it’slikely.
IofferhimtheemptypastryboxLaylawasmessingwiththeothernight.
“Incaseyougetsick,”Isay.
Hismouthsettlesintoagrimline.“Notabadidea.”
It’sasilentdriveasAlexdoeshisbesttokeephimselftogetherinhisseatandIdomybestnottocatastrophizeinmine.WasLaylawaitingformethismorning?Didshealreadymakeadecision?Isshegoingtolaughinmyface?Orworse,willshepretendlikeweneverhadtheconversationinthefirstplace?Iwon’tbeabletowalkintoherbakeryeveragain.
Christ,thatwouldmeanIhavetogiveupcroissants.
IcanfeelAlexstaringatthesideofmyface.Imeethisstareassoonaswehitastopsign.Heusedtogetthesamelookonhisfacewhenwewerekidsandhewasabouttoconmeoutofthelastconcha.
“What?”Iask.
Heslumpsdownfurtherinhisseat.“DidIseeLaylaatthebaronSaturday,orwasthattheinfluenceofsevendaiquirisandaplatterofcrabdip?”
“Shewasthere.”
“DidIalsoseeyouleavewithher?”
“Wetalkedaboutthiswithyoubeforeweleft.Webothsaidgoodbye.”
“DoIneedtoremindyouhowmuchalcoholIconsumedonSaturday?”
Fairpoint.“Idroveherhome.Herdateditchedherandsheneededaride.”
Alexmakesagrumbling,disapprovingnoise.“Whatanasshole.”
“Yup.”Ihaven’tbeensokindwhenthinkingofthemanshehaddinnerwith.I’llneverunderstandhowanyonecouldsitacrossfromLaylaandbeanythingotherthanmesmerized.Hersmile.Herwryhumor.Theabsolutejoysheradiateswhenshetalksabout…anything.Didheevenrealizehowluckyhewastohaveallofherattention?I’veseenherthreedaysaweekforthepastfiveyearsandIdon’tthinkshe’snoticedmeonce.
Although,maybeshehas.Idon’tknow.Ididn’trealizeshehadaruleaboutnotdatingpeopleintown.Thatmakesmefeelslightlybetter.
“Soyou…droveherhome.”
“Idid.”
Alexhums,somehowmanagingtoinfusethosethreesyllableswithenoughsmugsatisfactiontomakemyteethclench.
Werolltoastopataredlight.Theonlyredlight,really,inthistinytown.Iusuallylikelivinginasmalltown,closetoallofmyfamily.Butondaysliketoday,I’dreallylovetobealittleanonymous.
Alex’sfaceisfullyagainstthepassengersidewindow,hishandsclenchedtightaroundthestrapsofhisbag.Andyethe’sstillsmilinglikeheknowssomethingIdon’t.
“What?”
Heshrugs.“Nothing.”
Iregretnotleavinghimonthekitchenfloor.“What,Alex?”
“Didyouplaceanorderforacustomcakeonyourdriveback?”
IpunchhiminthearmashardasIcanwhilemaintainingagriponthesteeringwheel.Hecacklesindelightandrubsathisbicep.
Iwentthrougha…phase…nottoolongago.AphasewhereIorderedacustomcakefromLayla’sbakeryeverytwoweeks.
Ihadn’tevenrealizedIwasdoingit.Notreally.Ijustlikedseeingher,spendingtimewithher.Tenpoundslater,IdecidedIneededtoletthatlittlebuttercreamaddictiongo.
Ishiftinmyseat.“Shemakesareallygoodcake.”
“I’msureshedoes.”
“Theicing,”Imumble,andstopmyselfhalfwaythroughthethought.It’snotworthit.“Shutyourmouth.”
AlexsnickersandIdeliberatelyhitaspeedbumptoofast,sendinghimtippingbackandforthinhisseat.Hegroansandclapshishandoverhismouth.
“WebothsufferifIthrowup,youknow.”
IdropAlexoffatthecurbofhisbookstoreandhightailitovertothehighschool,barelymanagingtoskidintomyclassroombeforethewarningbell.Islipintotheday,gratefulforthedistractionoftwenty-eightangst-riddenteenagerspissedoffaboutbeinginsummerschool.IspendmoretimeinterceptingnotesbetweentheMcAllistertwinsthaninmyspiralingthoughts.It’sthebestdiversionIcouldaskfor,allthingsconsidered.
Ilikeworkingwithkids.It’sthechangeIneeded.TheonlyreasonIeverbecameapoliceofficerinthefirstplacewastogetfinancialhelpformydegree.Itwasn’tacalling,orajobIfeltparticularlypassionateabout.Ilikedhelpingpeople,andIgettodothathere,too.
TheconversationsIhavewithmystudentsarethebestpartofbeingateacher.
“Canyouhelpmetranslatethis,Mr.Alvarez?”
ItaketheslipofpaperoutofJeremyRoughman’shandandglancedownathischickenscratchscribbleacrossapieceofnotebookpaper.Isigh.
TheconversationsIhavewithmystudentsaretheworstpartofbeingateacher.
“No,Ican’t.”Icrumplethepaperinaballandtossitinthewastebasketundermydesk.Ifeellikethrowingitawayisn’tenough.Ineedsomelighterfluid.Maybeaboxofmatches.“Whoareyouevensayingthatto?”
Helooksdownathisfeetandmumblessomethingunderhisbreath.
“Whatwasthat?”
“IwasgonnaaskLydiatothedance.”
Mylipstwitch.“Andyouthoughtreciting90’srapinSpanishwouldaccomplishthatparticulargoal?”
Heshrugshisshoulders.“Itworksforyou.”
Iblink.Ihavenoideawherehecameupwiththatidea.“Iamnotrecitingraplyricstoanyone.”
“No,theSpanishthing.How’dyougetsogoodatit?You’reawaybetterteacherthanMs.Metzler.”
ProbablybecauseMs.Metzlerdidn’tspeakanySpanishandonlytaughtthekidshowtoorderaquesadillaconchorizofromtheculturallyappropriativerestauranttwotownsover.Andtresleches.I’mconfidentherapproachtoteachingSpanishwasjustrecitingherdinnerordersoverandoveragain.Itwasaverylowbar.
“Thankyou.”Ithink.There’salwaysalottounpackeverytimeJeremyopenshismouth.“IgrewupspeakingSpanish.Mywholefamilyspeaksit.MygrandmotherisfromTodosSantos.”Ihavetoldthistotheclassnolessthanthirty-seventimes.
Hestaresatmeblankly.Irubthepalmofmyhandacrossmyforehead.“It’satowninMexico,Jeremy.Wewereliterallytalkingaboutitthreedaysago.”
“Oh,that’sright.”Hesnapshisfingerswithagrin.“Thosepictureswiththegirlsinbikinis.”
Isighagain.Ifyouzoomedinonmypresentation,maybe.IguessI’llhavetogothroughandreplacethoseslides.“Thepictureswiththebeaches,Jeremy.”
“Yeah,yeah.That’swhatImeant.”HestareslonginglyatthebasketItossedhisinspirationinto.“Youreallywon’ttranslatethatforme?”
“Ireallywon’t.”Icrossmyarmsovermychestandleanbackinmychair.“Buthowaboutyoucomeupwithsomethingyouwanttosay,andI’llworkonitwithyou.”
Heopenshismouth.
“Somethingthatisn’tvulgar,oraliberalinterpretationofraplyrics.”
Hesnapshismouthshutwithagrimace.
“Isthisgraded?”
Ihidemygrinbehindaclosedfist.Thiskid,Iswear.“No,it’snotgraded.Youaskedforhelp.Thisismehelpingyou.”
Helookslikeheregretsevercomingintothisclassroomatall.“Ididn’texpecttogetmorehomeworkoutofit,”hecomplains.Hesighswithallthedramaofaprepubescentmaleanddragshishandthroughhishair.“Later,Mr.Alvarez.”
Iwatchhimsaunterintothehallwaywithalloftheconfidenceofanadolescentman.Idon’tevenwanttoknowthetroublethatkidisofftogetintonow.Icollectmythingsandreachformybag.IfIhurryandnooneasksmetotranslateanythingelse,IshouldstillbeabletocatchLaylaatthebakerybeforesheleavesfortheday.
Maybeweshoulddateeachother.
ImightaswellbeJeremyrecitinghorribleraplyricsinSpanish.
“Thatwasaninterestingassignment,Mr.Alvarez.”
Islammykneeontheundersideofmydeskandmybaggoestopplingtothefloor.Ittakesacupofpensandatinyceramicturtleinasombrerowithit.Alexboughtitformemyfirstweekofteaching—saiditwouldmakemeseemcooler.I’mstartingtothinkhewasmakingfunofme.
Emma,theeighthgradeEnglishteacher,wincesfromthedoorway.
“Sorry.Ididn’tmeantostartleyou.”
“It’sfine,”Isay,asIheavemyselfoutofmychairandstartcollectingthepensscatteredacrossthefloorlikeaschoolsupplyfireworkblast.“Mymindwassomewhereelse.”
OnLayla,specifically.OnthebuttercroissantIshouldhavehadforbreakfastandthewayherlaughsoundswhenshe’scoveredinflourandsugaruptoherelbows.
MaybeI’mnotovermycustomcakecrush.
Emmacomesfurtherintheroom,bendinggracefullytoherkneestohelpcollectpens.“Musthavebeen.Iwasn’teventryingtobesneaky.”
Apluckofapprehensionnudgesatme.IwonderhowmuchofmyconversationwithJeremysheheard.“Iprobablyshouldn’thavedonethat,huh?”
Shepeersupatme,herbrightblondehairpulledbackinaneatbun.“Thrownthislittlecutie?”Shepicksupmyturtleandtapsatthehatonhishead.“Probablynot.”
Ihuffalaughandcollecttheknickknack,placinghimbackonhisrightfulthroneatthecornerofmydesk.Jokeornot,I’vebecomeattachedtoFernando.“Realteachersprobablydon’tencouragetheirstudentstowritelovelettersasanassignment.”
Emmastandsandhandsmetherestofmypens,afistfulofredandblue.Thisisthefourthtimethismonthshe’sstoppedbymyclassroom.Shetellsmeit’sbecauseshewantstomakesureI’msettlingin,thatthekidsarebehaving,butitfeelslikesomethingelse.Hercheck-insarealittletooconsistent.MaybePrincipalWallerishavingherdropinassomesortofevaluation.
“Realteachershelptheirstudentslearn,howevertheycan.”Shegivesmeagentlesmile.“You’redoinggreat,Caleb.Really.IfJeremyofallpeopleisshowinginterest,thenyou’redoingafinejob.”
“Okay,good.”IfIcouldgetthatsamesortofendorsementonhowI’mhandlingtherestofmylife,thatwouldbegreat.Ishoveallofthepensintoanemptydeskdrawerandglanceattheclock.“Ah,shit.”
Emmafollowsmyeyesandfrowns.“Somewhereyouneedtobe?”
BythetimeImakeittoLovelight,Laylawillbegonefortheday,thebakeryinthehandsofhersupportstafffortherestoftheevening.Icouldvisitheratherhouse,butIdon’tknow.Itfeelsliketoomuch.
Idon’twanttomakeheruncomfortable.
IthinkImightbetoomuch.Forsomepeople.
“Iwasgoingtotry—”Iswallowbackthewords.Iwasgoingtotrywhat?TrytoconvinceLaylatotakemeuponmyridiculousidea?Beghertoforgetaboutit?Idon’tevenknow.
“I’msorry,yeah.Idohavesomewheretobe.”IgiveEmmaatightsmileandslingmybagovermyshoulder.“I’llseeyoulaterthisweek?”
Shesmoothesherpalmsoverherskirt.“Sure,yeah.Ofcourse.Sameschoolandall.”
Ihesitateathertone.“Wastheresomethingelseyouneeded?”
“No,no.”Shewavesmeoff.“Justsayinghello.”
Igiveheranotherforcedsmileonmywayout.Ibarelymanagethreestepsdownthehallwaybeforeabodyslamsintomine,ashowerofmanilafoldersandlooseleafpaperrainingdownonme.
“Ah,mybad,Caleb.”Gabe,thebiologyteacher,adjustshisglassesandsnatchesapieceofpaperslowlyfloatingitswaytotheground.Toobadtherestofhisfilesarestrewnacrossthehallway.“Iwasn’tpayingattention.”
“NeitherwasI,”Isigh.Icollectacoupleofloosesheetsbymyfeet,afranklyterrifyingdrawingofafrogdissectionstaringbackatme.Iamverygladalanguagepositionbecameavailable,andnotsomethinginthepracticalsciences.
“Youknow,I’mactuallygladIranintoyou.Iwasintheteacher’sloungetheotherdayand—”
IstackthepapersinahaphazardcollectionandshovetheminGabe’sgeneraldirection,ignoringwhateveritishe’stalkingaboutasIheadpasthimtotheexit.I’llfindhimtomorrowandapologize.AllIwanttodoisgetinmycar,drivetothefarm,andtalktoLayla.Evenifit’sjustforfiveminutes.IneedhertoknowIdidn’tforgetabouther.
“Caleb!”
Iwanttoslammyheadintotheemergencydoor.Atthisrate,I’llneverleavethisschool.Mightaswellmakemyselfcozyonthelinoleumfloorandsetupavelvetropewalkwayforanyonewhomightneedsomethingfromme.IcollectmyfrustrationlikeGabe’swaywardassignmentsandstackitintosomethingneatandtidyinmychest.IblowoutadeepbreathandturntowatchMrs.Petersmarchherwaytowardsme.
“WhatcanIdoforyou,Mrs.Peters?”
Shewavesawaytheformality.“Carina,please.Weworktogethernow,Caleb.”
“Habit,”Iexplain.“You’llalwaysbeLuka’smomtome.”
“Asitshouldbe,Isuppose.”Asmilelightsupherface,chestnuthairswingingbehindhershoulders.Lukalooksjustlikeher,downtothefrecklesoverhisnoseandthesmilethatspellsnothingbuttrouble.
Sheclaspsherhandsbehindherback.“Iwantedtoremindyouthatyou’reonbusdutyWednesdaymorning.Ithinkthisisthefirsttimeyou’reontheschedule.”
Shit.Ididforgetaboutthat.“Ah,yes.Thankyouforthereminder.”
MaybeIcanstopbyLayla’stomorrowmorninginstead.Imightbreakmyself-controlstreakandgetsomethingwithdarkchocolate.Gocrazyandgetpeanutbutter.IfeellikeI’veearnedit.
“Willyoubestoppingbythefarmthisweek?”
It’slikeshe’sreadmymind.Iblinkandtrytostoptheheatfromrisingtomycheeks.Judgingbyhersmile,I’mentirelyunsuccessful.Myblushhasalwaysgivenmeaway.
“I’mgoingtotry,”Imanage.“Ican’tseemtogetthroughmyweekwithoutsomethingfromLayla’s.”
Myblushdeepens.Mercifully,Mrs.Petersdoesn’tcommentonit.
“Ifyouseemysonwhileyou’rethere,remindhimhehasallofmygoodTupperware.”Sheclickshertongueonce.“HefinallymovesclosertohismotherandIsuddenlyseehimlessthanwhenhelivedinNewYork.”
“Ah,well.I’msureStellaiskeepinghimbusy.”
“Asitshouldbe,Isuppose,”sherepeatswithanothergrin.Sheturnsonherheelandheadsbackinthedirectionshecamefrom.Shehostsacookingclassafterschoolforsomeofthekidswhoseparentsworklate.Easyrecipestheycanmakeontheirownwithenoughleftoverstobringtotheirsiblings.I’vealwaysthoughtitwasincrediblykindofher.
“Oh,andCaleb?”
Isigh.“Yes,Mrs.Peters?”
“TellLaylaIsayhello.”FIVELAYLA
“Honey,Ijustwantyoutoknowthatyou’rethebestthingthat’severhappenedtome—”
Iclenchmyteethandpointedlyignorethecouplestandinglessthantwofeetawayfromme,theirnosesrubbingtogether,theirhandsclaspedtightlybetweenthem.
“—andI’msohappywecouldcomeheretogether.Itreallyfeelslikeourlovehasgrowndeeperand—”
Imakeachokingsoundandduckdownfurtherbehindthecounter.Everyday.Thishappenseveryday.
“—comingtothisplace,feelingthismagic,IknowI’msupposedtobewithyoufortherestofourlives.”
Iknowwhatcomesnext.Thegentlethudofsomeone’skneehittingthehardwoodfloorandthebreathygaspinresponse.Ihaveseenseventeenproposalsinthelastsixmonths.
Nice,Iguess,insomeways.Butinother,moreimportantways—theabsoluteworst.
Ipopbackupfrombehindthecounterjustintimetoseetwopeoplefranticallymakingoutagainstmydisplaycase,abigdiamondsparklingontheappropriatefinger.Iignorethemandturnbacktomycupcakes.Ihavebiggerthingsonmymindthanpotentialpublicindecencyrightwhereallmysaltedcaramelcookiescansee.
Calebdidn’tshowuponMonday.
OrTuesday.
It’sWednesdayafternoonandIhaveyettoseeevenahintofhim.He’smissedtwobuttercroissantsandallofhispromisedfreecoffee.
Itellmyselfit’sfine.Ourconversationovertheweekendwaspurelyhypothetical—twopeoplewhocasuallyknoweachotherkillingtimeduringalongdrivebackhome.There’snoreasontobeembarrassedthatIspentallofSundayturningtheideaoverandoveragaininmyhead,examiningitfromeveryanglewhileIdrewupthebakerymenufortheweek.Idon’tneedtobeashamedthatIsatthereinmybig,fluffy,lilacrobeandentertainedtheideaofdatingCalebAlvarezinhisquesttobebetteratwooingwomen.
Whateverthatmeans.
I’mstartingtothinkhemeantitasajokeandthatis—thatisfine.Morethan.Hedoesn’tneedtoavoidthebakehouse.Hedoesn’tneedtoavoidme.
Ifillmypipingbagwithicingandwatchasthehappycoupleleavesthebakery,mywreathofpeoniesonthefrontdoorswinginglightlywiththeirexit.It’snotdisappointmentthatlodgesfirmlyinthebackofmythroat—justabadbatchofcoffee.IkeptittoolongonthewarmerthismorningandIdidn’tbothertousethegoodbeansfromMs.Beatrice.
Hewouldn’t,though.Wouldhe?Makeajokeofit.Ican’timaginehewould.HeoncestutteredhiswaythroughthedurationofatownmeetingafterMs.Beatriceaccusedhimofcuttingheroffmid-sentence.Hehadbeensoembarrassed,hisfacewaspracticallypurpleatthefrontoftheroom.Iwatchedhimfoldthesamepieceofpaperseventimes.Henevervolunteeredtoleadatownmeetingagain.
No,hewasn’tmakingfunofme.Maybehejustgotheldupsomewhere.Doing…something.
Forthreedaysinarow.
“Areyouwaitingforsomeone?”
Stellaappearsoutofnowhererightinfrontofme.Myentirebodyjoltsandmyelbowknocksmytrayofcupcakestotheside.Shehelpsmecorrectit,andthenplucksadriedorangesliceoffthetopofonethattookatumble.Irollmyeyesandhandhertherestofit.TheamountoffoodIlosetoStellaandBeckett’sgrazingisastounding.
“Wheredidyoucomefrom?”
“Theback,MissJumpy.Iwascallingforyou.”Stellacarefullypeelsthepaperlinerawayfromthecupcake.“Youkeeplookingatthedoor.Areyouexpectingashipment?Ididn’tseeanypaperwork.”
“What?”
“Whoareyouwaitingfor?”
Iglanceatthedooragain.Iseenothingbuttreesoutthefrontwallofwindows,thebranchesthickandfullandgreen.Theypressinonthefloor-to-ceilingglasswindowsinthefront,hidingthebakehousealmostentirelyfromview.Idon’tseeasinglesignofasix-foot-threemanwithdimplesfordays.
Ugh.
“No.No,I’mnot.”Icompulsivelysqueezemyicingbag.“Iamnot.Iamnotwaitingforanyone.”
Stellanarrowshereyesatme,hermouthfullofcupcake.“Thatwasanenthusiasticdenial.”
Ibendatthewaisttoresumemyicing,aperfectringofwhitebuttercreamaroundthetopofanorangespongecake.I’mcallingtheselittlecutiesOrangeCrush.I’dliketocrushonerightintoStella’sface,ifonlytokeepherfrompesteringme.
“Itwasnot,”Imumble.
“Youhavecheckedthedoortwenty-onetimessinceIgothere.Whichhasbeenaboutthreeminutes.”
Inarrowmyeyesandkeepmygazefirmlyawayfromthedoor.Mylefteyetwitches.“Ihavenot.”
“YoualmostupendedyourKitchen-AidwhenIsaidhello.”
“Yousurprisedme.”
“Hm.”
Stellahasalwaysbeengoodatthis.Waitingpatientlyformetospillwhateverisrunningcirclesinmymind.Itbecameanartformtoherincollege,whenwewerebothawkwardgirlstryingtofindourwayintoadulthood.Wespentplentyofnightshuddledtogetherinourdorm’scommonroom,laughingaboutnothingandtalkingabouteverything.Makingcakeoutofabox.Whenwegraduated,Ifollowedherbacktothetinytownshegrewupin,notreadytoleavemybestfriendquiteyet.ImadesomechocolatechipcookiesforthefirehousebakesaleandStellagotamanicgleaminhereyesassoonasshetastedthem,explodingintoafrenzyofChristmastreefarm-relatedbusinessplans.
I’vebeenhereeversince.
Apparently,bakingisanexcellentuseofamathematicsdegree.
Myhandwobblesandmyperfecticinggoestrailingdownthesideofthecupcake.Isigh,pluckitfromthetray,andplaceitinfrontofStella.
“You’redistractingme.”
“Ithinkyou’redistractingyourself.”
“Fine.”Isetmyicingbagtothesideandsweepmyeyesacrossthespace,makingsurethere’snoonecloseenoughtooverhearme.It’semptyenoughonaWednesdayafternoon,butourtownisstuffedtothebrimwithbusybodiesthatlovetosnoop.InarrowmyeyesatGusinthecorner,thehandsomeyoungfirefighterwhomightbethebiggestgossipmongerofthemall.Iknowforafactthathe’snearthetopofthetownphonetreethatdistributesgossipinsteadofimportanttowninformation.Iknowaboutthebettingboardinthebackofthefirehouse,too.Forawhile,itwaslistingtheoddsonwhenStellaandLukawouldfinallygettogether.NowIthinkit’sabettinglistbasedonwhenBeckettwilladopthisnextanimal.
SatisfiedGusisn’tlistening,IlookatStellaandpropmyhandsonmyhips.“IsawCalebthisweekend,”Iwhisper.
“What?Likearoundtown?”Shefrownsandtakesanotherbiteofcupcake.“That’snothingnew.Whyareyouwhispering?”
Ohmygod.“Whyareyouyelling?”
“I’mnotyelling.I’mtalkingatareasonablelevel.”Shegivesmeastrangelookandtakesanotherobscenebiteofcupcake.“You’refreakingout.”
“Idon’twantGustohearwhatwe’retalkingabout,”Itellher,stillwhispering.Theentiretowndoesn’tneedtoknowthatI’vebeenwaitingforCalebtowalkthroughthosedoors.They’dprobablybringitupatthenexttownmeeting.
“Ican’thearanything,”Guscallsfromtheboothinthecorner,hisbackproppedupagainstthewindow,aplaidpillowonhislap.Hedoesn’tbotherlookingupfromhissliceofpecanpie.“Carryon.”
“Yourememberwherethedooris,don’tyouGus?”
Heshootsmeawink.“Suredo,Laylabug.”
“Don’tcallmethat.”
IgrabStellabytheelbowanddragherintothebackkitchen.Sheabandonshercupcakeonmypreptableandgrabsbothofmyhandsinhers.Squeezestight.
“What’sgoingon?Wasityourdatethisweekend?Didhedosomethingweird?”Herhandsholdontomineeventighter,awhite-knucklegrip.“ShouldIcallBeckettandLuka?IbetDanecouldusehisSheriffconnectionstofindhisaddress.I’vealwayswantedtoslashsomeone’stires.”
“Calmdown,Rambo.Wedon’tneedtoslashanyone’stires.Itoldyou.IsawCalebthisweekend.”
Stellaraisesbotheyebrowsatme.“Okay.And?Heliveshere.Weseehimallofthetime.”
“No.Isawhimatthebar.”
Shestaresatme,confused.“Layla,Ihonestlydon’tunderstandthelevelofurgencyyouhaverightnowbutI’mgoingtomatchitbecausethat’swhatfriendsdo.Whatbar?”
“IwenttothatbeachbaroverinRehobothformydatewithBryce.”
ShemakesafacelikeIjustforcedalemoninhermouth.“Bryce.Whatadouche-yname.”
“Well,hewasadouche.Soit’sappropriate.”Ireleaseherhandsandrubmypalmsagainstmythighs.“Heendedupditchingme,andIranintoCalebwhenIwastryingtofigureoutwhattodo.”
“Bryceleftyouthere?Atthebar?”Stella’sjawdoesthesameclenchthingthatCaleb’sdid.Herprettyblueeyesnarrowintoslitsandherhandscurlintofists.Shelookslikeshewantstocutdownoneofourtreesandgooutswinging.“Wheredoesheliveagain?”
Iignoreher.“Itdoesn’tmatter.Calebwasatthebar,andStella—hewaswearingaHawaiianshirt.”
ThatshirtisallIcanthinkabout.I’vebeenicingorangehibiscusflowersoneverythingallweek.
Theshirthasbeenonheavyrotationwithhisbiceps.Hisdimples.Hisvoicewhenhesaid,Maybeweshoulddateeachother.
I’mamess.
“Okay.”Stellagivesmeaconcernedlook.“That’sa…choice.”
“Hesaidweshoulddateeachother,”Iaddasanafterthought,mybrainstillstuckontanskinandthejutofhiscollarbonesbeneathhisunbuttonedcollar.Iwouldlovetostopthinkingaboutthisshirt.Ireallywould.
Stellareachesoutandsmacksmeinthearm.Ijoltbackwards,rightintoametalshelffilledwithcupcaketoppings.Ajarofminichocolatechipsgoestumblingtothefloor.
“Whatthehellwasthatfor?”Iask,rubbingatmybareskin.
“Waytoburythedamnlead!”Stellalookslikeshe’sgoingtoswatmeagain.“Layla,Isweartogod.Whydidn’tyoustartwiththat?”
Ishrug.“Idon’tknow.”Probablybecausehe’sskippedhisregularmorningstop-intwodaysinarowandIdon’tthinkhe’sgoneaweekwithoutabakedgoodsinceIopeneduptheshop.Ishegettinghiscroissantssomewhereelse?Thethoughtsettleslikearockinmystomach.Noonemakesbettercroissantsthanme.Noone.“I’mnotsurehewasserious.Ihaven’tseenhimsince.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Imean—”IpeeroverhershoulderthroughthetinywindowinthedoorandmakesureGusisstilloccupied.Iwouldn’tputitpasthimtopresshisearrightupagainstthisdoor.“ImeanhetoldmewhenhedroppedmeoffathomethatIwouldseehimonMonday,andIhaven’tseenhimsince.”
Stellasearchesmyface.“Didyouwanthimtobeserious?”
“Idon’tknow.”Itdidsoundnice,thethingshewastalkingabout.Tohaveadatingexperiencethatdidn’tleavemeembarrassedandhopeless.“Itwouldn’tberealdating.Butthatmightbeanicechangeofpace.”
Stella’sentirefacecollapsesintoconfusion.“IfeellikeIneedaroadmapforthisconversation.Whatdoyoumeanitwouldn’tberealdating?Startfromthebeginning.”
SoIdo.ItellheraboutmyfaileddatewithBryce,aboutthestolensilverware,aboutCalebatthebarandtheMargaritavillebus.ItellheraboutAlexandCharlieandthesloppydancingonthetable.Itellheraboutourdrivehome,howCalebtoldmehe’sbadatdating.Hissuggestionthatmaybeweshoulddateeachotherandhelponeanotherout.
“Sowhatareyougoingtosay?”
“Nothingifhekeepsavoidingme.”Ireachforherabandonedcupcakeandpluckabitoficingoffthetop.“Ifthisishowit’sgoingtobe,maybeit’sforthebestifwepretendthatconversationneverhappened.”
“No,”Stellabreathes,hereyesaswideassaucers.Oh,boy.Iknowthisface.Sheisinvested.Likesuddenly-buy-a-Christmas-tree-farm-and-demo-half-the-buildingsinvested.Binge-watch-all-of-Deadliest-Catch-after-reading-one-book-about-crab-fishermeninvested.
Shebouncesupanddownonhertoes.“No,no,no.Youhavetosayyes.”
“Ido?”
“Obviously.”
Itisnotobvioustome.“Why?”
“It’stheperfectsituation.Agorgeousmanwithdimples—”
“You’venoticedhisdimples,too?”IswearIneveroncenoticedhisdimplespriortothisweekend.
“Youmentionedthemseveraltimesduringthatshortstory.”
“Oh,okay.”
“Anyway,agorgeous,kindmanwithdimpleswantstotakeyouout.”Sheliftsuponefingerlikeshe’stickingoffhergrocerylist.“Hewantstoshoweryouintheaffectionyoudeserve.”Anotherfinger.“Andhewantsyoutocritiquehimwhilehedoesit.Iquitehonestlydonotseeadownside.”
Itakeanothernibbleofmycupcakeandconsider.She’sright.I’veputinmytimewithassholemen.Theremaybeplentyoffishinthesea,butmostofthosefisharebottom-dwellerswithweirdlanternshangingoffthefrontoftheirfaces.Theylureyouinandstealyourbrownies.
Ideservetohavesomefun.I’veearnedthat.
“Hehastostopavoidingmefirst,”Isay,circlingbacktotheoriginalproblem.Ican’ttakehimuponhisofferifIneverseehimagain.Idon’tthinkit’sacoincidencethathe’ssuddenlybrokenhislongstandingcroissanthabitrightafterourconversation.
Andjustlikethat,myanxietyanduneaseatbeingghostedtakesanosediveintoirritation.
Typical.Tobelefthangingbyaman
“That’saneasyfix.”Stellapullsherphoneoutofherbackpocket.“I’lljustringthephonetreeandseeifanyonehasseenhimaroundtown.”
Absolutelynot.InitiatingthephonetreeaboutCalebwouldresultintheentiretownshowinguponmydoorstepwiththeiropinionsonthesituation.Islapthephoneoutofherhandsofastitgoesflyingintoabowloffluffy,whiteshortcakefilling.
Shoot.Iwasgoingtopipethatintosomedonutslater.
WebothstareatitasthedoorswingsopenandBeckettcomesstrollingin,hishatonbackwardsandthesleevesofhist-shirtslightlyrolled.He’scoveredheadtotoeindirtandsweatand—
“Isthatblood?”
“What?”Helooksdownathisshirt.“Oh.No.It’sstrawberryfilling.Igrabbedadonutfromthedisplaycaseonmywayin.”
Ofcoursehedid.Idropmyheadbacktotheceilingandgroan.“Andwhatwereyoudoingbeforeyoucameinhere?”
Asheadoffarmoperations,it’snotexactlysuspiciousthatBeckettlookslikehespentallmorningrollingaroundinapuddleofmud.Buthe’sbeentryingtoconvincemeforthepastmonthandhalfthatIshouldadoptabunchofchickensfromtheproducefarmdowntheroad.Ihaveasneakingsuspicionthathe’sbuildingachickencoopinthetreefieldrightnexttothebakehousedespitemetellinghimspecificallynottodothat.
Idon’twantanychickens,andIdon’twanttohearBecketttalkingaboutchickensfortheforeseeablefuture.Themanhasaproblem.
Hissilenceisanswerenough.Idon’tbotheropeningmyeyes.Iwanttocrawlunderoneofthepreptablesandtakeaverylongnapwithaverybigbottleofwine.
“Iwasn’tdoinganything,”hemumbles.
“Mmhmm.”
Ihearthedoorswingopenagainandmyentirebodygoestaut.Iamarubberbandstretchedwaytootight,twosecondsawayfromsnapping.
“Woah.”It’sLuka’svoicethistime,hisbootsstutteringagainstthehardwood.“Weirdvibesinhere.”
IopenmyeyesjustintimetowatchhimpressalingeringkisstothebackofStella’shead,hisarmcurlingaroundhershoulders,hispalmpressedflatoverherheart.Sheloopsherhandaroundhiswristandsqueezes.Somethinginmychestsqueezes,too.
Iamhappyforthem.So,sohappyforthem.Ittookthemtenyearstogettothisplacewitheasyaffectionandwhisperedwords.Noonedeservesitmorethanthem.
ButI’msadforme,too.Alittlebitweary.Tiredinmyheadandinmyheart.
Ibreatheindeepthroughmynose.Outagain.Beckettwatchesmybreathingexerciseswithconsideration.HisfacegetsmoreandmoregrimthelongerItrytocollectmyself.
“Luka,”hesayswithoutbotheringtolookatthemanhe’scommanding.Whichisgood,becauseLukaisbusypretendingthatwecan’tallseethepalmofhishandinchingdownovertheswellofStella’sass.
“What?”Lukamumbles,hisnosebehindStella’sear.
“GettheGator.”
“Why?”
Beckett’seyesnarrowuntilthey’retwotinyslits.HelookslikeClintEastwoodgazingintothesun.Theonlythingmissingisatoothpickhangingoutofhismouth.Eviehasbeengonefortwoweeksonaworktripandthemanisawalkingstormcloud.
“We’regoingout.”
Luka,blesshim,doesn’tmoveamuscle.“Wherearewegoing?”
Beckettturnshisheadslowly.“Doyoustillhavethatfacepaint?”
Lukagrins.Stellagroans.Isnortalaugh.
LukaandBeckett’sfavoriteproblem-solvingmethodistositinbusheswithgreenandblackpaintsmearedovertheirfacesandintimidatewhateveriscausingtheissue.Thelasttimetheydidit,Daneputtheminthedrunktankfor48minutesandmadethemwatchKeepingUpWithTheKardashiansaspunishment.Beckettalmostcried.StellaandIhadtobailthemoutwithfreshbakeddonutswithcustardcreamfilling—Dane’sfavorite.
Asmileticksatthecornerofmymouth.“No.Thisisnotafacepaintsituation.”
“Thenwhydoyoulookupset?AndwhyisStella’sphoneinabowloficing?”
“It’sshortcakefilling,”Imutter,feelingpetulant.Ireachforthebowlandfishoutthedevice,tappingofftheexcesscreamandwipingattheedgeswithadishtowel.Icanfeelthreesetsofeyesonme.
“I’mjust—”IhandStellaherphone.Shetakesit,butshegrabsmywristandholdson,too.Lukashiftshisbodysohecanslinghisarmovermyshoulder.Westandthere,aweirdsemi-grouphugthinghappening.Idon’thateit.
“I’mjusttiredofbeingdisappointed,”Iwhisper.Itrytoclearmythroatbutsadnesssticksthere,clinging,makingmyvoicethick.
I’mtiredofbeingalone,Iwanttosay.
Noonesaysanythinginresponsetothat.It’squietinthekitchen,nothingbutthetickofthetimerinthecornerandthehumoftheoven.Iputsomeminipiesintherenottoolongago.Blueberryandrhubarbwithlittlestarscutintothecrust.They’llneedtocomeoutsoon.ButbeforeIcaneventhinkofextricatingmyselffromLukaandStella,Beckettgruntsbehindmeandthenallthreeofusarewrappedinstrong,sweatyarms.It’sdisgusting.I’mgoingtoneedtochangemyapron.
Stellacurlsherarmsaroundmywaist.
It’salsotheverybestthing.
“Thisisweird,”Lukamutterssomewhereabovemyhead.Beckettmakesanaggravatednoiseandthere’sascuffle.Lukagruntsandhisarmjostlesmyshoulders.“Butalsonice!Beckett,christ,whydoyouhavetokickme?Iwasgoingtosayit’snice.”
“No,youweren’t.”
“Iwas.Iwasgoingtosayweshouldgrouphugeveryday.”Apause.Athoughtfulhum.“Evelynhasbeenagoodinfluenceonyou.You’remoreintunewithyourneedforaffection.”
Beckettgrumblesagain.IpressmyfaceintoStella’sshoulderwithasnicker.
“Nomatterwhat,”shewhisperswhileBeckettandLukacontinuetoargueoverourheads.“You’vealwaysgotus,Layla.You’llneverbealone.”
Sheleansbackandgrinsatme.“Whetheryoulikeitornot.”
CalebfinallyappearsonThursdaymorning.
Heemergesfromthegroveoftreessurroundingthebakehouselikeahot,vengefulspirit,stridingupmystonestepslikehe’sthoughtoflittleelsesinceIlastsawhim.Ipausewithmytrayofbearclawshalfwaybehindthecounterasheswingsopenthedoorwithforce,mypoorfloralwreathflyingacrossthecozydiningspace.
EverythingaboutCaleblookslikeaphysicalstudyofimpatience.Stiffshoulders.Fiercefrown.Handsstrugglingwiththestrapofhisbagloopedaroundthehandleofthedoor.
Iwatchwithinterestasheuntangleshimself,cursingbeneathhisbreaththeentiretime.
Helookslikeheranhere.Maybegothitbyatornadoontheway.Idon’tthinkI’veeverseenhimthisdisheveled.
Orgrumpy.
“Givemeyourphone,”hesaysoncehe’sfreedhimselffromthedoor.Nohello.Nohowareyou.NosorryIignoredyouandyourcroissantsforthreedays.
“What?”I’mstilltenstepsbehind,Iguess,myhandfrozenhalfwaybetweenthecounterandthedisplaycase.Apastryhangsprecariouslyinthebalance.IfCalebisimpatience,thenIamconfusion.Bewilderment.“Why?”
Hecrossesthedistancefromthedoortothecountertopinthreelongstrides.“Thisweekhasbeenonethingafteranother.I’vetriedtocomeeveryday,butAlexwashungoverandthenmyabuelaneededhelpwithherdishtowels,andJeremyhasthislovenotething.It’sjustbeen—”Hepressestwofingersbetweenhisdarkeyebrowsandexhalesaheavysigh,tensiononhisfaceandinthewayhe’sholdinghimselfcontainedinthespaceinfrontofme.“I’msorryIwasn’there.Ishouldhavebeen.Iwantedtobe.Itriedtotext,butIdon’thaveyournumber.”
Ifrownandfocusonthelastbit.“Howisthatpossible?”
It’sstrangethatsomeoneI’vebeenatleastperipherallyawareofforthepastcoupleofyearsdoesn’thavemyphonenumber.IthinkClintatthefirehousehasmynumber.
Calebisfrustrated.“Idon’tknow.”
“Youcouldhavecalledthebakehouse.”
Hisfacetightens.Itisveryclearthathedidn’tthinkofthat.“IsupposeIcouldhave.”Hedropshishandfromhisfaceandbeckonstwofingersimpatiently.Mygazesticksonthatsmall,incrementalmovement.“Phone.Please.”
Iputdownmytrayofbakedgoodnessandslidemyphoneacrossthecountertop.Thetipsofhisfingersgrazemyknucklesashegrabsit,histouchgentle.Hesmilesfaintlyatmypinkcupcakephonecase,histhundercloudexpressionclearing.
“I’mtakingyououtonFriday,”hetellsme.
Iraiseaneyebrowandblinkawayfromwherehe’stiptappingacrossmyscreen.“Ohyeah?”
Hehumsintheaffirmative.“I’llpickyouupat6:30.”Hehandsmyphonebacktome,darkbrowneyessearchingmine.Icanmakeoutflecksofgoldintheafternoonlightthatslantsthroughthegiantwindows.Asmilecurlsatthecornerofhismouth.
Ituckastrandofhairbehindmyear.I’mhavingtroublecatchingup.OnesecondI’mrestockingmybakedgoods,andthenextCalebisswingingthroughmyfrontdoor.Ididn’tthinkI’dseehimagainforanotherfourtosixmonths,whenwecouldpretendtherideinhisJeepneverhappened.
Iwatchhim,watchingme.“What?”
“Nothing,”hesays,andhissmiletipsintosomethingwider.“Youlooknicetoday.”
“Ilookniceeveryday.”
Histhumbbrushesagainsthisbottomlipandhisstareslipsfrommyeyestothecurveofmychin.Theslopeofmyneck.Mybrightredapronwithcartoonstrawberriesprintedalloverit.
“Youreallydo,”hesaysfaintly.
Heclearshisthroatandblinksawaytowardsmyclearglassdisplaycase.Adeep,rumblinggroanslipsoutofhismouth.Itisasoundofpure,unadulteratedappreciation.Alickofheatcaressesthebackofmyneck.
“Arethosebearclaws?”
Ibrushmypalmsagainstmyapron,myfacehot.“Yes,theyare.”MysuddenappreciationforhowCaleblooksandsoundsandactsisjarring.It’salljumbledupwithourfriendlybanter,myperipheralawarenessofhim.I’mturnedcompletelyupsidedownandleftscrambling.Iclearmythroat.“Wouldyoulikeone?”
Hisfacesayshewouldlikeseveral.Butallhedoesislickathisbottomlipandcontinuestaringatmybakedgoods.Ipickupmytongsandcarefullytransferabearclawthat’sstillwarmfromtheoven.Iwaveitbackandforthinfrontofhisface.
“Caramelandseasalt,”Ising-song.
“Ishouldn’t.”He’salreadyswayingcloserlikealust-drunksailor.
“Youabsolutelyshould.”
Calebstaresatthebearclawlikehe’sneverseenanythingsotemptingintheentiretyofhislife.Heisheavyeyesandadeepbreaththatstartsinhischestandrollsdownoverhisshoulders.Pinkcheeks.Thisisalookmeantforthedeadofnight.Forgraspingpalmsandsweatyskin.Histongueappearsatthecornerofhismouthagain,thepalmofhishandworkingathisjaw.Hisotherhandbraceshisweightagainstthecounter,forearmflexing.Istarehardatthetwoinchesofskinexposedbyhisrolledsleeve.
“Whyareyourestrictingyourselftobuttercroissants,Caleb?”Ikeepmyvoicelow.Lilting.Teasing.Hemakesanothersoftgroaningsound.“There’sawholeworldoffrieddoughwaitingforyou.”
Heblinksawayfromthetreatinmyhandandshakeshimselfoutofhisstupor.Helevelsmewithalook.“You’replayingdirty.”
Isnickerandplopthedessertinato-gobag.“Youhavenoidea.”TherearefewthingsIenjoymorethanfeedingpeople.Iholdthebagoverthecounterforhimtograb.“Yes,I’llgooutwithyoutomorrow.Butifyouleavemehangingagain,wewillexplorethisarrangementnofurther.Idon’twanttobejerkedaround.”
Notbyyou.Ikeepthatparttomyself.
“Iwon’t,”hetellsme,hiseyeslosingalittlebitoftheircaramelandseasalthaze.“IpromiseIwon’t.Inevermeanttointhefirstplace.”
Somethingrightbeneathmylungstwistsandtugs.“I’mgoingoutonalimb,suspendingmynodatingintownrule.”
Helooksamused,buthedoesn’tlaugh.“Well—”Hestopsabruptlyandscratchesoncebehindhisear.
“Well,what?”
“We’renottechnicallydating,right?”
“Fine.”Iwigglehispaperbagbackandforth,probablyalittlebitmoreaggressivelythanIshould.“IamsuspendingmynogoingondateswithmenIknowfromtownrule.”
“Ah,Isee.Iunderstandnow.”
“Okaythen.”
“Okay,”heagrees.“I’llpickyouuptomorrow.”
Hesnatchesthebagoutofmyhandandturnsaway.
Bemused,Iwatchhimgivethehandleonmydoorawideberth.“Seeyouthen!”
Hewavesahandoverhisheadanddisappearsdownthesteps.Heweavesbetweenthetreesthathugthewalkway,eachstepsureonthestoneslabs.HeunbuttonshiscollarashemovesthroughthesummerheatandIgetaflashbacktothatdamnedHawaiianshirt.
Pineapples.
Flowers.
Collarbones.
Myphonevibratesonthecounter.
IflickopenthemessageandfindapictureofCaleb,hisfacehalfintheframe,mostofittakenupbyabearclawwithamonstrousbitemissing.Hischeekbulgeswithfriedpastrydough,thecrinklesbyhiseyesdeeperwithhissmile.
Asoftohcomesoutofmymouthwithoutpermission.
AndhethinksI’mthedangerousone
Alaughburstsoutofme.
Itextrightback.
SIXCALEB
“Youarefullofsurprises,”Laylatellsme,herhandsproppedonherhipsasshestaresatourdestination.I’mstaringtoo,butI’mmorefocusedonthebannerthatisbarelyhangingon.Itslistingslightlytotheleft,SkateItEasystenciledinneonletters.Skatingrinkandfunparkinboldjustbelow.
ButthenLaylabitesherbottomlipandI’mdistractedforasolidtwelveseconds.
Sheswivelstolookupatme.“Idon’tthinkI’veeverbeenherebefore.Solidscoreonoriginality.”
Aswellofuneasepunchesmerightinthechest.“There’sscoringinvolved?”
“Oh,definitely.YousaidyouwantedfeedbackandIintendtobeverythorough.”
“Iwashopingyou’dforgetaboutthatpart,”Imumble,moretomyselfthanher.I’vebeenasolid,tangledupmesssinceIstormedintoherbakeryanddemandedherphone.Ihaven’tquitecalmeddownsince.“WhatelseamIbeingscoredon?”
Aslysmilecurlstheedgeofherlips.“Wouldn’tyouliketoknow.”
“Iwould,actually.That’swhyI’masking.”
Sheshrugs.“Toughcookies.”
“Notevenahint?”
Sheshakesherhead.
Irockbackonmyheelsandshovemyhandsinmybackpockets.It’sagoodlookonher,thissmile—theteasing.Muchbetterthanthatsad,reservedlookshewaswearingatthebeachbarthatdimmedherlightandmadeherseemsmall.
IguessI’mdoingsomethingright,ifIcanmakehersmilelikethat.
Someoftheanxietystrumminginmychestfades.
Onlytorocketrightbackupwhenagroupofteenagersrushpastus.IfrownasIwatchthemdartinthroughthedoors.Thereshouldn’tbeanyonebutusheretonight.Icalledinafavorandreservedtherinkforthetwoofus.
IthoughtIhad,anyway.
IdistinctlyrememberhavingthatconversationonthephonewithOliver,theowner.Promisesweremade.Dateswereset.
Thedoorstotherollerrinkopenandaburstofnoiseechoesout.TeenagersscreamingandsomethingthatsoundsvaguelylikeFloRida.
Iguesspromiseswerenotmade.Dateswerenotset.
Oliverhadsimpleinstructions.Therinkprivateforonehour.Thesoundsystemhookeduptomyphone.Twopairsofskatesanddinnerbehindthesnackbar.
26,000hormone-addledteenagerswerenotincludedinthatdirective.
Ifrownatthedoor.
“Isthis—”Laylaisconfused.“Isthisnotwhatyouhadplanned?”
“Notexactly.”LastyearIhelpedOliverpushthroughallofhispermitstogettheplaceupandrunningfortherollerderbyseason.HetriedtogivemeaseasonpasstoSkateItEasyasathankyou,butIdidn’tseetheneed.Thiswassupposedtobethefavorheowedme.“Ah,itwassupposedtobeclosedforeveryoneelse.”
“Forjustmeandyou?”Layla’seyebrowsraisehigh.
Inod.“Yup.”
Shelooksatmeforabeat,andthenbacktothefrontoftheskatingrink.“Idon’tthinkanyonehaseverreservedanythingformebefore,”shesaysquietly.
DidIoverdoit?Iscratchroughlyatthebackofmyheadandthentrytosmoothmyhairbackdown.Ididn’tthinkarollerrinkforonehouronaFridaynightwasthatimpressive.Ormaybeitis,Idon’tknow.Maybeit’stoomuch.
MaybeI’mtryingtoohard.
“Whatyoudeserve,remember?”Iaskgently.
Shebeamsatme,thehazysummersunmakingherglow.
“Itis,”shesayswithaquietsortofjoy.
Myfeetmovewithoutmyexplicitconsent—twostepsforwarduntilIcanmakeoutthefaintfrecklesoverthebridgeofhernose.Shetipsherheadbackandwelcomesmeinherspace.Inodtowardsthedoors.“Wecandosomethingelseifyouwant.We’llprobablyseesomethingtraumatizinginthere.”
“Howbadcoulditpossiblybe?You’llbewithme.”HerchinliftshalfaninchandIgetawhiffofgolden,flakypastrydough,freshfromtheoven.Cottoncandyandrainbowsprinkles.Christ,shesmellslikedessert.
“Iwillbe,”Iassureher.“ThoughIguessIshouldhaveaskedifyoucanskate.”
“Ihaven’tskatedsinceIwasakid.”Sheshrugslikeit’snobigdeal.“Butwe’llfigureitouttogether.”
Atleastshe’swearingsomethingappropriateforrollerskating,ifnotcompletelyinappropriateformetomaintaintheguardrailsaroundthissituation.Cutoffshortswithfrayededges.Abrightorangetanktopandatealscarftwistedthroughhercroppedhair.Layersofgoldnecklacesthatcatchthelightandscatterit.Living,breathingtechnicolor.
“Wecanplayarcadegamesinstead,”Itry.
“Thenightisyoung.We’llseehowitgoes.”
Herhandreachesformeandloopsaroundmyarm,tuggingmehardtowardsthebuilding.Thecloserweget,thelouderthethumpingpulseofbasspounds.Iwinceagain.Itsoundslike…TheElectricSlide?Maybe?
LaylaopensthedoorandI’moverwhelmedbythesmelloffriedchickenanddisinfectantspray.Leatherandpopcorn.TherinkisfilledwithwhatlooksliketheentirepopulationofInglewildHigh.IseeJeremycruiseby,weavinginandoutoftheotherskatersatbreakneckspeed.Ibitebackagroan.
“Pleasedon’tevaluatemeonthis.”
“Nopromises,”Laylalaughs.Herhandonmyarmsqueezesagain.Ilikeitprobablytoomuch.“You’redoingfine,Caleb.Youdidn’ttrytolintrollmeorwhipoutablindfoldfromyourbackpocket.Sofar,sogood.”
Ilookdownatthetopofherheadinconcern.“Whotriedtoblindfoldyou?”
Sheignoresmeandmovesusforward.“Let’sjustgoskate.”
Makingourwaythroughthecrowdofteenagers,itfeelslikeeveryoneiseithergluedtotheirphone,cryinginclusters,orscreamingatthetopoftheirlungs.BythetimewereachOliveratthecounter,I’magitatedandirritated.Olivertakesonelookatmeandhiseyeswiden.
“Ohshit,”hewhispers.“YoumeantthisFriday.”
Laylahumsandtakesherskatesfromthetopofthecounter,pattingmeonceonmyhipbeforedisappearingtofindabenchforhershoechange.Iprobablylikethattoomuch,too.IneedtofindsomesortofpressurereliefvalveinmybrainifI’mgettingthisworkedupoveranarmgrabandahippat.
IturnbacktoOliverandtrytokeepalidonmyfrustration.“OfcourseImeantthisFriday.ThosearetheexactwordsIused.ThisFriday.”
“I’msorry,dude.It’shighschoolnight.”
Ilookovermyshoulderandcountatleastsevenofmystudents.Jeremyisalreadyhangingovertherailwavinglikealunatic.Aheadachestartstopoundrightbehindmyeyestothebeatofboogiewoogie,woogie.
“DidyouatleastremembertoputthefoodintheovenlikeIasked?”
Oliverwincesandscratchesatthecornerofhismouth.There’saredstainbyhiscollarthatlookssuspiciouslylikethemarinarasaucefromMatty’s.SpecificallythemarinarasauceMattyusesinhiseggplantparmesan.ThekindthatIbought,broughtoverhere,andstashedinthefridgebehindthesnackbarfordinnerlater.
“Ithoughtyoubroughtmeasnack.”
IstareatOliver.“YouthoughtIbroughtyouasnack?”
IliketothinkI’mapatientperson.Kind,forthemostpart.ButI’veneverhadmoredarkanddangerousthoughtsthanI’vehadthisweek.Whenitfeelslikemyfamily,thepopulationofthehighschool,theskaterinkowner,andtherestofthelivingworldisconspiringagainstme.
Olivertakestwostepsawayfromtheskaterentalcounter.
“Caleb.”Laylacallstomefromherbench,oneskateonherfootandtheotherinherhand.Shepickedapairwithtinyskullsandcrossbones,brightpinklacesandneonpurplewheels.
Theysuither.
Ipickupmyskates.Minehavedancinghotdogs,becauseofcoursetheydo.InarrowmyeyesatOliver.“Youowemetwofavorsnow.Threeifweincludetheeggplantparmesan.”
Heswallowsandnodsnervously.“Yougotit,man.Enjoyyourskate.”
Idon’tbotherresponding.I’denjoymyskatemoreifitweretheprivaterinkIaskedfor,andIcouldtryandholdLayla’shandwithoutJeremyRoughmanbellowingatmefromtheothersideoftheroom.NowI’mgoingtohavetododgemythirdperiodSpanishclassandyellovertheCupidShuffle.
IcollapseintheseatnexttoLayla.“I’mreallysorry.”
I’msupposedtobeshowingherhowgoodthingscanbe.Notgivingherincentivetodiverightbackintothedatingpool.
“Theyhavenachoshere,Caleb.”Sheslipsherfootintoherotherskateandfumbleswiththelaces.Inudgeherhandawayandpropherankleupagainstmyknee,untanglingtheknotofstring.Sheexhalesashakybreathandwatchesme.“Yourscoreisholdingstrong.”
Itugandtightenherlacesuntilthey’reperfect,focusingonthetaskinsteadofmyhandloopedaroundthebareskinofherankletoholdhersteady.“That’sgood,Iguess.”
Laylanudgesmewithherperfectlytiedskate.“Seriously,Caleb.Everythingisgreat.Let’shavesomefun,okay?”
Unfortunatelyforme,Ican’tquitefigureouthowtodothat.
Idon’tknowwhotoblame.Oliver,fornotdoingexactlywhatItoldhimtodo.Ormyself,forthinkingthiswasagoodideainthefirstplace.
OrJeremy,forskatingapproximatelythreefeetbehindmeandLaylatheentiretime,offeringhiscolorfulcommentaryandsuggestions.
“Mydude,youhavetobalance.Balance.It’sfourwheelsunderyourfoot,Idon’tunderstandwhythisissodifficultforyou.”
Iignorehimandlevermyselfintoaseatedposition,armshunglooselyovermyknees.LaylaskidstoastopinfrontofmeandthenbacktrackstowhereI’msplayedonthefloor.
Again.
“Whydidyoubringmetoaskatingrinkifyoudon’tknowhowtoskate?”Laylaasks,tryingtohelpmeup.Butshe’slaughingtoohardandmyfeetslipoutfromundermeeverytimeIgetabitofleverage,likeoneofthosecartooncharactersstuckinplace,legsspinningbeneaththem.
“Ithoughtitwouldbeeasytofigureout,”Ipant,slappingherhandsawayandrollingontomyside.Ibracemyselfonmykneesandtrytofindmybalance.Imightstaydownhere.Liveoutmydaysonthisgreasy,shinyfloor.
I’mgoingtohavebruisesonmyassforthenexttwotofiveyears.I’llconsideritawinifImakeitoutofthisrinkalive.Death,frankly,soundsmoreappealingthanthiscontinuedhumiliation.
“Useyourarms,”Jeremybellowsfromtheoppositesideoftherink,hishandscuppedaroundhismouth.“It’saboutbaaaaalance.”
Christ.
IignorehimandtiltmyheadtowardsLayla.Laylawhoisstandingperfectlybalanced—perfectlystill—atmyside
“Ireadonlinethatrollerskatingrinksarenostalgicandromantic,”Iconfess.Inretrospect,Iprobablyspentwaytoomuchtimeonthisidea.“Ithoughtyou’dlikeit.”
AkidfrommythirdperiodSpanishclassskatesalittletooclosetomyfannedfingersandIcurlthemintofists.Somewhereinthedistance,there’sachantbeginningamongmystudents.Getup,Se?orAlvarez.Getup.
Wonderful.
“Idolikeit.”
Layla’shandsholdmywristsasshehelpsmeup,wedgingherhipupagainstthewalltoholdussteady.ShekeepsholdingontomeasIfindmybalance,mybodyhunchedoverinfrontofher.Likethis,mychinalmostmeetsthetopofherhead.Herfeetarestill,somehow.Infuriatinglystable.Istareatthelittleflowersonthetealscarftwistedthroughherhairandtrytofocus.
I’mnobetterthanthatguywiththelintroller.Theguywhomadeherdriveallthewaytothatbeachbarandthenleftheronherown.Ibroughthertoacrowdedrollerrinkonhighschoolnightandthey’veplayedCallMeMaybetwenty-sixtimes.Itsmellslikefeetinhere.LikehormonesandtheAxeaisleofabigboxstore.Imightaswellhavedrivenherdirectlytohell.
Sheblinksupatme,herhazeleyesshiningbrighterthanthedamneddiscoball.Anunnamedemotioncurlsatthecornersofherlips,butI’mtoofocusedonnotbreakingeveryboneinmybody—andsubsequentlyhers,whenIinevitablytakeusbothtotheground—tofigureitout.
She’sprobablywonderinghowmanymorelapssheneedstotakebeforeshecanleave.Ifit’sworthstayingforasoftpretzelorifshecanjustmicrowavesomethingwhenshegetshome.
Hergripadjustsuntilherpalmsarepressedtomine.Shesqueezesonceandstartsmovingslowlybackwards.
“Let’stalkaboutthisresearchyoudid.”
“Let’snot.”
“WasitaBuzzfeedarticle?”
Iglanceatourfeet,guilty.“Itwasaveryqualified,academicarticle.”
“Aboutrollerrinks.”
“Yes.Thereweresourceslisted.”Ihesitate.“Iwantedyoutohaveagoodtime,butIprobablyoverdidit.”
Again.
Shedoesn’tsayanythinginresponse.Herfacesettlesintosomethingsoft,contemplative.I’veseenthatlookbefore.Usuallywhenshehasaspatulathesizeofahalfdollarinherhandandhertonguebetweenherteeth,herfacelevelwithacakesittingattheedgeofthecounter.
Sheskatesaroundacurve,stillbackwards,tuggingmealongwithher.Slow,slow,slow.Jeremywhipsbyandshoutssomethingvaguelyencouraging.Gothedistance.Iglareatnothinginparticular.
“Caleb?”
“What?”
Shesqueezesmyhands.
“Caleb.”Again.Gentlerthistime.Alaughonthetipofhertongue.
IstoptryingtoburnaholeinthestrobelightsandlookatLaylainstead,herfacetilteduptowardsmine.Herskinshimmersbeneaththeerraticlights,abrushofpalepinkacrossherhighcheekbones.Hereyeslookalmostgreeninthedarkoftherink,herhairbrushingthetopsofherbareshoulders.Shelookshappy.
“What?”Iask,dazedbythatlook.Iwanttofolditupandslipitintothebackpocketofmywallet.ThespotwhereIkeeparubbeddownpennymyabuelogavemeandmyloyaltycardforthesnowballstand.
“Iliketherollerrink.”Layla’sthumbsrubovermyknuckles.“Solidtensacrosstheboard.”
“Stop.”
“I’msorry,”shewheezesaroundanotherlaugh.“Ican’thelpit.”
Laylahasn’tstoppedlaughingsincemylastspectacularfall,whenmyelbowwentthroughoneofthewoodensideboardsandIwedgedmyselfsofirmly,Oliverhadtopracticallycutmeout.Isawsixteenagerswiththeircellphonesdirectedrightatme.Idon’tevenwanttoknowwhatwillbeonsocialmediaintwentyminutes.
Irollmylipsagainstasmileandgrabanachofromhertray.Shetriestocalmherself,butallittakesisonelookatmyelbowforhertopeeloffintobright,burstinggigglesagain.Shecollapsesontoherbackinthetallgrassbehindtherollerrink,herhandsclutchingherstomach.
“Alright,that’senough.”
“Idon’tthinkitis,”shemanagesaroundtwogasping,wheezingbreaths.
Isquintoutattheparkinglotandbiteintomychip.
“It’stheBand-Aidsthatdoit,”shesayswithasigh.Shereachesoutandtracesherfingeralongtheedgeofabrightyellow,BigBirdbandage.Oneofseveralalongthelengthofmyarm.“Youkeptsayingyoudidn’tneedthem,andOliverkeptinsisting.”
“Whatkindofrollerrinkdoesn’thaveregularbandages?”
“Idon’tknow.Groversuitsyou.”Hertouchmovesdowntomyforearm,wherethreeotherbandagesareslappedtogether.ShetapsatthebrightblueSesameStreetfacerightabovemywrist.Idon’tevenhaveacutthere.Idon’tknowwhatOliverwasthinking.
Igrabanotherchip.“Tonightwasnotmybestshowing.”
“Iwouldn’tsaythat,”shemuses.“Therewasentertainment.Dinner.”Shenodsatthetrayofnachosbetweenus.“Dessertifyoutakemebackinsideforachurro.It’sabetterdatethanInormallyhave,pendingyounotleavingmeintheparkinglotattheendofit.”
Inarrowmyeyesather.“Thisshouldn’trankanywhereclosetothetopofyourlist,Layla.”
Sheshrugs.“That’sformetodecide.Notyou.”
Sheleansbackonherelbows,herbodyasmoothcurveagainstthegrass.We’recaughtintheendlesseveningoflatesummer,thesunhangingheavyintheskyjustabovethehorizon.Awarmwindblowsthroughthelittlepatchofgrasswe’resituatedin,theweedsandtheflowersdancingaroundus.Itliftstheedgeofthescarfinherhairandtrailsitacrossherbarethroat,atemptationifI’veeverseenone.
Iwonderiftheskintheretastesassweetasthestickyhoneyglazesheuses.Orifthetasteofherismoreindulgentliketheheavy,richchocolateganachesheusesonsomeofhercakes.IwonderifI’dtasteheronmytongueforhours.IfI’dcraveherthesameway.
“Caleb.”
Iforcemygazeawayfromthehollowofherthroat,heatrushingtomycheeks.Ilookupattheskyinstead,thefluffy,whitecloudsfloatingslowlyby.That’snotthesortofrelationshipwe’regoingtohave,LaylaandI.It’sanarrangement.
“What?”
“Isaid,weshouldprobablytalkabouthowwe’redoingthis.”
“Howwe’redoing,what?Sharingthesenachos?”Inudgethetraytowardsher.“Ialreadytoldyouthatyoucanhavethecheese.”
“No.”Shelooksamused.“Ourarrangement.Thelasttimewetalkedaboutit,youcameintomybakeryandbarkedatmeaboutmyphone.”
“Oh.”Irubonefingeracrossmyeyebrow.That’sexactlywhatIdid.“Yeah,you’reright.I’msorryaboutthat,bytheway.Iwas…stressedthisweek.”
“Iseverythingokay?”
“Everythingisfine.”Everythingisfine.Assumingthatmytumblethroughtheskaterinkwalldidn’tgivemebloodpoisoning.“Whatdidyouwanttodiscuss?Doyouthinkweshouldmakesomerules?”
Herfacepinchesindistaste.“No.Idon’tthinkweneedtodothat.Thatmakesitfeellikesomething—”Shetrailsoff,lookingfortherightwords.
“Fake?”
Herfaceeases,softlinesandbrighteyes.Outinthesunlight,theymatchthegrassaroundus.Forestgreen.Flecksofbrowninthemiddle.“Yes.Exactly.Idon’twantthat.”
“Idon’teither.”
“Good.”
Laylaplucksabladeofgrassandholdsitbetweenherthumbandforefinger,watchingmetheentiretime.“Whyareyoudoingthis,Caleb?”
“Itoldyou,”ImakesureIkeepmyeyesonhers.It’simportantthatshebelievesme.ThatsheunderstandsI’mtellingthetruth.“I’vebeen,ah,strugglingondateslately.AndIneedyourhelptofigureoutwhy.”
Shecocksherheadtothesideandsearchesmyface.Ifeelthedragofhergazelikeafingeragainstmycheek,turningmyfaceintothelighttoevaluate.“Haveyoutakenanyonerollerskatingrecently?”
“Justyou.”
“Hm.”
“What’sthat?”Iask.“Thathm.”
“ItmeansIhaven’treachedaconclusionyet.Itmeanswehavemoreworktodo.Moredatestogoon,tofigureitout.”
Ifightagainstmysmile.“Ithinkso.”
“Good.”
ThistimeIdon’tdoanythingtorestrainmygrin.Ittumblesrightoutofme.“Great.”
Shereachesforanotherchipandputsanunholyamountofliquidcheeseonit.“Whatdoyouthink?Amonth?”
Howshemanagestotakeadaintybiteofthatmonstrosity,I’llneverknow
“Amonthsoundsgood.”
Sodoestwo.Sodoesfour.FewthingssoundbetterthansittingnexttoLayla,eatingslightlystalechipsinafieldbehindtheSkateItEasy.
Butthat’stheexactimpulseI’mtryingtocurbwiththislittleexperiment.Ijumpinwithtwofeetwhenthere’sevenahintofsomething,pouringallofmyselfintoeverything.AndthenIsecondguess.Ioverthink.ItrytorentoutarollerrinkforasingledatewithagirlIlike.
Toomuch.Waytoofast.
“Andifeitherofuswantstoendit,forwhateverreason,that’sit.Noexplanationnecessary.”
“Fairenough.”Iscoopsomesalsaandsomehowmanagetospillitallovermychest.Iflickoffanonionandwatchitsailoverthesideofthehill.“Andit’sonlyus,duringourmonth.Iwon’tbegoingondateswithanyoneelse.”
Idon’tmentionthatnoone’scaughtmyinterestforawhilenow.I’vebeentoobusyeatingbuttercroissantsandorderingridiculous,custom-madebuttercreamcakes.Laylawatchesme,astrandofhairdancingacrosshercheek.Iwanttotuckitcarefullybehindherear.Iwanttobrushmyknucklesagainstherskinandfeelhowsoftsheis.
“Iwon’tdateanyoneeither,”shesays.Experiment,Iremindmyself.Thisisanexperiment.TherushofpleasureIfeelovertheideaofLaylaonlyspendingtimewithmeisnotappropriate.
“I’mnotsacrificingawholeheckofalotthere,”shecontinues.“Mydateshavebeenmiserablelately.”
“Hopefullywecanfixthat,skatedisastersnotwithstanding.”
Shebrightensconsiderably.“Thisskatedisasterwasadelight,thankyouverymuch.”
IbusymyselfwithanotherchipfromthetraywhileIwatchthemeltingsunlightslipoverherskin.Redsandgoldsandadeepburnishedorange.Shelookslikeshewasmeanttobeexactlyhere,sprawledoutinthegrassnexttome,thefrayedhemofhershortshighagainstthecreamyskinofherthighs.There’sathrobdownmyentireleftsidefromhittingtheflooronetoomanytimes,butthere’soneatthebaseofmyspine,too.Inthepalmsofmyhands.
“Onelastquestion.”
Iblinkbacktoherface.I’musedtothreefeetofcountertopbetweenusandhercolorfulapronsthattieatherneck.SittingthisclosetoLaylaandhavingallofherattentionfocusedonmeisanexerciseinresistance.
“Shoot.”Itcomesouthoarse.Iclearmythroat.
Layla’sgrintipsintosomethingunrestrained.Brighterthanthecolorsdancingribbonsthroughthesky.
“Whenareyoutakingmeoutagain?”SEVENLAYLA
“Whatinthehellareyoudoing?”
BeckettjumpsasIleanmyshoulderupagainstthebackdoorofthebakery,amugofcoffeeinmyhand.Ibethedidn’texpectmetobeheretoday.I’mguessinghewascountingonexactlythat,giventhechickenwirebundledinhisarmsandtheguiltyexpressionhalf-shadowedbythebillofhisbaseballcap.
Heblinksatme.Itakeasipoutofmymug.Thisishowninetypercentofourconversationsbeginandend.
“I’mnotdoinganything,”hesays,likethereisn’tatwo-by-fouroverhisshoulder.
“Hm.”
Idon’tsayanythingelse.Hefidgets.Well,asmuchasamanhissizeholdingallthesuppliesforachickencoopbetweenhishuge,tattooedarmscanfidget.
Hesighsandletseverythingdroptothegroundinaclatter.Hecrosseshisarmsoverhischestandscowlsatme.
“Whatareyouevendoinghere?”hedemands.
“Iworkhere,”Ireplycalmly.
“NotonSaturdaymornings.”
Itakeanotherlongpullofcoffeeoutofmymug.Beckettsquirmsinthesilence.
ItakemytimewhenIsay,“Goodtoknowthiswaspremeditated.”
“Thechickensneedsomewheretogo,okay?Idon’twanttobeatthegrocerystoreandwonderifDelilahisinthepoultryaisle.”
“Delilah?”
Heglaresatme.“That’shername.”
Ofcourseitis.“Whydon’tyoubuildDelilahanewhomeinyourbackyard?”
Hemumblessomething.
“Whatwasthat?”
Herollshiseyesskyward,uptothebig,fluffywhitecloudssinkinglowacrossthesky.It’shotalready,theheatpressingatthebareskinofmyarms,inchingupovermyneck.Beckettscratchesatthebackofhisheadandadjustshisbaseballcapuntilitfacesbackwards.
“Evelyncutmeoff,”heexplains.“AfterClarabelle.”
That’sright.ThecowherescuedfromthatdilapidatedfarmdowninVirginia.Theywerekeepingherinaconcretepen,blistersalloverherbellyandback.ShelivesinthepasturebehindBeckett’shousenow,grazingtoherheart’scontent.Hemakesherflowercrowns,I’mprettysure.
Hehesitates.“AndZelma.”
Anotherduck.Inadditiontothefourcatshepreviouslyadoptedandtheduckthatalreadylivesinhisgreenhouse.It’sagoodthinghishouseissobigoveronthefaredgeoftheLovelightland.He’srunninghisownanimalsanctuaryoverthere.
“WhendoesEvelyncomeback?”
“Tomorrow.”
Good.Maybehe’llstopsneakingaroundthegroundsthen.Ipushofftheedgeofthedoorandbeckonhiminside.“Comeon.Imadezucchinibread.”
Hefollowsaftermewithoutanotherword,leavinghispileofwoodandwireandgodknowswhatelseinaheapontheground.MaybeIcangetLukatohideitwhileBeckettisoccupiedwithbakedgoods.ThoughLukaisprobablyunderforty-sevencomfortersoveratStella’splace,snoringhappilythroughhisSaturdaymorning.
Beckettcollapsesonabarstoolattheoppositeedgeofmyworktable,hischininhishand,thetattoostwistingupanddownhisarmsonfulldisplayintheearlymorninglight.Hiseyesbouncearoundthekitchen,lookingforthezucchinibreadItemptedhiminherewith.
PartofmewantstowithholdituntilIcangethimtoagreetostoptryingtobuildachickencoopinmybackyard,butthebiggerpartofmewantstoclearoutsomeoftheseleftoversforthenewbatchofstuffI’llbebakingthismorning.I’vealwaysvaluedpracticalityoverretribution.
“Inthere.”Igesturetowardsasmallmetaltincoveredinfoilattheedgeofthecounter,dancingtreesprintedalongthesides.“Nochocolatechipsthistime.Sorry.”
Beckettwoulddojustaboutanythingforasliceofzucchinibread.OncewhenStellasmuglydeclaredshehadthesecond-to-lastslice,hepushedLukaheadfirstintoanovergrowntreetomakeitupthestepsbeforehim.
Wesitinsilence,Beckettwithhisbread,mewiththedonutbatterIwasworkingonbeforeIheardhimintheback.Idon’tusuallycomeinonSaturdaymornings,that’strue,butIwasfeelingrestless.IwokeupandimmediatelythoughtofCaleb.Hisblush-stainedcheeksandhiswidesmile.Thatdamneddimpleinhischeek.Iwaspouringmycoffeeandkeptpicturinghimafterhislastfall,starfishedoutontheflooroftherollerrink,alongarmslungoverhiseyes.
Imageskeptflickeringliketheendsofafilmstrip.Thelineofhisjaw.Histhumbathisbottomlipandaglobofsalsaonthefrontofhist-shirt.Longlegsspreadoutinthegrass.HeisnothinglikeIexpectedhimtobe.
ItwasthemostfunI’veeverhadonadate.
“Whyareyoumakingthatface?”
Igobacktomixingmybatter.“Whatface?”
Beckettnarrowshiseyesatme.“Thatweirdsmilething.”Hetriestomimicagrin,zucchinibreadbulginginhischeeks.Helooksabsurd.“I’veneverseenthatlookonyourfacebefore.”
“Well,Ican’tseemyownface,canI?”Isnap.
“Fine.”Herollshiseyesandgoesbacktohisbread.Iwhipmybatteruntilmyarmbeginstoache.Hemutterssomethingunderhisbreaththatsoundsvaguelyliketouchy
“Didyou—”Ihesitate,notsureIwanttoaskBeckettthequestionthat’sproddingattheedgesofmymind.ThequestionthatIheartheloudestwheneverI’mwithhimandEvelynandStellaandLuka.EverysingletimeIwatchacouplemovetogetherinperfect,easysynchronicitythroughthefrontdoorsofmybakery.
BeckettwatchesmewithalevelofpatienceIprobablydon’tdeserve,thetrayofbreadclutchedbetweenhishands.“DidI,what?”
“Didyoueverthinkyou’dfindsomeone?”Iswallowaroundthelumpinmythroat.“Didyouthinkyou’dfindEvelyn?”
Hisfaceeaseswhenhehearshername,acalmsettlingoverhisshoulders.
“No,”hesays.Hisheadtiltstothesideandhedragshispalmagainsthischin.“Ididn’t.I’mnotexactlyasocialbutterflyandI—Istrugglewithpeople.Youknowthat.”
Becketthastroublewithinteractions—withsmallspacesandloudnoises.Ittakeshimsometimetowarmuptopeople,toeaseintoconversation.It’swhy,Isuspect,hespendssomuchtimeoutinthefields.Inthequiet,hecanpulltheedgesofhimselfbacktogether
“ButEvelynsawthepiecesofmethatnooneelsedidanddecidedshewantedtokeepthem.Iwantedtokeephers,too.I’m—”Heclearshisthroat.“I’mgratefulforthat.AndI,uh,Iguessyou’venoticedIhavesometroublewhenshe’sgone.”
Themanhasbeenstompingaroundthefarmlikesomeonetookhisfavoritetoyaway.EvelyntravelsforherworkwiththeU.S.SmallBusinessCoalition,helpinglittleplaceslikeoursalloverthecountrygettheirdigitallegsbeneaththem.She’sincredibleatwhatshedoes.Itjustleavesagrumpy-assfarmerfortherestofuswhenevershegoes
Igivehimadrolllook,armstillworkingatthebatter.ThesebetterbethebestdamneddonutsontheEastCoastbythetimeI’mdone.
Beckettgivesmeahalf-smile,fingerscollectingthecrumbshemissedatthebottomofthetray.“You’llfindsomeone,Layla.”
“Everyonekeepssayingthat,butI’mnotsosure,”Iconfess.“I’dlikesomethingtobemine.Someone,maybe.”Mineandminealone.Secretsmilesandeasytouchesandlipspressedagainstthebackofmyneck.Easyaffectionandcomfortinthemundane.Isetmymixingbowlasideandreachforatray.“Youreallythinksomeonewillwantmypieces?”
Heshrugs.“Attheveryleast,they’llwantthisbread.”
Iflickaspatulaathishead.
Stellainterruptsmeduringmythirdbatchofdonuts,swingingthroughthebackdoorhardenoughforittobounceoffthewall.Acascadeofapronsandheadscarvescometumblingdownontopofher,palepinkandbrightpurpleandathickcanvaswithdancingnutcrackersonitthatI’msurewasajokebutIlovetowearyear-roundanyway.Shefightsherwaythroughthefabrics.
“Bignews,”shetellsmewithanorangescarfoverthetophalfofherface.It’sashameBeckettleftalready.He’dprobablyenjoythismorethanmyzucchinibread.
“Youdiscoveredafilingsystemthatdoesn’tinvolvechuckingallyourpaperworkintothebottomdrawerofyourdeskandhopingforthebest.”
“Ha.”Shebatsawaytheorangescarfandwrestleswithapaleblueone.“No.ThoughLukacontinuestotryhisbest.”
It’llbetheculminationofLuka’slife’sworkwhenhefinallygetsStellaorganized.Sometimeshewaitsuntilshe’soutofthehouseandreorganizesallherclosets.ThelasttimeshewenttoAnnapolisforashipment,hereorganizedherbookcollectionbygenreandcolor.
Athrillofexcitementrocketsthroughmychest.Istraightenfrommystandardcurved-over-the-tablepositionandalmostsendmydonuttrayflying.“DidLukapropose?”
Imighthavemisgivingsaboutmyownlovelife,butIamfirmlyinvestedinthehappinessofmybestfriends.Thetickleofsadnessinthecornersofmyheartiseasyenoughtoignore,burstingasitiswithabsolutejoy.
“What?No.”Onepaleblueeyepeeksoutatmethroughgauzyfabric.Ihavenoideahowshe’sstilltangledupoverthere.Sheswatsthelastpieceawaywitharelievedsigh.“Wejustmovedintogether.”
AfteralengthyconstructiononthebackofStella’stinycottagesoLukahasspacetoworkandStellahasmorespacetohoardpinetreeairfreshenersandnoveltyteatowelsandgoodnessknowswhatelse.
“You’vebeeninlovewitheachotherforadecade,”Ireason.
Shescratchesbehindherear.“Butonlydatingforayearandsomechange.IknowI’mgoingtobewithLukaforever.I’mnotinanyrush.”
OnlyStellawouldthinkofadecadeasarush.Ifillapipingbagwithbatter.“Mybestcolorsareasiennaoradustypink,soafallweddingwouldworkbestforme.”
“I’lltakethatintoconsideration.Butthat’snotwhatIhavetotellyou.”Stellahopsupanddownonhertoesontheoppositesideofmytable.Ipausewithmyhandcurledaroundmybag
“What?”
“Thenews!”
“Right.Pleaseproceed.”
SheflopsdownonthestoolBeckettabandonedthreehoursagoafterheconsumedallofthegoodieswithinhisdirectlineofsight.“Ireallyexpectedmoreenthusiasm.”
“Fromme?”
“Yes.”
“Foranannouncementyouhavegivenmenocontexton?”
Stellanods.“Yes.”
“Okay.”Iraiseonearmupintheairandletoutawhoop.Idropitbackdowntomyside.“Good?”
“Better.”Stellanodswithagrin.“BecauseIjustgotacallfromBaltimoreMagazineandtheywanttorunafeatureonyoufortheir‘BestOf’issue.”
IblinkatStella.“What?”
She’sbacktobouncingupanddowninherseat,practicallyvibratingontheotherendoftheisland.“Theycalledalittlebitago.IranallthewayherefromtheofficeandyouknowhowmuchIhatecardioendurance.Theysaidthey’vebeenseeingthebakehousealloversocialmediaandmonitoringreviewsandnotonlywillyoubeincludedintheirlistofbestbakeriesinMaryland,buttheywanttodoafeatureonyouaswell.Afullspread.Aphotoshoot!”
Shepracticallyscreamsthelasttwowordsatme.
“Ofme?”Ipointatmychest,asmudgeofpowderedsugaragainstmyt-shirt.
“Ofyou!”Stellashrieks,launchingherselfhalfwayoverthecounterandintomyarms.Herelbowlandsinmybowlofbatter.Herkneeedgesthetrayrightoffthetableandontothefloor.Sheholdsmetightwithbotharmsaroundmyshoulders.Herbonylittleelbowisdiggingintomyneck.
“Areyousure?”Iaskintoherhair.Ican’tcomprehendit.Mybakehousedoesn’tevenhaveaname.Justthebakehouse.Andtheywant—“You’resuretheywantme?”
“Theymentionedyoubynameandtalkedatlengthaboutyourblueberrycrumblescones.They’llbehereinacoupleofweeksforyourinterviewandphotoshoot.”Stellapullsbackandshakesmyshoulderslightly.“Ofcoursetheywantyou.Youareamazing.”
“Theywantmeforafeature.”Itrythewordsout.Itstillsoundstooincredibletobelieve.“Theywanttoputmeinamagazine.”
Stellagrins,hereyessoft.Herhandssqueezemyarmsintheone-two-threeIalwaysseeLukagiveher.Shoulders,elbows,hands.
“Ofcoursetheydo.”
I’mstillridingahighofendorphinsandfartoomuchsugarbythetimeIleavethebakehouse,rumblingdownthelongroadthatleadsbacktotown.Stellagavemetherestofthedetailsinbarelytemperedexcitement,yellingeverythirdword,stoppingrepeatedlytosmackmeinthearmwithherownenthusiasticbrandofsupport.
Theywantme.Mylittlebakehouse.Thegirlwhoneverstudiedbakinginanyformalcapacityandtrippedrightintothisprofession.I’veneverneededanyone’svalidationotherthanmyowntofeelgoodaboutwhatIdo—tobehappyinmylittleglasshouseinthemiddleofallthepinetrees—butitfeelsnicetobenoticed.Toberecognized.
Iswingbytheliquorstoreonawhim,windingmywaythroughstacksofNattyBohandanimpressivearrangementofvodkabottlesintheshapeofaMarylandbluecrab.Istoponmywaytotheboxedwineandpeerupatthebottlesofchampagnestackedhighontheshelf,theorangeonesatthetopglowingbeneaththeterrible,flickeringlightinginthisplace.
It’slikeasunbeambrokethroughthecloudsandilluminatedthemontheshelf.Kismet.It’stheuniversetellingmeIdeservethedamnchampagne.
“Idodeserveit,”Ireason.It’snoteverydayIsnagamagazinefeatureinoneofthemostwidespreadissuesBaltimoreMagazinepublishes.LocalnetworksmaketelevisionspecialsfortheBestOfissue.Mostoftherestaurantsdownontheshoregettheirfeaturesframedandhungonthewall.NotasingleInglewildbusinesshaseverbeenrecognizedbefore.
IsearchthefloorforoneofthestepstoolsJuliettekeepsforrestocksoIcanreachmycelebratorychampagne.Noluck.Isighandscratchonceatmytemple.“Noproblem.Icanstillreachit.”
“Whydoesitsoundlikeyou’reissuingyourselfachallenge?”
Ipeekovermyshouldertotheownerofthatdeepandrumblingvoice,Calebstandingattheendoftheaisle,armscrossedoverhischestandasmilehitchingathismouth.He’swearingaplainwhitet-shirttoday.Fadedjeanswithatearjustabovetheknee.Blacksunglassespushedbackoverhishair.
Helooksdelicious.
Evenmoresothanhedidlastnightwhenhepickedmeupatthehouse,hishandsclaspedbehindhisbackandalockofdarkhairfallingoverhisforehead.NolintrollerforCaleb.Nope,hewalkedallthewaytomyfrontdoorandknockedpolitely,hoveredhishandoverthesmallofmybackasheopenedthepassengersidedoorofhisJeep.
Hegesturestowardstheshelf.“Whatwasyourapproachgoingtobe?”
IextendmylegandpointatthebottomwithmyfootlikeI’maballerinaandthisshelfismystage.Calebswallowsheavily.“Iwasgoingtoscurryonuplikeasquirrel.”
Hepusheshimselfofftheendcap,lazilymakinghiswayovertome.Itlookslikehe’srecoveredfromourlittlerollerskatingadventure.Allofthebandagesaremissingfromhisarms,thoughthere’saprettynastybruisejustabovehiselbow.Ifrownatitashemovescloser.
“WhileI’msurethatwouldhavebeenentertaining,letmehelpyouout.”Calebstopsrightnexttomeandreachesup,up,up.Igetawhiffofsunscreenandcinnamon,richcoffeeandsweetcream.Iwanttopressmynosetohisshoulderandbreatheindeep.Maybeclimbhiminsteadoftheshelf.
Hearchesaneyebrowdownatmewithhisarmstillextended.Igrin,unashamed.
“WhydoIgetthefeelingyou’replottingsomething?”hesays,voicelow
“Me?”Ipointafingeratmychest.“Never.”
“Sure.”HehuffsalaughandcurlshishandaroundthebottleIhadmyeyeon,pullingitdownwithoutevenresortingtotip-toes.Heoffersittome,whistlingwhenheseesthelabel.“What’reyoucelebrating?”
Iholdthebottleclosetomychest,grinningsohardmycheeksachewithit.“BaltimoreMagazinewantstofeaturethebakehouseinanupcomingissue.”
“Layla.”I’veneverheardanyonesaymynamelikethat.Liketheydon’twanttosayanythingelseeveragain.Hissmilespreadswideuntilthecrinklesattheedgeofhiseyeswinkatme.Istareathimuntilmyownlipstipupatthecornersandwe’regrinningateachotherinthemiddleoftheliquorstoreaisleliketwosillyidiots.Hehesitates,andthensmoothshishandsovermyarmstogripmyshoulders.Ahalf-hug.Ahand-hug.Hisfingerssqueeze.“That’sincredible.”
TheheatofhispalmsbleedsthroughmythintanktopandIleanintohistouch.“Itis,isn’tit?”
Henods.“Wayoverdue.”
Ibeamathim.Theinvitationisthere,onthetipofmytongue.Comeover,Iwanttosay.We’lleatthecupcakesthatIstressbakedlastweekwhenIthoughtyouwereavoidingmeandwe’lldrinkthischampagne.We’llwatchsomethingstupidonTVandIwon’thavetobealone.
Butitfeelsliketoomuch.Likeit’smaybecrossingalineinthisstrangearrangementwe’vemadeforourselves.SoIswallowitdownandtuckmysmileintosomethingrestrainedandtrynottofeelanytypeofwayabouthishandsonmyskin.Hispinkyjustbarelyedgingunderthestrapofmytanktop.
Heclearshisthroatandletsgo,thrustinghishandsintohispockets.
IscrambleforsomethingtokeepCalebinfrontofme.Forjustonemoresecond.Itipmyheadtothesideandscuffthetipofmyshoeacrossthefloor.“Youknow,youneveransweredmeyesterday.”
“What’sthat?”
Ipushpasthimtothecheck-out,noticingforthefirsttimethesixpackofNattyBohwaitingbyhisfeet.Hepicksitupashefollowsme.
“Whenareyoutakingmeoutagain?”
“Ah.”Ablushdarkenshischeeksandhescratchesbehindhisear.IwedgemychampagnebottleundermyarmandgrababagofOldBaychipstoaddtomycelebratoryfeast.Calebgrinsatmycollectionofitems.“AreyoufreeonTuesday?”
“Isuream.”
“Good.Ah,great.I’llpickyouupatthesametime?”
Inod.“WillIneedwheels?Maybesomekneepads?”Ipokehimonceintheribs.“Youwanttogivemeanyclues?”
Heglancesdownatme,onedarkeyebrowrisingonhisforehead.Asmirkplucksathismouthandoh,IlikethisversionofCaleb,too.Whenthesmooth,easyconfidenceedgesoutoverhisquietbashfulness.WhenIcanseeahintofsomethingelse—somethingteasinganddelicious.
“Nowwherewouldbethefuninthat?”EIGHTCALEB
“Howdidyouknow?”shebreathesassoonaswearrive.
Ithadbeenanothergamble,cominghere,butStellahadsentmeastringofvaguetextmessagesafterIranintoLaylaattheliquorstorewithalistofseeminglyunrelateditems.Thingslike:Lavender.Deepdishpizzawithspinachandricotta.Plantsinterracottabowls.Scarves.Thecolororange.
Escaperooms.
Itdidn’ttakeageniustofigureoutthatStellathoughtIcouldbenefitfromalistofLayla’sfavoritethings,thoughtheescaperoomadditionhadbeensurprising.PartofmethoughtStellawassettingmeup,deliberatelygivingmesomethingLaylawouldhate.Thatworryhasevaporated,giventhebarelyrestrainedgleeLaylaisbroadcastingatthefrontdoors.
Shelookslikealittlefirecrackeroverthere,litupandreadytoshootintothesky.
Irubmythumbagainstmybottomlip,tryingnottosmile.Atthebakehouse,she’sreserved.Friendly,butquiet.Ilikegettingtoseetheseotherpiecesofher.Untemperedenthusiasmandunadulteratedjoy.
“HowdidIknow,what?”
“Mydeeploveandappreciationforagoodescaperoom.”
“Well.”Besttocomeclean,Iguess.“Stelladidtextmeacomprehensivelistofyourfavoritethings.”
Laylaturnstolookatme,confused.She’swearinganotherscarftwistedthroughherhairtoday,abrightcherryredwithlittlestrawberriesprintedonthefabric.ItmatchestheapronshewaswearingtheotherdayandIsmilethinkingofherwearingthemtogether.
Iwanttofeelitslipthroughmyfingers.IwanttotwistitaroundandaroundmyfistuntilIcantiltherheadbackandguidehermouthtomine.Iwonderifshe’dtastelikestrawberriesorthatsugarsweetglazesheusesoneverything.
Iveersharplyawayfromthatthought.
“Stelladidwhat?”
“Tobefair,Iknewmostofthethingsonthatlistalready.”
“Likewhat?”It’sachallenge,thatquestion.Iwatchasanamblingsummerwindcatchestheendofherscarfandliftsit.Igiveintotemptationandslipmypalmalongthematerial,feelitbetweenmythumbandforefinger.Irubitonceandtugherhalfaninchcloser.
I’llsettleforhavingherinincrements,ifthat’swhatittakestomakeitthroughthisarrangement.Probablybetterformysanitythatway,too.
Sheswaysintomewithasmile.
“Lavender,”Isay.Shehasitplantedalloverherfrontyard,abigbundleofitrightbelowthelittlewindowinherkitchenthatalwaysseemstobeopen.“Scarves.”Iletthelengthofthesilkymaterialslipagainstmyhand,myknucklesbrushingagainstherneck.ShesucksinasharpbreathandIdropmyhandtomyside.“Expensivechampagneandcheapcrabchips.”
Shegrinsatthelasttwo.“Ican’ttellifI’moffendedorimpressed.Idon’tthinkanyofmydateshavereceivedinsideinformationbefore.Shemustlikeyou.”
Ishrug.“Ithinkitjustproveshowmuchshelikesyou.”
Layla’ssmileisquietthistime,thoughtful.Buthereyesshinebrightassheslipsherhandinmine.Ilikehoweasilyshereachesforme,howwellwefittogether.Ilikehowshethreadsherfingersthroughmineandsqueezes.I’mstartingtoseethatshereliesontouchtocommunicate,andIrelyonittounderstand.
“Enoughofthat.”Sheswingsourlinkedhandsbetweenus.“Let’sgetinsidesoIcankickyourass.”
Itrailafterher,confused.“Isn’tthisateamactivity?”
Myconfusionquicklysettlesintoalowsenseofforeboding.ThelobbyofQuestForEscapeispaintedalmostentirelyinblack,asingledeskagainstthebackwall.AbovethedeskarewhatIhopeareprops,rowsandrowsofvariousweaponsandmasksandleatherboundbookspaintedgold.Istarehardatwhatlookslikeamachete.It’sthefirstindicationthatIamwhollyunpreparedforwhatIsignedusupfor.
Laylahasanentirelistofquestionssherattlesthroughwiththeteenagerbehindthedesk.ThingsIwouldhaveneverthoughttoask,like:
Isthegamelinear?
Arethereanysecretrooms?
Willanyonejumpoutatus?
IstartleatthelastquestionandglancedownatLayla.“Isthatathingthathappens?”
Sheshrugs.“Itcan.”
Thekidbehindthedeskshakeshishead,swipingthroughachecklistontheiPadinfrontofhim.Hehasanearpiece,too,andwhatlookslikethreecellphonesonthedeskinfrontofhim.Thisisamorecomplexset-upthanmostspymovies.Ivaguelyrecognizehimfromtheschool.Eric,hisnametagtellsme.“Nothere.Wehaven’thadcharactersintheroomsinceGuspunchedthelastoneintheface.”
LaylaandIsnortinunison.
“There’sanintercomintheroom,”hesays.“I’llbeabletotalktoyouandyoucanshoutifyouneedme.”Hetapsatalineofmonitorsontheothersideofthedesk.“I’llkeepaneyeonthingstoo,justtomakesure.”
“Whatareyoumakingsureof?”
Ericstareshardatmefromtheothersideofthedesk.It’sabattle-wearystare,thatlook.Thelookofamanwhohasseentoomanythings.“Justtomakesure.”
Alright,then.I’mstartingtogetthefeelingthatthismightbeanotherdatedisaster.Notasbadasthelastone,Ihope.I’mnotsureanythingcantopthecompilationvideoofmyrollerskatingfalls,settosomeridiculoussongwithaheavybeat.Thekidshavebeensharingthembackandforthallweek.Igottwoinmyworkemail.Alexsentmeonethathadovertwentythousandviewswithastringofcrying,laughingfaceemojis.
Idragmypalmoverthebackofmyhead,anxietycurlinginmygut.“We’reinthetropicalislandroom,right?”
“Uh,no.”Ericcontinuesscrollingonhisdevice.Ihavenoideawhathe’slookingfor.“Wehadtoputyouinthezombieapocalypseroom.”
“Thewhat?”
“Thezombieapocalypseroom.”
“Why?”
“Becausesomeonewasdoingweirdstuffinthetropicalroomandweneededtosanitizeit.”
Laylatriestocoverherlaughwithacough.
“Doyouhaveanythingotherthan…zombieapocalypse?”
Anendoftheworldscenariofeaturingflesh-eating,undeadcreaturesisnotthesettingIwashopingfor.
“Wehaveanoutbreakroom.”
“Anoutbreakroomandazombieapocalypseroom?”
Ericnods.“Billyissuperintotheundead.”
IforgotBillyownsthisplace.Heusedtoworkpart-timeatthefuneralhometwotownsover.Iguesshefoundanewspottochannelallofhis…enthusiasm.
“Didn’tBillyusedtowearallblackleather?”Laylawhisperstome.
“Stilldoes,”Ericsupplies.“Somedayshewearsfakevampireteeth,too.”
Layla’ssmilefalters.“That’s…great,Iguess?”
“It’sachoiceiswhatitis,”Ericgrumbles.“Alright,I’llshowyoutoyourroom.You’llhaveanhourtoescape.Everythingyouneedishiddenwithin,butyougetthreeclues.GiveashoutifyouneedoneandI’llcomeoverthespeaker.I’llbemonitoringyouthewholetime,sopleasedon’tdestroyanythingwhileyou’reintheroom.Anyfurniturenailedtothefloorshouldremainthatway.”
Laylanodsalong,herfacesetingrimdetermination.Ididn’trealizefurnitureadjustmentwasaconcern.“Um,what?”
Ericwavesusbehindthedeskandthroughasmallentranceway.Wewindourwaydownanarrow,darkhallwaylinedwithnondescriptblackdoors.Ihavetoducktokeepmyheadfromsmackingintothelowhanginglights,Laylabarelyvisibleinfrontofme.Soundsaremuffledbackhere,likewe’reunderground.
IcanseewhyBillylikesitsomuch
Ericcontinueshisinstructionaswewalk.“LikeIsaid,I’llbemonitoringyou,sopleasedon’tdoanythingweird.”
Laylaisinterested,Icantell.“Canyoudefineweird?”
Eric’sfaceishalfinshadowwhenheturns.“You’dbesurprisedbythethingsI’veseen.”
Laylasnickersintoherhand.Iswallowaroundmyunease.ThisisnotwhatIexpected.Ericstopsinfrontofadoorthat’swiderthantherest,abloodyhandprintrightabovethehandle.Ascreamechoesfrominside.
IcurlmyhandaroundLayla’swristandshetipsherheadbacktolookatme.It’stheclosestwe’vebeensincewestartedthisthingandI’mdazedbythefeelofher.Likethis,Icouldwrapbothofmyarmsaroundhershouldersandtuckherclose.Pressakisstohertempleanddragmylipsdownthelineofherjaw.Slipmyhandinthecollarofhershirtandfeelthedelicateskinbeneath.Workattheplacebetweenhershoulderandneckwithmymouth.IwantsomanythingswithLayla.
Rightnow,I’dsettleforanormaldate.
“What’sup?”shewhispers.
Iswallow.“Nothing.Ijustwantedtobesureyou’reokaywiththis.”
Herfacebreaksoutintoawidegrin.Thatsmileistemptationanddelight,toppedwithasugarysweetglazeofdistraction.She’swearingcutoffdenimshortsagaintoday,awhite,billowingtopthat’stightaroundherarmsandlooseeverywhereelse.Itlooksimpossiblysoftandtemptinglythin.IbetIcouldfeeltheheatofherskinthroughit.IbetthegauzymaterialwouldbunchatmywristswhenIslippedmyhandsbeneath.
Iclearmythroatandstarepointedlyatthebloodyhandprintonthedoorinanefforttodistractmyself.Layla’ssmilegrows.
“Areyouhavingsecondthoughts,Caleb?”
“No.”Anotherscreameruptsfrombehindthecloseddoors.Iflinch.“Maybe.”
Hermegawattsmiledims.Sheturnsinmyarmsuntilherfrontispressedagainstmine.I’mdistractedbytheheatofher,thesmellofsugarandbutterandtartcherryjam.
LaylaDupreeisdangerous.
“Wedon’thavetogoin,”shewhispers,thewordsjustforme.“Youcouldtakemetogeticecreaminstead.Ifthisistoomuch,Iunderstand.”
“No.”Layladeservesthis.Forsomeonetotry.Evenifit’ssomethingascomicallyridiculousasazombieapocalypseescaperoomexperience.Especiallyifit’sazombieapocalypseescaperoomexperience,Iguess.“We’regoingtoescapethisroom.”
Thatwideandexcitedsmilebloomsbacktolifeonherface.Itwedgesinmychest,rightundermyribs.God,she’sbeautiful.Sheshouldsmilelikethisallofthetime.
“Oh,Iforgottomention,”Ericoffers,pressingthedooropenwithhisshoulder.ThesoundsfrominsideintensifyandLaylaslipsherhandbackinmine.I’mmorefocusedonthatsinglepointofcontactthananythingelse,soIalmostdon’thearhimwhenhesays,“There’sanotherpartyjoiningyou.Ourroomshaveafourpersonminimum…afterthetropicalislandincident.”
“Wait,what?”
Heushersusintheroom,completelyignoringthedisembodiedarmhangingfromtheceilingabovehishead.“I’llbringthembackassoonastheyarrive.”
Andwiththat,Ericdisappearsbackoutthedoorandlocksusintoazombieapocalypse.
Itakeinthespace.IknowEricsaidnoonewilljumpoutatus,butitdefinitelyfeelslikesomeonecould.Theroomissetuptolooklikeanoldhospital.There’sawheelchairtippedoveronitsside,amedicalcartwithaboutforty-twothousanddrawers,acoupleoflabchartsandhaphazardcoveringsoverthewindows.ButI’mfixatedonthefakebodypartslitteringthegroundandpartsoftheceiling,fakebloodoozingaroundtheedges.They’renothyper-realistic,thankgod,butthey’reenoughtomakemegratefulwedidn’tgotodinnerbeforethislittlefieldtrip
Islipmyhandsintomybackpocketsandrockbackonmyheels,frowningatwhatlookslikepartofafibuladousedinketchup.
“Ireallywishwewereinthetropicalroom.”
“Idon’tknow,”Laylapokesadismemberedheadhangingfromtheceiling.Wewatchitswingbackandforth.“Thishasacertainambiance.”
Iscratchatmyneck,siftingmyhandupintomyhairandscrubbingroughly.Shecrossestheroomandexaminesasplatteroffakebloodonthewalllikeit’sapricelesspieceofartattheMet.
IfeellikeI’mascendingtonewlevelsofabsurdduringthisthingwithLayla.Iusuallystrugglewithconnectionorconversation,not—bodyparts.Ican’tsayI’veeverbroughtawomantobelockedinaroomwithdisembodiedlimbsbefore.
“Maybeweshouldcountournextdateasthefirstdate,”Ihedge.Wecouldstartfresh.MaybeIwon’tbesuchadisaster.
Layladoesn’tevenbotherlookingatmeasshepicksupwhatlookslikeasyringe.Sheexaminesit,andthensetsitdowncarefullyonthetable.“Idon’tthinkso.Thisisanexcellentseconddate.”
Iwince.“Canwepleasenotcounttherollerskatingrinkasourfirst,atleast?”
“Whywouldn’twe?”
Igiveheralook.“BecauseIstillhaveabruisethatlooksvaguelylikeMassachusettsonmyass.”
Shesnickers.“Don’tteasemeaboutyourass,Caleb.”
BeforeIcansinkfullyintotheappreciationthatcomeswithLaylatalkingaboutmyass,thedoorswingsopenbehindus.Ericushersthreenewpeoplein,andIhavetobitedownaroundtheedgesofmygroan.Gus,Clint,andMontgomery.OurthreetownfirefightersandcollectivelythemostobnoxiousgroupofpeopleI’veevermet.Theyentertheroominmatchingt-shirtsandbloodredsweatbandsaroundtheirforeheads.Theylooklikethey’reabouttorunamarathon.Ormaybestartafightclub.
Gusgrinsassoonasheseesus.“Well,well,well.Whatdowehavehere?”
“Youknowournames,Gus,”Layladeadpans.“Whyyouinsistonfeigningsurprisewhenyouknowexactlywhat’sgoingonatalltimeseludesme.”
“Areyouimplyingsomething,Laylabug?”
IlookatherandmouthLaylabugasaquestion,delighted.Shewincesandshakesherhead.
“Don’tcallmethat,andyouknowexactlywhatI’mtalkingabout.”
Thatmakesoneofus.Ihavenoideawhatthey’retalkingabout.Laylabeckonsmecloseruntilhermouthisatmyearandmyheartisinmythroat.Fuck,shesmellssogood.
“Gusoperatesthephonetree,”shewhispers,herbottomlipjustbarelygrazingtheshellofmyear.“I’mprettysureherunsthenewtextmessagegossipdivision,too.”
Ourtownphonetreewasintendedforuseinemergencies.Thatlastedmaybetwoweeks.ItssolepurposenowistoshareinformationonwhocutwhominlineatMs.Beatrice’s,whereEvelynisofftoandhowlongwecanexpectBecketttobegrumblingaroundtown,andwhenthegoodcoffeeisgettingrestockedatthegrocery.I’mnotsurprisedtohearGusisattheheadofit.EspeciallysinceIgotatextmessagethreedaysagofromanunknownnumbertellingmeMattyistryinghishandatstuffedcrustpizza.
There’sonlyonepersonwhowouldbethatinvestedinMatty’smenudevelopment.
“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout,”Gussaysarchly.
Laylahuffs.
ClintsquintsatthewallswhileMontypasseshishandsovertheframeofthedoor.EricpokesGusonceinthearm,grabbinghisattention.“Noknivesthistime,Gus.Idon’twantyoucuttinganythingopenagain.”
“Again?”
Everyoneignoresme.Gusholdsuphishands,palmsup.“HowwasIsupposedtoknowtherewasn’taclueinthemattress?”
“Ithoughtmeyellingthereisnoclueinthemattressrepeatedlyovertheintercommighthelp.”
Thiskidreallyisn’tpaidenough.Gushideshischucklebehindthepalmofhishand,fanninghisfingersoutoverhisstubble.“Fairpoint.Wellmade,asalways,Eric.Dotheusualrulesapply?”
Hecrackshisknuckles.Iglanceattheceilinginanefforttofindpatienceandfindaseveredheadinstead.Laylashufflesclosertomyside.
“Itwon’ttakeuslongtoescape,”shesays.“Ipromise.”
“GETINTHECEILING,LAYLA!”
IsighandloopmyarmaroundLayla’swaist,pullingherdownfromthetopofthedeskasshetriestofollowGus’sinstruction.Itwascute,atfirst,howexcitedandenthusiasticshewas.NowI’mjusttryingtokeepherfromlong-termbodilyharm.
“She’snotgettingintheceiling,Gus.”
Gusgripsthefrontofmyshirtinhisfistandpullsuntilhe’sthreeinchesawayfrommyface.Heissweating…alot.“Doyouwanttolive,Caleb?”
Atthispoint?No.Notreally.
“I’mhappytoheadoutthereandyouknow—”Imakeavaguelymotivationalgesture.“Gettheantidoteorsomething.I’lltakeonefortheteam.”
Therewasasnackbaroffofthelobby.Iwillhappilysitoutsideandeatasoftpretzelwhilethissituationresolvesitself.LaylaandIcangogeticecreamafterandIcandrownmysorrowsinsugarandcream.
“Ifyouleavetheroom,you’redisqualified.You’regonnastay.”LaylapressesherpalmflattoGus’schestandpusheshimawayfromme.“IcouldshimmyintooneoftheairventsIbet.Thelastcluesaidsomethingaboutflow,didn’tit?Maybeitmeantairflow.”
IlikeLaylaalot,butthisis—thisischaos.Thisiscompletemayhem.Whyanyonechoosestodothisforfunistrulybeyondme.
Eric’stinnyvoiceappearsoverthespeakers.Thisisthefourthtimeinthepasttenminutes.“Pleasedonotclimbintotheceilingorairducts.Therearenocluesinthere.Andtherearenoclueswithinthebodyparts,soyoucanstopworkingonthatarm,Montgomery.”
Montydropsthepieceofarmhewastryingtodissectusingapairoftweezersandapieceofbrokencorkboard.Itbouncesacrossthefloorandletsoutasqueak.
“Ithinkthatwasadogtoy,”Imumbletonooneinparticular.
“Whatweneedtodoisfocus,”Clintyellsatavolumethatisnotnecessary.Idon’tthinkherealizesthatnoonecanfocuswhenhe’sgesturingwildlylikethat.“Weneedtofindthethirdkey,developanantidote,andgetthefuckoutofhere.”
Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.Erichassteadilybeenincreasingtheambientnoiseforthelasttwentyminutes.I’mgoingtobehearingthedragandthudofundeadbodiesinmynightmaresforweeks.“Thisisinsane.”
“THISISLIFEORDEATH,CALEB,”Gusscreamsinmyface.
“Ifthiswerelifeordeath,wewouldhavebeendeadsevenminutesagowhenyoualmostletanentireundeadhordethroughthewindow,”Laylasnaps.“Idon’twanttohearitfromyou.GooverinthecornerandworkwithMontyonthesafecombination.”
Gusstompshiswayovertothecorner,apartinglookfullofmaliceaimedinmydirection.Ihaven’tbeenthemosthelpful,sure,butIthinkGusisoverreacting.
Ikeepthatthoughttomyself.
“Thankyou,”IsaytoLayla,resistingtheurgetosmoothmyhandsupanddownherarms.Ifthefakezombiesdon’tkillme,thisshirtwill.IcaughtaflashofbareskinwhensheliftedherarmstoreachthetopofthecabinetandIhadtostarehardatajarfullofeyeballstocollectmyself.“Whathappensifwedon’tescapetheroom?”
Laylagivesmeafiercelook.Hershouldersrollback,herchintipsupandthoseprettyeyesthatlooklikeasummerstormnarrow.IttugsatsomethingdeepinsidemeandIaminstantly,inexplicably,turnedon.
Christ.
“Weareescapingthisroom,”shesayswithasteelylevelofdetermination.Idon’tdoubtherforasecond.Ido,however,doubtthethreeidiotswiththeirheadspressedtogetheroverthesafe,tryingtowedgeitopenwithafakefoot.
“Ishouldprobablygohelpthem.”
IneedadistractionorI’mgoingtoescortLaylatothedarkestcornerofthisroomandgiveEricsomemorematerialforhistherapysessions.
Laylanods.“I’llworkonfindingthekey.”
Thekey.Thecombination.Theantidote.Ikeepforgettingallthepiecesofthispuzzle.Iheadovertowherethey’veabandonedthefootandhavestartedshakingthesafeinstead.Therecan’tbemuchtimeleft.Ijustneedtoendurethenexthalfanhour,atmost,andLaylaandIcangosomewherequiet.
Alone.
Together.
Withicecream,preferably.
“HowcanIhelp?”
“Ineedyoutostopflirting,”Gusdemands.“Andfocusongettingusthehelloutofhere.”
“I’mnotflirting,”Igrumble.
“Youare.”
“Here,”Clintoffers.Hehandsmesomethingthatlookslikeapoorlyconstructedhammer.“Startsmackingthissafe.”
“Shouldn’twebetryingtofigureoutthecombination?”
GussighsandglaresattheceilinglikeI’mthedumbestpersonontheplanet.“Thelastcluewastellingusweneedtousebruteforce,obviously.Thecombinationisadecoy.”
“Adecoy?”
“Yes,Caleb.Adecoy.”
“Sorry,it’sdifficulttohearyounowthatyou’renotscreaminginmyfaceeverythreeminutes.”
Montyhideshislaughinthecrookofhisarm.Guscracksasmile.“Youknow,you’refunnierthanyouleton.”Henudgesmeforward.“Comeon.Takeaswing.”
“You’resure?”
Heistwosecondsawayfromusingmyfaceasahammeronthissafe.Herollshiseyes.“I’msure.Swingaway,prettyboy.”Headjustsoneofthesweatbandscuffedaroundhisforearm.“Unlessyouthinkyouwon’tbeabletomanageit?”
Istarepointedlyatthefauxhammerhanginglimplyinhislefthand.IcanhearLaylasomewherebehindus,mutteringtoherselfaboutantidoteingredients.IwantthistobeagooddateforLayla.Iwanttobesomeoneshecanhavefunwith.
Iwanttohelpusescapethisroom.
“Icanmanageit.”
Gusholdshishandoutinthedirectionofthesafe,likehe’sofferingmethebesttableatafancyrestaurant.Ifonly.IbetIwouldn’thavetolookatseveredtoesifIdecidedtotakeLaylatodinnerlikeanormalhumanbeing.
“Haveatit.”
Isighandliftthehammer.
Myfirsthitdoesn’tdomuchofanything.Thehammerbouncesuselesslyoffthetopedge.ButthenIswingagain,andagain,focusingonthehingeofthethickmetaldoor.Somethingrattlesandthewholethinggivesadeep,ominous-soundinggroaninresponse.Guspressesinclosertomyside.
“You’realmostthere,”hebreathes.
“Couldyoubackup?You’refreakingmeout.”
Hegrabsformywrist.“Here,”hesays.“Icanhelp.”
“Idon’tneedyourhelp.”ItrytopullmywristawaywhileGustriestoswingmyarmforme.It’sclunky,anduncomfortable,andI’mnotabletouseanyforcewhatsoever.“Gus,letgoofmyarm.”
“Ifyoujust—”
“Iknowhowtoswingahammer.”
“Doyou?Becauseitdoesn’tlooklikeyoudo.”
“Justbackup.”
ExceptGusdoesn’tbackup.Hetriestoswingmyarmbackwardsagain—togetsomemomentumorpissmeoff,I’mnotsurewhich.Butashedoesit,hedoesn’tpayasingleounceofattentiontohisownmovement.
Ithappensinslowmotion.LaylaletsoutatriumphantyellfrombehindusandIturnhalfwaytoseewhatshe’supto.Gusdoesn’tdoathingtoslowhismotionandhisarmrocketsbackashetriestoforcemeonthesafe.Inallofthechaosofthemotionandthenoiseandthedistraction,myfacegetsintheway.
Ablindingpainexplodesinmylefteye.IgofromstandingnexttoGustoflatonmybackonthefloor,myvisionswimming.HazyglobesoflightdancewiththeseveredheadshangingfromtheceilinguntilI’msodizzyIthinkImightbesick.Iclosemyeyeswithagroan.
Thebruisesfromtherollerrinkmakethemselvesknown.
Iamacatastrophicmess.
Thezombiesoundtrackcomestoanabrupthalt.Ihearthefranticpoundingoffeetinthehallwayandthentheslamofthedoorbeingthrownopen,ahigh-pitchedscreechofanairhorn.Fourdifferentsetsofexplicitwordsechoaroundmyhead.
Montyisthefirsttospeakafterthesoundfizzlesout.
“Forfuck’ssake,Eric.Whatthehell?”
“Injuryonthefloor!”Ericyells.There’sreallynoneedforthatkindofyelling.“Thegameissuspended!”
“Ithinkwecangoaheadandcallthegameforfeited,”Imanagefromthefloor.ThereisnowayI’mhaulingmyselfupandfinishingthisthing.I’mtappedout.Completelyandutterlydone.Forthesecondtimeinasmanydays,Irolltomysideandliftuptomyknees.Iholdmyselfthere,myheadhanginglimplybetweenmyshoulders.Layla’ssmallhandpressesgentlyatthebaseofmyspine.
“Areyouokay?”
“Fine,”Imumble.Bruised,probably.Embarrassedashell,definitely.Icrawlmywaytoastandingpositionandavoidhereyes.MainlybecauseIcan’tseeoutofoneofthem.
It’sasmallconsolationthatGusisshamefacedbythedoor,hisbigarmscrossedoverhischest.He’snottheonethat’llhavetoteachaclasstoabunchofkidswithashinerforthenextcoupleofweeks,though,soit’snottoocomforting.
“I’mreallysorry,man.Itendtogetlostintheheatofthemoment.”
That’sanunderstatementifI’veeverheardone.Iglareathimwithmyonegoodeye.Irecognizethathedidn’tintentionallytrytopunchmeintheface,butIneedtonotbeinthisroomanymore.IreachblindlybehindmeforLayla.“We’releavingnow.”
“Holdonasecond!”
AclosetIthoughtwaslockedswingsopeninthebackrightcorner.Billylimpshiswayoutofit,hisfacecoveredinzombiemakeup.
Weallstareathimashepickshiswayoverthepropslitteredacrossthefloor.
“Ithoughtyousaidnoonewasgoingtopopoutatus,”Laylasays.
“Ididn’tevenknowBillywashere.”Ericisacombinationofbewilderedandresigned.Iguessthisisn’tthefirsttimeBillyhasrandomlypoppedoutofaclosetinthemiddleofasession.
Billystopsrightinfrontofme,hishandsearchinginsidehisjacketpocket.Hehaspaintthere,too—somethinggrotesquethatmakesitlooklikehisfingershavebeenchewedtothebone.IwishIweremoresurprised.
Hehandsmeapieceofpaper.
“What’sthis?”
“Itsaysthatyouwon’tholdQuestForEscapeliableintheeventofaninjury.”
“Shouldn’tIhavefilledthisoutbeforewestarted?”
Gusperksupinthecorner.“CanIaddmynametooneofthoseparagraphs?”
“Enough.”Laylasnatchesthepaperoutofmyhand,loopsherarmthroughmine,andstartstuggingustowardsthedoorthatleadstothehallway.“We’lltakealook,Billy.Butnopromises.”
“But—”
“MydateandIareleaving.”
Gusgetsaslysmileonhisface.Well.AsmuchofhisfaceasIcansee.“Date,huh?”
Laylaflickshimonourexit.“Youshutyourmouth.”
“Surething,Laylabug.”
“I’mstartingtothinkI’mtheproblem.”
LaylaandIareproppedupagainstthebackofmyJeepintheparkinglotofthegrocerystore,atuboficecreambalancedonthebumperbetweenus,abagoffrozencornoverhalfofmyface.Heatrisesofftheasphalt,ashimmerclosetothegroundwhereeverythinggoeshazy.ItiltmyheadtothesidesoIcangetagoodlookatheroutoftheeyenotcurrentlycoveredbyproduce.
“Howdoyoufigure?”
Shepokeslistlesslyatthetopoftheicecreamwithherspoon.“You’vebarelygottenoutoftheselasttwodatesalive.”Shedoesn’tlookatme.“Maybeyou’renottheonethat’sbadatdating.”
“I’dhardlycallourlastdatebadwhenwegottoleavewiththis.”
IholdupthepicturethatEricmadeustakebeforeweleftQuestForEscape.Apparentlyit’spartoftheentrancefeetogetasouvenirphototakenattheendofyourhour.NowthatIhavealittledistance,thephotoisobjectivelyhilarious.LaylaisglaringatGus,Gusisstaringatthefloor,I’mdoingmybesttosmilewithmyeyeswollenshut,andClintislaughingsohardhe’sbentatthewaist.Montgomeryonlygothalfofhimselfintheframe.Billyislurkinginthebackcorner,onlyhiseyesvisiblethroughthefacepaint.
IthinkImightputitonmydesk.RightnexttoFernando.
Layladoesn’trespond.Inudgehershoulderwithmine.“Idon’tthinkwe’retheproblemhere.Ithinkit’s…everythingelse.”
“Areyousayingwe’recosmicallydestinedtobebadatdatingforever?”
“No.”InodmyheadtowardsthegrocerystorewhereIcanseeatleastfivepeoplebythewindowswhoarepretendingtobebrowsingbutreallythey’rejustwatchingusintheparkinglot.CindyCroswellhasbeenexaminingorangesforclosetoseventeenminutes.Bridgetforgottoturntheflashoffherphonewhensheaimeditatustenminutesago.“I’msayingthistownhastoomuchtimeontheirhands.”
Laylafollowsmylineofsight.“Ah.”
“Everyoneknowsushere,”Iexplain.“Wecan’tgetanyprivacy.”
Laylaarcheshereyebrow,spooninhermouth.Istarealittletoolongatthewayherbottomlipdragsagainstthecheapplastic—hertongueatthecornerofherlips.“Andwhatareyougoingtodowithprivacy,huh?”
Iadjustthebagofcornonmyface.“Trynottogetkilled.”
Shesnortsandkicksherlegsbackandforth,hertoesbarelyskimmingthepavement.She’squiet,anothertwospoonfulsoficecreamwhileIwait.“Youwanttoleavetownforournextdate?”
I’mamazedshestillwantstogoonanydatesatallwithmeatthispoint.Myfacemustcommunicatesomethingsimilarbecausehergazesoftens.Shedigsherspoonintotheicecreamcartonandholdsitupbetweenusformetotakeabite.Areassuranceintheformofcaramelchocolateswirl.
“Ithinkit’sinourbestinterest.”
IcurlmyfingersaroundherwristandholdherhandsteadyasItakemybite,mythumbagainstthesilkyskinontheinsideofherwrist.Icanfeelthesteadybeatofherpulsebeneathmythumb,delicateandlight.
Idropmyhand.Laylakeepsthespoontherebetweenus,suspended,asherstarelingersonmymouth.
“DoIhavechocolateonmyface?”
Sheshakesherheadanddigsherspoonbackintothecarton,focusedentirelyonwedgingacarameloutfromtheicydepths.“You’lltextmethisweek?”
Ipeelthefrozencornfrommyfacewithawince.“Yeah,ofcourse.AndI’llseeyoutomorrowforcroissantsandcoffee.”
Shefrownsatmyface.“Maybeanicepacktogo,too.”
“Itdoesn’tlookbetter?”
Sheshakesherhead.Isigh.
“Youwinsome,youlosesome.”
“Itfeltlikealose-losetonight,”Laylasays.Shehopsoffthebackofmycarandpopsthelidontheicecream.
“Nah,therewasawin.”
Sheloopsaroundtothepassengerside,watchingmefromovertopthecabofthecar.“Iknowyoudon’tlikethepicturethatmuch.”
Ikindofdo,butthat’snotwhatI’mtalkingabout.
“Igottospendtimewithyou,didn’tI?”
Shesmiles,wideandbrightandbeautiful.
“Oh,Caleb,”shesighs.ShetugsopenthedoortomyJeep.“Tenoutoften.”NINELAYLA
There’sasecretatthebakehousethatnoteventhephonetreehasuncoveredyet.Aconfidential,classified,undisclosedpieceofinformationthatI’veheldclosetomychestforyears.Beckettdoesn’tknow.Lukadoesn’tknow.Evelyndoesn’thaveaclue.IthinkStellasuspectssomething,butshe’sneverquestionedmeaboutit.
Ithinksherealizestheenormityofthesecret.
“Wouldyouhurryup?”Ms.Beatricestruggleswiththeindustrial-sizedboxofshortbreadcookiesinherarms.“Ican’tstandherelikethisallday.”
“It’sbeentwenty-threeseconds,”Iwhisperback.Ifumblewiththekeysinmyhand.“Youdon’thavetoholdthemallday.JustuntilIgetthekeyinthelock.”
OnthethirdWednesdayofeverymonth,Ms.BeatriceandIhaveanexchangeofgoods.ShebringsmethreedozenshortbreadcookiesandIgivehersixpies.Wesitinmykitchenincompletedarkness,consultoneachother’srecipes,anddrinkexactlytwocupsofcoffee.ShegivesmeaboatloadofcrapabouthowIprepmypiecrustsandthenshedisappearsbackintothemistfromwhenceshecame.
It’sallveryclandestine.
Theentiretownthinkswe’reincompetitionwithoneanother.We’vecarefullycuratedthatreputationovertheyearswithscriptedconversationsandintentionalslights.Immature?Probably.Manipulative?Oh,certainly.Webothdobetterbusinesswhenitlookslikewe’refeuding.PeoplestopbyMs.B’sinthemorningtotryherscones,andthencomebythebakehouseintheafternoonandbuysomeofminetocompare.Littledotheyknowthey’retheexactsamerecipe.
WearethePat’sandGeno’sofbakedgoods.
Therealityisalotlessexciting.Ms.BeatricetookmeunderherwingshortlyafterImovedintotown.IthinkshegottiredofmedoomscrollingathercountertopwhileIfranticallysearchedforajob.OnedayshedemandedIhelpherinthebackkitchenandthatwasit.Iwashooked.IshowedupeverysingledaybeforethesunandMs.Btaughtmeeverythingsheknew.
She’snotnearlyasscaryasshelikestomakeeveryonebelieve.
Ifinallymanagetogetthekeyinthelockandweshufflethroughthebackdoorofthebakehouse.Shedropshercardboardboxontheislandandbeginstounloadit.
“Addedsomejellythumbprintcookies,too,”shetellsme,tossingabagoftinyroundcookiescoloredwithdotsofstrawberryandapricotjamrightnexttomymixer.“Younevergetthoseright.”
Isnortandflickonthecoffeemachine.“Youknowifpeopleweretofindouthowniceyouactuallyare,yourentirepersonawouldcrumble.”
Beatricethrivesonherthreateningimage.Sheservesupfrownswithhercoffeeanddoesn’tbotherwithpleasantrieswhenshedropsaquicheonthetableinfrontofyou.Butherlemonbarsmorethanmakeupforit,soIsupposeshecanacthowevershewants.
“Noonewilleverfindout.”Shesettlesintooneofthestools,herlonggrayhairtumblingdownherback,thelinesofherfacesofterinthemutedlightofpredawn.She’swearingherstandardrippedupbandt-shirtbeneathdenimoverallsthismorning,heavyblackbootsonherfeet.Shepullsatattered-upspiralnotebookoutofthebagonthefloorandpatsthecovertwice.“Let’stalkrhubarb.”
Wesitinmykitchenandwetalkaboutrhubarbanddarkchocolateandhazelnutganache.Wediscusstheconsistencyofshortcakebatterandwhatwe’regoingtomakewiththestrawberrycropBeckettisalmostreadytoharvest.ShecriticizesmylemoncustardandIgivehergriefaboutherhomemadewhippedcream.
ItisanordinaryWednesdaymorning.
Untilsomeonestartspoundingonmyfrontdoor.
Wefreezewithourmugshalfwaytoourmouths.Ms.Beatrice’seyesdarttomine,accusing.
“Whoisthat?”Beatricelookslikeshe’sreadytoclimboutthetinynarrowwindowabovemyworksink.
“Ihavenoidea.”
Nooneiseverherethisearly.Nooneexceptforus.
Anotherknockrapsagainsttheglasswindowinthefront.IslipfrommystoolandcrackopenthedoorthatleadstothefrontoftheshopasMs.Beatricedropstothefloor.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Iwhisper,incredulous.
“Hiding,”shewhispersback.Shecrawlstwofeetforwardtogetalookoutthedoorandtiltsherheadtotheside,aslygrintippinghermouth.“ThatlookslikeCaleb.”
Isquint.ItdoeslooklikeCaleb,thoughIhavenoideawhathe’sdoinghereatfiveinthemorning.
Heknocksagain,notrealizinghe’sbeingwatchedbytwocreepy-asswomenlurkingintheback.
“Layla?”Hisvoiceismuffledbythethickglassofthefrontdoor.“It’sme.”Heshiftsonhisfeetandthenglancesoverhisshoulderatthedarkclusteroftreesbehindhim.“Ibroughtyousomebreakfast.”
“Doesherealizeyouliterallyspecializeinbreakfast?”
“Shutup,”Ihushher.“Wheredidyouparkyourcar?”
“InthegravellotBeckettusesforstorage.Theonebehindthepinetreesandthechickencoophekeepsinsistinghe’snotbuilding.”Shearchesaneyebrowatme.“DoyouthinkI’manidiot?”
Kindof.Withthewayshe’sarmycrawlingacrossthefloorofmykitchen.
“WaituntilIopenthefrontdoortoslipouttheback.I’lldistracthim.”
Shesnickers.“Ibetyouwill.”
Idon’tbotherdignifyingthatwitharesponse.Ismoothmypalmsovermyhair,setdownmycoffeemug,andslipthroughthedoortothefront.Calebstraightensassoonasheseesme,agrinblossomingonhishandsomeface.Acascadeofbutterflieseruptslowinmybelly,myownsmileaseasyasbreathing.IfeellikeI’mcaughtontheotherendofastring,pulledcloserandclosertowhereverheis.
Iflickdownmyrowoflocks,watchinghimthroughtheglass.Khakipantsandashortsleevedbuttonuptoday,ironedtoperfection.Myeyestravelfromthejutofhiscollarbonestothedimpleinhischeek.Thestraightlineofhisnoseandthe…absolutelyhorrendousblackandpurplebruisearoundhiseye
Iopenthedoorandusherhimin.“Youreyelooksterrible.”
Butalsoreallyincredible,somehow.Attractiveinarough-and-tumblesortofway.Withthekhakis,itsdownrightdelightful—twodrasticallyopposinglooksononeman.
Hetouchestheswellofhischeekwiththetipsofhisfingers.“Itdoes,doesn’tit?It’swhyIworethekhakis.Ithoughttheymighthelp.”
“Helpyoulooklikea90’ssitcomdad?”
Heshrugs.“Helpeveryonebefocusedonsomethingthatisn’tmyface.Thekidsthinkit’shystericalwhenIwearkhakis,forwhateverreason.Idon’tknowwhatI’mgoingtotellthemabouttheeye,though.Ican’ttellthemthetruth.”
Yeah,I’mnotsosureCalebshouldtellhisstudentsthathegotablackeyeafterGuselbowedhiminthefacewhiletryingtouseafakefoottoopenafakesafeinafakezombieapocalypse.Iimaginetheteenagerswouldhavesomethingtosayaboutthat.
Calebfrownsandstepspastmetothecountertop.Hedropsaplainbrownpaperbagontop.“MaybeI’llsayitwassomethingwithacougar.”
“Oh?”
“Orahelicopter.Ihaven’tdecidedyet.”
“Botharegoodoptions.”Ipeeroverhisshoulderatthebag,greasestartingtobleedthroughthebottom.Mystomachgivesaferociousrumbleofappreciation.“Whatdidyoubringme?”
“Abaconandeggsandwich.”Hepropshishipagainstthecounteratmyside.Istarehardatthekhakipants.They’redistractingmefromhisface,butprobablynotforthereasonshe’scountingon.Theyfithim…reallywell.“Ifiguredyouwouldn’twanttocooksomethingforyourself.”
Somethinginmychesttwists.Alightpluckthatechoesandshakes.Idon’tlikecookingformyself.Afterspendingmostofmytimemakingfoodforeveryoneelse,IusuallyjusteatthescrapsofwhateverisleftoverfromthebatchofwhatI’mworkingon.
Itmeanssomethingthathepickeduponthat.
“Youbroughtithereforme?”
Henods,abemusedsmiletwistinghislips.“Idid.Sorryit’ssoearly.IwantedtocatchyoubeforeIheadovertotheschool.”
“Earlytoday?”
“Busduty.”
Ican’tstoplookingatthebagonthecountertop.Hestoppedsomewhere.Forme.Gotupearly,madeanextrastop,anddroveallthewayouthere.
“Thankyou,”Iwhisper.
Heliftshishandbetweenus,butthenseemstothinkbetterofit.Hedropsitbacktohisside.“It’snoproblem.”
Iwanttoknowwhathewasgoingtodowiththathand.“Still,I—”
Somethingclattersinthebackkitchen—cookiesheets,bythesoundofit.IstareatthebackdoorwithwideeyesandCaleb—CalebisaroundthecornerandthroughthebackdoorbeforeIcaneventhinktostophim.
“Oh,shit,”Iwhisper.IhopeBeatriceissprintingthroughthefieldsrightnow.Whydidshetakesolongtoleave?I’dbetallmychocolatecroissantsandmyveryfavoritespatulathatshewaslisteningatthedoor,thatnosylittletroublemaker.
IfollowafterCalebatamuchslowerpaceandwithalotlessenthusiasm.BythetimeImakeittothekitchen,he’sstandinginthemiddleofitwithhishandsonhiships,staringintentlyatthebackdoorswingingwideopen.
“WeneedtocallDane,”hesaysinastern,hardvoicethatzingsrightupmyspine.
Iignorehimandwalktowardsthedoor.Idon’twantabunchofbugsbuzzingaroundwhileI’mtryingtomakerhubarbpie.AheavyarmsnakesaroundmywaistandCalebliftsmeupandawaylikeI’moneofmybagsofsugar.Hesetsmebackonmyfeetbythesink,hisarmstillfirmlyaroundmywaist.
ItisdisturbinghowmuchIenjoyit
“Someonewasinyourkitchen,”hetellsme,hisdarkeyebrowsinalowslantoverhisbrowneyes.Specksofamberandgolddanceashegazesdownatme,hishandclenchingatmywaist.ItfansthelittleflameinmychestuntilIfeelitricochetingdowntomypalms.Inthebackofmykneesandinthehollowofmythroat.
Iswallowhard.
“Caleb.”
Hegivesmeoneslowblink.He’sreluctanttostopscanningtheplacelikeanaxmurdererisabouttojumpoutfrommywalk-infridge.Theescaperoomexperiencereallydidanumberonhim.“What?”
“Ihavea—well,Ihaveaconfession.”
Thatgetshisattention.Helooksdownatmeandhisjawclenches.“Yes?”
“It’snotabigdeal.”
“Okay.”
“Idon’twantyoutofreakout.”
Heswallowsagain,bracinghispalmagainstthetableatmyhip.Withtheblackeyeandthis—thislookonhisface,healmostlookslikeadifferentperson.It’sliketheHawaiianshirtrevelationalloveragain.Calebishot,mybrainsuppliesinadreamy,singsongvoice.Calebisreallyhot.
Hotandprotectiveandkindandsweetandhesmellslikefreshgroundcoffee.Hebroughtmebreakfast,practicallykickedinthedoortomykitchen,andheisstandingso,soclose.
Trouble.
“Ihatetobreakittoyou,Layla,butI’maboutthirtypercentofthewaytowardsfreakingout.”
“Okay,so.”WheredoIevenbegin?Theyearwas2013andBeatriceandIdecidedtoformasecretsocietywherewesharerecipesand—
“Layla.”
Right.
“Ihadsomeoneoverforcoffeethismorning,”Isayinarush.
Calebblinksatme.Hisfaceslackensslightlyandthenheblinksagain.Hepushesawayfromthecountertopandtakestwostepsback.Helooksattheceiling,thenthefloor.Heclearshisthroat.
AwkwardsilencestretchesbetweenusandIclaspmyhandstogether.
“Oh.That’s—that’sfine.”Ablushflarestolifeonhischeeks,abrightandferociousred.Butthisisn’tthesameonehegetswhenhe’squietlypleased,orwhenhe’ssmilingsoharditlookslikehisfacemightstickthatway.OrevenwhenItrailmyfingersdownhisarm.Thisis—he’sembarrassed
AndIamhopelessly,terriblyconfused.
Calebstandsinthemiddleofmykitchenwithhisshouldershunched,lookinglikehewantstobeanywhereelsebuthere.Hestareshardattheisland.Thestoolsslightlyoutoftheirnormalspotsandthetwocoffeemugsonthecountertop.Iwatchhisthroatbobwithaswallow.
“IthinkI’mgoingto—”Hehitcheshisthumboverhisshoulder,stillnotlookingatme.“I’mgonnago.”
“What?No.”Igrabhisarmashetriestoslidepastme.Hestopsabruptly,butstillrefusestolookatmyface.Myshoesgetthefullforceofhisfocusedattention.Thestackofmixingbowlsonthebottomofmyshelf.Arowofcolorfulcupcakeliners.“Youbroughtmebreakfast.Stay.Eatwithme.”
“Idon’t—”
“Please.”
Hesighs.Ashort,frustratedsound.“Layla.”
“Caleb.”
“IthinkIshouldgo.”
“Ithinkyoushouldstay.”
Hefinallyrelentsandlooksatmyface.Igetagoodlookathis.Ifrown.Idon’tthinkI’veeverseenhimlooksodisappointed.
“Ithoughtwesaidwe’dtelleachotherifwewantedtoendit,”heoffersinalowvoice.“Iwouldn’thaveminded,ifyou’dtoldme.Iunderstand.”
And,oh.Oh.HethoughtIhad—hethoughtIhadanearlymorningdateover.HethoughtIwasbackinmykitchenhavingbreakfastwithsomeoneelse.Aromanticsomeoneelse.Ithinkabouthowlongittookmetogettothefrontdoor.Howhehadtoknockatleastthreetimes.
Iwince.
CalebtriestomovepastmeagainandIgriphimhardwithbothhands.Hecouldsteamrollmeifhewanted,buthestaysperfectlystillandstaresholesintothefloorbyourfeet.
“Caleb,Ihaveanotherconfession.”
“I’mnotsureIwanttohearit.”
“I—”Istumbleovermywords,searchingforanexplanationthatmakessense.
“It’salright.Really,Layla.Thirddateisthecharmforme,afterall.”HelaughsalittlebitandIhateit.Howitsoundslikehe’slaughingathimself.“Pleasedon’t—youdon’thavetoexplainanythingtome.”
Iignorehim.“OnthethirdWednesdayofeverymonth,IhaveastandingappointmentwithMs.Beatrice.”
Caleb’sheadslowlyraises.Helooksatme,hisdarkeyeswatching.Cautious.“Ms.Beatrice?”
“Yes.Shecomesoverandwesithereandwetalkaboutallofthethingswehaveplannedfortherestofthemonth.”
Caleb’smouthtwists,confused.“Whydoesn’tshejust—whywasthedoorwideopen?”
“Becauseitisasecret,Caleb,”Isay,deadlyserious.“Weheardyouatthedoorandsheran.Canyouimaginetheutterdestructionthisnewswouldraindownuponthetownifpeopleknew?”
“Idon’tthink—”
“Wehaveareputationtouphold.Everyonethinkswehateeachother.Secrecyiskey.”
Hislipstwitchagainbutthistimeitlookslikeasmile.Anormalsmile.“Isee.”
“Yes,”Inod.“Nowyousee.”IcurlmyhandsaroundhisarmsandshakehimasmuchasI’mable.Whichis…notthatmuch.“DidyoureallythinkIwastwo-timingyouwithsomemysterybreakfastdate?”
“Maybe.”
“Youdid.”
“Alright,Idid.Buttobefair,youwerebeingverysuspicious.”
Iarchaneyebrow.“Whohasadateatfiveinthemorning?”
Hisblushlingers.“I’mhere,aren’tI?”
Hesmiles,gentleandslowandachinglycareful.Iwanttotraceitwithmyfingertipsandpressitdeeperintohisskin.Idon’twanthimtohavetobecarefulwithme.
Calebdoubtshimselfinsomanyways—bigandsmall.HewassoreadytobelievethatIwasdonewithhim.Thathewasn’tworthfurtherconsideration.
Itmakesmesad.
Islipmyhandsdownhisarmsuntilmyfingersarecurledaroundhiswrists.“Yes,youarehere.Andwithabagel,noless.AllMs.Beatricebroughtweresomeshortbreadcookiesandabunchofcomplaints.”
“Hm.”Calebturnshishandsuntilourpalmsarepressedtogether.Untilhisfingersarethreadedthroughmine.We’vegottenprettygoodatthishand-holdingthing.It’severythingelsethat’saworkinprogress.“Thatraisesaninterestingpoint,actually.”
Iblinkandwatchthewaythecoloronhischeeksfadestoalightdustingofpink,hiseyesbecomingslightlycalculating.Mybrainismovingalittleslowerthanusual,standingthisclosetohim.“Whatdoes?Thecookies?”
“No,yourclandestineearlymorningmeetings.”
“Oh.What’sinterestingaboutit?”
Calebsqueezesmyhandsandguidesmecloseruntilthetoesofmytennisshoesaretuckedneatlybetweenhisscuffedboots.Myapronbrushesupagainstthestarchymaterialofhisbutton-up.Abreathshuddersoutofme.
“What’sinitforme?”hewhispers.Hetugsourhandsuntilbothofmyarmsarewrappedlowaroundhiswaist,hispalmssmoothingupmyarms.Histouchisintentional,slow—heavyanddelicious.Abeamofgoldenlightslipsthroughthegauzywhitecurtainsofmykitchenandslantsacrosshisboots,workingslowlyupourlegsasthesunriseswiththerestoftheworld.Ilikehimlikethis,hereinthequiet.Whenit’sjustmeandhimandabagelsandwichinapaperbagonthecounter.Shortbreadcookiesinatinandthewarmpuffofhisbreathagainsttheskinofmyneck.HisnosenudgesmychinandItiltmyheadtotheside,exposingmoreofmyskinforhimtoexplore.
“Initforyou?”Iaskhazily,toofocusedontheslowpressofhisbodyagainstmine.
“Thisisasecret,isn’tit?”Hisvoiceislowernow,adeeprumblethatIcanpracticallyfeel.HisbottomlipgrazesthehollowjustbeneathmyearandIshiver.“WhatdoIgetforkeepingyoursecrets,LaylaDupree?”
Ihumandtracethecurveofhisjawwithmyeyes.Thefanofdarkeyelashesacrosstheappleofhischeeks.WhatcolorwouldtheyburnifIslippedanotherbuttonfreefromthisfancyshirt?Iwatchwithinterestashislipspartonashakysigh.Itseemswhatevergamehejuststartedisaffectinghimasmuchasit’saffectingme.
Ismile.
“Whatwouldyoulike,CalebAlvarez?”
Hetipshisheadforwardandhisnosebumpsmine.Onehandleavesthecurveofmyarmtosettlebetweenmyshoulderbladesinstead,agentlepressureuntilIarchintohim.Helayshispalmflatanddragsdown,down,down,fingerscatchinginthestringsofmyapron.Asmilestartsattheedgeofhismouth.Iwanttobiteit.
Iclenchmyfistinhisshirt.
“Iwant—”Hisfingersfindasingleapronstringandhetugs.
Thematerialagainstmychestbeginstoloosen.I’mmoreturnedonthanifhe’dslippedhishandinsidemyshirt
“Whatdoyouwant?”Iask,voicecatching.
Hisotherhandcupsmyneck.Hebrusheshismouthloweragainstmyjaw,andthenbackfurther,rightagainstmypulse.Notquiteakiss.Justhislipsgrazingsoftskin.Hissighticklesthedelicateskinthere,alowsoundofappreciationunderhisbreath.Mykneesgoweak.
“Iwantsomeofthoseshortbreadcookies,”hewhispersintomyear.
Igroananddropmyforeheadtohischest.Helaughsinthequietofmykitchen,richandloudanddeep.ItipmyheadbacksoIcanglareathim.“Hasanyoneevertoldyouthatyou’reatease?”
Heshakeshishead,bothofhisarmsloopedlowaroundmywaistnow.HerocksusbackandforthandIcan’thelpbutsmile,too.Ilikeeveryversionofhimselfthatheshowsme—thefullspectrumofCalebAlvarez.“Nope.You’dbethefirst.”
“Luckyme.”Irapmyknucklesagainsthiscollarboneandpushaway,intentongettingasolidslabofcountertopbetweenus.Idon’tknowwhenIstartedthinkingaboutkissingCaleb,justthatIhavebeen.Incessantly.It’sabuzzingundermyskinandanechoinmyblood.
Maybeitwasattherollerrink,whenIhauledhimoffthefloorwithbothofmyarmswrappedaroundhis,cursingunderhisbreathaswestruggledtogether.Maybeitwasintheescaperoomwhenhewrappedhisarmsaroundmyhipsandtuggedmeoffthattable.
Ormaybeitwasthatfirstnightatthebar,withhisstupidHawaiianshirtandmessyhair,humiditymakingeverythingstickyandhot.
Whenhelookedatmelikehesawme.
Idon’tknow.IonlyknowthatIwanthismouthonmine.Iwantthatsmileofhisthatedgessharperononesidepressedintomyskin.Greedyhandsandthosedimpleswinkingtolife.IwanttounravelCaleblikeoneofmyapronstrings.
It’sconfusing.Surprising.
Wildlydistracting.
“What’reyouthinkingabout?”hemurmurs.
I’mthinkingabouthowhe’dtasteafteroneoftheseshortbreadcookies.Whetherhe’shadhiscoffeeyetandifI’dbeabletotastethat,too.
Ismiletomyself.Ifheonlyknew.
Ipokehiminthechestandthenspinaway.“Somethingdelicious.”TENCALEB
IthinkIpushedtoohardwithLayla.
Afterourmomentinthebakery,she’sbeendifferent.Notupset.Just—muted,Ithink.
Shestillgivesmeagrinthatfeelslikeit’sonlyformeandhertouchstilllingersovermyknucklesorwristwhenIstopbyformycoffeeandcroissant.Wehaveplansfortomorrownightandshe’srespondedtoeverysingleoneofmytextmessages.Butshefeelsfaraway.
“Talvezdeberíasbesarla,osezno.”
Tobeclear,Ididnotaskmygrandmotherforadvice.
Shejusttookonelookatmesittingatthetiny,ricketywoodentableinherkitchenanddecidedtobestowituponme.Alongwithanentirecontainerofchilaquiles.
Icametoherhouseforexactlyoneofthosethings.
“Doyouhaveanyhotsauce?”
Shesmacksmeintheearwithherspoon.
“Itdoesnotneedhotsauce.Itisperfectasitis.”ShemumblessomethinginSpanishunderherbreaththatsoundsvaguelylikespoiledandhotsauce.Idecidetokeepmymouthshut.
“Whereareyoutakinghertomorrow?”sheasks.
“Idon’tknow,”Imumblearoundamouthfuloffood.“Shesaidshewantedtopickwherewegothistime.”
Probablyagoodideaconsideringhowthelasttwowent.Myblackeyehasfadedtoamutedyellowandtheswellingisalmostnon-existent.Icanwalkwithoutalimpnow.Bestnottotemptfate.
EvenifitfeelslikeI’vemessedup.
Mygrandmothernodsinapproval.“Good.Amanwhocantakedirectionfromawomanisamanworthkeeping.”
“Gracias,abuela.”
“Iwascomplimentingher,notyou.”
Irollmyeyestotheceiling.“Gracias,abuela.”
“Cómetetuschilaquiles,”shetellsme,fussingwiththedishwasher.I’doffertohelp,butshe’llprobablysmackmewithherspoonagainifIgetupfromthistablebeforethiswholecontainerisempty.Shehasathingaboutfood.“Youshouldhavekissedher,”shetellsmeagain,inEnglishthistime.
Ipokemyforkaroundinmybowl.“I’mnotsosure.”
“Why?”Mygrandmotherturnsandarchesaneyebrowatme,herhairpiledinaloosebun.She’swearingtheearringsmyabuelogotherfortheirfiftiethweddinganniversary,twostudsmadetolooklikeseashells,glowinginthelightofthekitchen.Herbrightreddressswingsbackandfortharoundherankles,herfacesoftenedbyageandgentleamusement.“WasInotmarriedforalmostseventyyears?DoInothavesoundadvice?”
“Porsupuestoquesí,abuela.Ijust—IthinkImadeheruncomfortable,”Imumble.IthinkItookittoofar.Ihadwantedtoteaseheralittlebit,butthenittumbledoutofcontrol.
Itumbledoutofcontrol.
Icouldsmellsugaronherskin.Freshstrawberriesandshortbreadandhershampoo—somethinglightandflorallikerosepetals.Islidmypalmdownherbackandfelteveryridgeofherspine,thedeepshudderingbreaththatsheletoutwhenhernosebrushedagainstmyneck.WhenIdippedmyhead,andshemadeasoundinthebackofherthroat,Ialmostpickedherupandspreadheroutagainstthekitchenisland.
“Whodidyoumakeuncomfortable?”
Thescreendooronthebackofmygrandmother’shousecreaksopenandCharliestrollsintothekitchenlikehe’ssupposedtobehere—likehedoesthiseveryday—abouquetofflowersinhishandandhissuitjacketoveronearm.Heignoresmystupefiedlookandpresentstheflowerstomygrandmother,akissonbothofhercheeks.
“Hermosacomosiempre,Mariana,”hetellsher.
Shebeamsathim.
Ifrown,beyondconfused.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
Mygrandmothermakesatschsoundandtapsmebetweentheshoulderbladeswithherspoon.Awarningshot.“Noseasgrosero,osezno.”
“Yeah,bearcub.”Charlieraisesbothofhiseyebrows,delightedandsmug.“Don’tberude.”
CharlielivesinNewYork.CharlieworksinNewYork.Idon’tunderstandwhyhe’sstandinginmygrandmother’skitchenonaweekdayafternoon.Iignoremygrandmother’suseofmychildhoodnicknameinfrontofCharlieandinsteadfocusonthemoreimportantthing.LikewhyshehasthreeTupperwaredishesforhimwhenIonlyhaveone.
“Eresunángel,”Charliecroons,tossingwhatIassumeisthousandsofdollarsincustomtailoringoverthechairoppositeofme.Theguyisastudyincontradictions.ThelasttimeIsawhim,hewasmakingmybrother’scoatclosethisnewhome.I’mhappytoseehe’srecovered.“Untesoro.Unareina.”
Mygrandmotherflushesabrilliantshadeofred.Iguessthat’swhereIgotmyblushingfrom.Istareatbothofthem,stilldumbfounded.
“Whatisgoingon?”
Charliecollapsesinhischairandfoldshistieoverhisshoulder.Herearrangesthebowlinfrontofhim.“Whatdoesitlooklike?I’mhavingmymonthlylunchwithyourgrandma.”
“Monthlylunch.”
“Yes.”
“Withmygrandma.”
“Yes,Caleb.ThatisexactlywhatIjustsaid.Verygood.”
“Sincewhen?”
“Sincehedidmytaxesformelastyear,”mygrandmotheroffersfromthestove.She’salreadycookingsomethingelse.Honestly,it’samiraclethatCharlieistheonlyonewho’swalkedinthedoorsofar.Usuallyit’saconstantstreamofmycousinsinandout.IthinkmyTioBenjamínstillhasaroomhere.“Heisagoodboy.”
Charliespearsatomatoonhisforkandbrandishesitatmelikeaweapon.“Yeah,bearcub.I’magoodboy.”
“Don’tcallmethat.”
“Toolate.It’salreadyimprintedonmymind.Youarenowbearcubforever.”
Isighandtakeanotherbiteofmylatelunch.Nevermindthatchilaquilesareabreakfastdishandmygrandmothertoldmethiswasallshehadleft.Whatalittleliar.“Didyoureallydriveallthewaydownheretohavelunchwithmygrandmother?”
“OfcourseIdid.”IwatchasmygrandmotherhandshimaglassoflemonadeandhewhisperssomethingtoherinSpanish.Shecackles,loudandbright,thesoundbouncingoffthewallsandwindows.AsmiletugsatmylipsbeforeIcanremindmyselfthatI’mirritated.I’vealwayslovedherlaugh.
“IhadtobringsomepaperworkforNova,too,”hecontinues.“She’stryingtoexpandhertattoostudio.”
“That’sright.Shewantstobuythatspacebehindtheflowershop,right?”
“That’sherplan.”Charliepopsopenanotherlidandletsoutadeep,rumblinggroanofappreciation.Thatbastard.Myabuelamadehimtresleches.
“Abuela,”Igroan.“Youtoldmeyoudidn’thaveanyleft.”
Sheonlyturnshalfwayfromthestove,herfaceinprofile.“Ididn’t.”
“ThenwhydoesCharliehavehalfacake?”
“Becausehegotwhatwasleft.”Shepullsherspoonfromthemassivepotonthestovetopanddragsherfingeralongtheedge.Shetastesthesauce,makesaface,sprinklesinsomechilipowder,andgoesbacktostirring.“Now,areyouamanorachild?Whyareyousittingtherewhining?”
“Tupostreesmifavorito,”Igrumble.“YouknowIlovetresleches.”
“Iwasnottalkingaboutthedessert.Iwastalkingaboutthewoman.”
Charliepropshischininhishandandwigglesinhischair.Amanofhissizeshouldlookridiculousdoingthat.Butofcourse,hedoesn’t.Hejustlookseagerandamused,hisforkdanglingfromhishandandhischeeksbulgingwithwhippedcream,cinnamon,andspongecake.Asshole.Thatwasmycake.
Withhisdarkhairandbrightblueeyes—helooksjustlikehishalf-sister,Stella.
Theysharealackofsubtlety,too.
“Let’stalkmoreaboutthiswoman,”Charliesays.
“No,thankyou.”
“Oh,relax.”CharlieopenshisthirdcontainerandrollsoutanotherstringofcomplimentstomygrandmotherinSpanish.Ididn’tevenknowhecouldspeakSpanish.“IknowyouandLaylahaveathing.”
“Athing?”
“Athing.I’llhandittoyou,though.IthinkthisisthefirsttimeI’veseenthephonetreestumped.Nooneknowswhat’sactuallygoingonwiththetwoofyou.Gushadsomeideasaftertheescaperoomincident,but—”
“What?”
“—butnooneknowsforsure.”
Well,Isupposethatmakestwoofus.Or…howevermanypeopleareonthephonetreeatthispointintime.
Ideflect.“Howdidyougetonthephonetree?”
Charliemakesaface.“Whywouldn’tIbeonthephonetree?”
“Becauseyoudon’tlivehere.”
Hetapshisfistoverhischesttwice.“Myheartishere.That’swhatmatterstothephonetree.Nowstopstallingandexplainwhat’sgoingonwithyouandLayla.”
“We’re…dating.”
Charlienarrowshiseyesatme.“Youdon’tsoundconvinced.”
Ifidgetinmyseat.IguessI’mnot.Especiallyafterwhathappenedtheotherday.Or,didn’thappen.Idon’tknow.“Wearepracticedating.Foramonth.There’sanexpirationdate.”
Therehastobe.I’veonlybeenontwodateswithLayla,bothofwhichendedinphysicaldisaster,andIcanstillfeelmyselfslipping.Ilikeseeinghersmile.Ilikehearingherlaugh.Ilikeholdingherhandandduckingmychinagainstthetopofherhead.Ilikeherdryhumorandthewayshecallsmeonmybullshit,everysingletime.Ilikegettingtoknowthedifferentpartsofher.Ilikeher
Onemonth.It’llbeenough.
Ithastobe.
“Whoseideawasthat?”
“Mine.”Maybe.“Itmakessenselikethis.”
“Ihatetobreakthistoyou,myfriend.Thisdoesn’tmakeanysenseatall.Butwhateverhelpsyousleepatnight.”
“Hedidn’tkissher,”mygrandmotheroffersfromthestove.“Whenshewantedtobekissed.”
Charlieleansbackinhisseatwithaheavy,disappointedexhale.“Dude.”Hiseyesarelikesaucers.“Yougottakissherwhenshewantstobekissed.”
Ibusymyselfwithmysilverware,staringhardatthetabletop.“Idon’tknowifshewantedtobekissed.”
Charlieandmygrandmothermakethesamedismissivesound.Mygrandmothertacksonafewcolorfulcursewordsattheendofhers.
“Youknow,”Charlieinsists.“Thinkaboutit.Wasshegivingyouthesigns?”
Herhandsclenchedinthebackofmyshirt.Hernoseagainstmine.Thatlittlesoundshemade,rightinthebackofherthroatwhenIfoundherapronstringandpulled.
“See?”Charliepointshisforkatmeagain.“Shewantedtobekissed.”
I’mstillthinkingaboutitasIwalkupherdrivewaytwohourslater,somelavenderclutchedinmylefthand.I’mthinkingaboutitwhenIknockandI’mthinkingaboutitwhenIhearfaintstepsdownthehallwaybehindherfrontdoor.
Laylaopensthedoorandsmilesatme.She’swearingashortwhitesundressthatmakesherskinlookgoldenandalsomakesmewanttodroptomyknees,curlmyfingersaroundthehem,anddragituparoundherbellybutton.
Iswallow.
“Thisisforyou.”
Shemakesnomovetograbthelavender,hersmileflickeringattheedges.“Iseverythingokay?”
Inod.AndthenIshakemyhead.Sheswingsherdooropenalittlemoreandbeckonsmein.
“Comeon.Wedon’thavetoleaverightaway.”
Istepintoherhallwayandstop.Layla’shouseisperfectly,wonderfullyher.There’scoloreverywhere,fromthepalepinkrugacrossthewornhardwoodfloorstothedeep,navybluecouchpressedupagainstthewall,coveredwithpillowsofallshapesandsizes.There’satleastfiftythrowblanketsofvariouscolorsandtexturesinabasketbyherbookshelf,plantsandbooksandpictureframescompetingforspace.
Ipickupapictureinagildedgoldenframe,themetalshapedlikevinestwistedaroundthephotoinside.Laylaandthreewomenthatlookjustlikeher.Thesamehairandeyesandsmile,butstillLaylastandsoutfromtherest.Hersmileisalittlebitmorewild,alittlebitmorefree.
“Yoursisters?”
Laylanods.“Whenwewerealltogetherformydad’sbirthday.”
“Youdon’ttalkaboutthemmuch.”
Sheshrugsandpicksupablanketspreadoutacrosstheottomanandfoldsitintoaneatsquare.“We’renotascloseasI’dlike.WhenIwentawaytocollege,theystayedclosetomyparents.”ShetucksherhairbehindherearsinaticI’vecometorealizemeansshe’suncomfortable.Ifrown.Sheshrugsandgivesmeasmallsmile.“Wedon’tallhaveahordeofcousinswillingtowearHawaiianshirtsforus.”
Isettheframebackdown.“Theyhaven’tvisitedyouhere?”
Sheshakesherhead.“Notyet,no.Ithinkmydadisstillhopingit’saphase.Thebakingthing.”
WhatLayladoesissomuchmorethanbaking.Ihateforhertorefertothebusinessshe’screatedforherselfasathing.“Thebakingthing?”
Shehumsandcollectsahalfemptyjamjarfromanothersidetable.“StoleitfromBeckett,”sheexplainsquietly.Sheblowsoutapuffofair,fortifyingherself.“Iwenttoschoolformathematicsandengineering.Idon’tknowifyouknowthat.Iwasalwaysverygoodwithnumbersbut,Idon’tknow,Iwasneverexcitedaboutit.Iwasfeelingalittlelostmysenioryear,alittlealone,andStella—Stellawasmybestfriend.SoIdeclinedsomeofthejoboffersIhadwaitinganddecidedtofollowherhereinstead.Idon’tthinkmydadhasquiteforgivenmeforthat.”
“Hewantedyoutobeanengineer?”
Shenods.“IthinkhewasholdingouthopethatI’djointheNavyjustlikehedid.Mysistersareallinvolvedinmilitarylifeinsomeway,eitherwithjobsthemselves,supportingthebase,ormarryingmilitarymen.IthinkI’madisappointmentoverherewithmycoffeeandcroissants.”
Ifrown.“I’mneverdisappointedbyyourcoffeeandcroissants.”
Shegivesmeasmall,timidsmile.“Iknowyou’renot.”
“No,butLayla.”It’simportantthatshehearsme.Thatsheunderstands.“Youknowit’smorethanabakery,right?Whatyoudo?”
SheshrugsandIswallowdowntherestofmyburningcuriosity.Ihavesomanyquestionsrestingonthetipofmytongue.Whydidshestudyengineeringifsheneverenjoyedit?Whatdidshewanttodo?WhydidshefeellikeasmalltownonthecoastaledgeofMarylandwastheonlyplaceshecouldgoto?Isthiswhyshefeelslikesheonlydeservesthebareminimumfrommen?
It’sreassuring,atleast,thatsheseemshappyherenow.Thatshe’sfoundahomeforherselfinInglewild.Iglanceatthepictureofherandhersistersonemoretimeandnudgeitwithmythumbuntilit’scenteredonherlittletable.OfcourseLaylawouldkeepapictureoftheminherhome,despitethedisappointments.
“Theirloss,”Iwhisperquietly.Tooquietforhertohear.
Iwatchherasshewandersintoherkitchen,herwhitedresstauntingmeasitwhispersagainstherthighs.It’ssoeasytopictureherhere,tuckedinthecouchwithamugofcoffee.Workinginthekitchenwithherhairlooseandoneofherscarvesflutteringdownthebareskinofherback.Hummingassherollsoutapiecrust,flourovereverysquareinchofcountertop.
“What’sgotthatlookonyourface?”
YoukeepshowingmepiecesofyourselfthatIwanttocollectlikeseashells.Ican’tstopthinkingaboutkissingyouandIhavenoideahowyou’dfeelaboutblurringthoselines.Idon’twanttoscareyou.Idon’twanttogetmyselfintoodeep.
ThoughIthinkitmightbealittletoolateforthatlastone.
IshrugandslipontoapalepinkstoolthatlookslikeitcamestraightoutofCandyland.Iglanceatthecrosswordpuzzleshe’slefthalf-finishedonthecountertop.Theanswerfor7acrossisHOPELESS,I’mprettysure.Thatfeelsappropriate.
Shepausesinherrearrangementofthevasesonhercountertop.Sixofthem,allfilledwithdifferentsortsofflowers.Itmakesmesmile.“Ourarrangementmeansyoucanaskmethings,Caleb.That’sthewholepoint.”
Ourarrangement.I’mgratefulforthereminder.IhavenothingtolosebytalkingtoLayla,exceptmaybesomesemblanceofmysanity.Iclearmythroatandplacethelavenderdownontheedgeofthecounter.“Didyouwantmetokissyoutheotherday?”
Shefumblesthejamjarshejustsettotheside,sendingittumblingintoherkitchensinkinacacophonyofsound.Assoonassherightsit,shepeeksatmeoverhershoulder.
“What?”
Irestmyforearmsonthecounterandholdhereyes.“Didyouwantmetokissyou?Inyourbakehouse?”
“Well…”Sheturnsfullytofaceme,herhandsbusywithadishrag.ShehesitatesandIwatchherweighherwords.“Ithoughtyoumight.”
Thatdoesn’texactlyanswermyquestion.Thinkingsomeonemightdosomethingandwantingthemtodoitaretwoverydifferentthings.“Doyouwantmetokissyou,Layla?”
Alowpulsebeginssomewherenearthebaseofmyspine.Iknowmyanswertothatquestion.Iwanttokissher.IwanttokisshermorethanIwantanotheroneofthosecinnamonandseasaltbearclaws,andthat’ssayingsomething.
“Peoplewhodatekisseachother,don’tthey?”Hervoiceislight,teasing.ButhereyesholdaheatI’veonlyseeninflashesbefore.Iclenchmyhandsontheedgeofthecountertop.
“Theydo.”
“Thenperhaps—”ShereachesforthelavenderIbroughtandherfingersgrazethetopofmyhand.Shedancesthemuptomywristandtapstheretwice,continuing.Hervoicedropstoahuskyraspandgoosebumpseruptalongmyskin.“—perhapsweshouldrevisitthedetailsofourarrangement.”
Somethinginmychestunlocks,unravels,unspools.Iflipmyhandandcatchherswithmine.Iwrapmyfingersaroundhersandsqueeze.“Perhapsweshould.”ELEVENLAYLA
IthoughtCalebwouldkissmerightaway.
Afterunexpectedlyunloadingsomeofmyfamilybaggageonhim,Ithoughthe’dgetupfromthatstool,backmeintomycountertop,tanglehishandinmyhairthesamewayhedidwithmyapronstrings,andgivemeonehellofadistraction.Ithoughthe’dkissme.
Buthedoesn’t.Instead,hepullshishandawayfrommineandushersmeoutthedoortothecarlikewejustfinishedaconversationaboutthegroceries,nottheparticularsofourphysicalboundaries.
HeholdsthedoorofhisJeepopenformeandkeepshishandatthesmallofmybackasIclimbin.Heletsmepicktheradiostation,andhekeepsbothhandsonthewheelwhileIgivehimdirectionstothespotI’vepickedoutforus.Wideopenroad,rollinggreenfieldsoneithersideofus.Hekicksusuptoseventyassoonaswehitthehighwaythatleadsstraighttothecoast,thewarmwindwhippingthroughmyhair,myscarftwistingaroundmeinadanceofpinkandblue.IlaughasCalebtriestotuckitbehindmyear,butonlymanagestogetittwistedaroundhiswristinstead.IuntangleitfrommyhairandleaveitonhisarmandhebeamsatmefromtheothersideoftheJeep,pinkonhischeeks.
Thecloserweget,theheaviertheairgets.Seasaltanddriftwood.Caramelfromthetaffyshoprightonthecorneroftheboardwalk.Thefieldsrollintosoftdunesandwillows,reachingtheirlonggreenfingerstothesky,endlessblueaboveus.
It’saperfectsummerdrive.
IjustwishCalebwouldkissme.
Idon’tunderstand.IwantCalebtokissme.IwanttokissCaleb.IthoughtImadethatprettyclear.Buthe’sdrivenusforty-fiveminutesdowntotheshorewithoutasinglepressofhislipstomineandnowIamconfused.
“Areyougoingtokissmeornot?”
That’sthebeautyofourarrangement.IcanaskwhateverIwant,wheneverIwant,withoutworryingthatImightscareCaleboff.It’sfreeinginawayIneverexpected.Iknowthatnomatterwhathappens,we’llbothbeperfectlyokayattheendofourmonth.
It’salsoanabsolutedelighttowatchCalebalmosttripoverhisownfeetaswewalkthroughtheparkinglottothebeach,thegravelgraduallychangingtosand.Westoppedforcustardatthestandrightbeforethebeach,myhandscurledaroundtwoorangecreamsicleconesasCalebattemptstotiemyscarfbackintomyhair.Theoneinmylefthandisstartingtomeltovermyknuckles.
Calebfinisheswithmyhairandreachesforthehandwiththeslowlymeltingcone,unthinkinglyguidingmymessyfingerstohislips.Mybreathhitcheswhenhelowershismouthtomyhand,bottomlipdraggingacrossmyknuckles,aslowdragofhistonguewheretheicecreamisstickyagainstmyskin.Hedoesitwithouthesitation—likewe’vebeendoingthisforyears—andnowI’mtheonetrippingovermyownfeet.
“Notyet,”hetellsme,pullinghismouthawayfrommyhandandsteadyingmewithhisarmovermyshoulders.Icertainlyneeditafterthatlittleperformance.Hetiltshiscustardconetothesideandsavessomeofthedrippingicecreamwithanotherobscenelick.Goosebumpseruptovereveryinchofmybody.“Ineedtoplan.”
Alaughsputtersoutofme.“Ohyeah?”
Henodsandtakesanotherlickofhisicecreamcone.“Yeah.Youdeserveagoodkiss.Aclassicmoviekindofkiss.”
ThetensionIdidn’tevenrealizeIwascarryingdisappears,justlikethat.Calebwantstokissme,too.Somethingtenderandsoftcurlsinsidemychest.“Isthatso?”
Henodsandlooksatmeoutofthecornerofhiseye.“Fireworks,shootingstars.”Hegrinsfrombehindarapidlydwindlingmountainofvanilla.“Etcetera.”
“I’minterestedinwhatetceterameans.”
“Ithoughtyoumightbe.”
“Itsoundsverycomplicated.”
Heshrugs,armjostlingagainstmine.Hisfingerstracealazypatternagainstthebareskinofmyshoulder.Idon’tthinkherealizeshe’sdoingitanditmakesmelikeitevenmore,thosehiddensecretswrittenagainstmysun-kissedskin.
“Letmeplan.I’llgiveyouaheadsupifthatmakesyoufeelbetter.”
“I’dlikethat,thankyou.”
“Mypleasure,Layla.”
Somethingtellsmeit’llbemypleasure,too.
Westrolltoastopattheendofthereedfencethatlinesthesmallboardwalkdowntothebeach,therollingdunessettlingintosoft,smoothsand.It’spracticallyemptyatthistimeofday,familiespackinguptheirchairsandumbrellasandtowelsandtoystoheadbacktotheirhotels.We’retheonlyonesonthebeachmovingclosertothesurf,thecrashoftherollingwavesbeckoningusforward.
Igrabtheblanketoutofmybagandthentheapplejuicecontainer,handingbothtoCaleb.Heunfoldstheblanketwithonequicksnapofhiswristashestaresattheapplejuicecontainer.Ishouldn’tfindthatsoattractive.
“Youbroughtapplejuice?”
“Wine,”Icorrect.“Ididn’twanttobringthebottle.Glassisn’tallowedonthebeach.”
“Beautifulandsmart,”hetellsme.Hetriestopeekintomybag.“Whatelsedoyouhaveinthere?”
Awedgeofcheese.SomefreshbakedbreadwrappedinwaxpaperandtiedwithascrapofbrightpinkstringIfoundinthetopdrawerofmykitchenisland.SomesopressatafromLukaand—
“Isthatstrawberryshortcake?”
Ihandhimthecontainerashecollapsestohiskneesontheblanket,handsreaching.IstaystandingbehindhimasIsortthroughtherestofmybag.“Itis.”
“CanIeatthisfirst?”
“Wealreadyhadicecream,”Ireason.“Ithinkstrawberryshortcakeisthenextlogicalstep.”
Hemakesadeeplyappreciativesoundandcracksopenthetopofthedish.Istopforasecondandwatchthetopofhisheadashereachesforafork.Mussedhairandgoldenskin,thetipsofhisearsalreadyabitpinkfromthesun.Iletmyknucklesbrushagainstthebackofhisneckandhetipshisheaduntilit’spressedtomythigh,hisbrowneyessmilingupatme.Seasaltairandthesoundofthesurfloudinmyears.ThoselinesbyCaleb’seyes,crinklingjustforme.
Well.
Meandmyshortcake.
“Ifyoudon’tsitdown,”hesays,hissmiledeepeningandlaughterinhisvoice.“I’mgoingtoeatallofthismyself.”
“It’sagoodthingImadeitjustforyou,then.”
IreachformyjugofapplejuiceandoneofthepapercupsIshovedinmybagandsitdownnexttohim,mykneewedgedagainsthisthigh.HemovesmeslightlywithhishandatmyhipuntilI’mtuckedagainsthim—hisbighanddrapedovermyknee,ourarmspressedcozilytogether.
He’slooserwithhisaffectionnow.It’slikeourconversationinmykitchensnippedthestringsthatwereholdinghimback.Itsnippedsomeofmine,too.Iknowheworriesaboutcomingontoostrong,butfranklyIamstartingtowishhe’dcomeonalittlestrongerfromtimetotime.
Iofferhimasipfrommydixiecup.“Tellmeaboutyourday?”
Hissmiledeepenslikeit’sthebestquestionIcouldhavepossiblyaskedhim.Likehe’sbeenwaitingforeverandeverforsomeonetoaskhimexactlythat.Forsomeonetocareaboutthelittledetails.
“Well,Jeremyhandedinthefirstdraftofhislovepoemassignment.”
“Please,please,pleasetellmeyoubroughtitwithyou.”
Hepullsafoldeduppieceofpaperoutofhisbackpocketandhandsittome.Isquealindelight.
“No,no.”Ipressthepaperbackintohishand.“Idemandadramaticreading.”
Calebsnortsalaughandunfoldsitwithonehandagainsttheblanketwhilehetakesamonstrousbiteofshortcakewiththeother.Ipayanunhealthyamountofattentiontothewayhisjawworks,thebitofcreamclingingatthecornerofhislips.Hescoopsanotherforkfuloutandholdsitinfrontofmymouth.Ileanforwardandcurlmyhandaroundhiswrist,holdingtheforksteadybetweenus.Tartstrawberries,sweetandfluffycream.Aperfectbitethatmakesmehumwithsatisfaction.
IchancealookatCaleb’sface.Hiseyesareheavyandfocusedonmymouth,hischestrisingandfallingwithastutteredbreath.
Iswallowandswipemyfingertipsacrossmybottomlip,makingsureIdidn’tleaveanycreambehind.“Everythingokay?”
“Fine,”hesaysfaintly.Heshakeshisheadalittleandlooksbackdownatthecontainer.“I’ll,ah,I’llreadthepoem.”
Delighted,Ithreadmyfingerstogetherandrestmychinonmyclaspedhandsineageranticipation.Calebsnortsatmyattentivepositioningandsmoothsthepaperoverhisleg.Mymindrunswildwithpossibilities.JeremyhelpedmeoutlastspringinthebakehouseandI’mwellawarethatheknowsafrighteningamountofJaRulelyrics.
HeclearshisthroatandIwatchhiseyesscanthepaper.Asmilecurlstheedgeofhismouth,bringingaboutafaintimpressionofhisdimple.
“Yyomevo’adarunshotporti,esperoqueestésbien,”hestarts.“Yoheestaoconmileytúsigueeneltopten.”Afieryblushrisesonhischeeksandheglancesupatmequicklybeforedartinghiseyesbacktothepaper.“Nomeloniegue,baby,queyotambién.Yyomevo’adarunshotporti,esperoqueestésbien.Yoheestaoconmileytúsigueeneltopten.Nomeloniegue,yoséqueyotambién.”
Istareathim,mouthslightlyslack.Idon’tthinkI’veheardCalebspeakthatmuchSpanishbefore.I’veheardhimslipanoddwordortwointoconversation,butneversomethingso…extensive.Ishiftmylegsagainsttheblanketandpressmyfingertipstomythroat,whichsuddenlyfeelsdry.IfeellikeIneedatallglassofsomethingstrong.Maybeacigarette.
Iresisttheurgetofanmyself,andforcemyselftofocusbackonthepoem.“Idon’tknowmuchSpanish,butdidyousaysomethingabouttopten?”
Calebfoldsupthepieceofpaperandputsitbackinhispocket.“Suredid.”
“DidIhearbabyputitonmeinthere?”
“Icanneitherconfirmnordeny.”Caleb’scheeksflushashadedarker,buthe’sgrinningwithme.“It’saworkinprogress.”
Isnickerandreachforthebread,unwrappingitfromthepaperandbreakingoffawedge.Calebclosestheshortcakewithafinallookofnakedlongingandthenpoursussomemorewine.Wemoveperfectlyaroundoneanother,hisfingertipsagainstmyshoulder,thesmallofmyback,thecurveofmyneck.HesmoothshispalmbeneathmyhairandtwiststhesilkscarfI’mwearingthroughhisfingers,draggingitacrosshispalmandgentlytugging.
It’ssoeasybeingherewithhim.Sharingourdaysandwatchingthewavesrollin.Toestuckedinthecoolsandasthesundipslowerandlowerinthesky,ablazingglobeoforangecastinggoldineverydirection.
It’salmostscary,howeasyitis.
“Sowe’rehalfwaythroughourexperiment,”hetellsme,hismouthtwoinchesawayfrommyshoulder.Ishiver.“HowamIdoing?”
Iwanttoleanbackinhischestandfeelhisarmsaroundme.Iwanttoslipmyfingersinbetweenthebuttonsofhisshirtandwatchhisblushstainhischeeks.Iwantalotofthings,moreandmoreeveryday.
“Idon’tknow.”Iarchmyeyebrowandbreakoffanotherpieceofbread.“Youhaven’tkissedmeyet.Ican’tmakeanappropriatejudgment.”
ThetruthisIhavenoideawhyallthoseotherwomenletCalebgo.He’ssweet.Kind.Caringinalltherightways.Hemightnothavekissedmeyet,butIseethewayhelooksatmesometimes.Theslowheat.Thecarefulconsideration.Likehe’splottinghispath—everysinglespothe’dstopandworryoverwithhislipsandtongueandteeth.
HowintheworlddidInotnoticethismanbefore?Howdideveryoneelselethimgo?
Hegivesmeaheavylook,browneyesheatedtoaliquidgold.“Itoldyou.”
“Yeah,yeah.”Iwavemyhandbetweenus.“Fireworks.Etcetera.”
Hestretchesouthislonglegsandrestsbackonhispalms,asecretsmilecurvinghislips.Helooksoutoverthewaterforalongmomentandsomeoftheheatbetweenussimmersandbanks.“Areyoureadyforyourinterview?”
Inod.TheteamfromBaltimoreMagazinevisitsthefarmnextweek.I’vebeenspendingallofmyfreetimeorganizingandreorganizingthebakeshop.Testingoutnewrecipes.PracticingnormalfacesinthemirrorsoIdon’tlookunhingedinthepictures.“Gettingthere.I’mtryingtofigureoutwhattomakebeforetheyarrive.”Ipopastrawberryinmymouth.“Iwanttobeimpressive.”
“Layla.”CaleblaughslikeI’vemadeajoke.“Youareimpressive.”
Ishrugandbusymyselfwithstackingourtinypapercupsintoapyramid.“Iknow.Ijust—Ireallywanttoblowthemaway,youknow?Idon’twantthemtothinkthey’vemadeamistakewhentheyarriveandseetheplace.”
I’veseensomeofthebakeriestheyfeatureintheirmagazine.They’rebigandboldandbeautiful.Customlightfixturesandhand-paintedtilesandstovesthataren’trescuedfromtheschoolcafeteriaatInglewildHigh.
I’mstillnotsosurethiswholethingisn’tonegiantmix-up.
“Layla.”
Iopenanothercontainerandpluckoutablueberry,notmeetinghiseyes.“I’mthinkingI’lluseedibleflowerstomakesomecustardtartlets.Maybesomemacarons.”
Caleb’sfingerscurlovermyknee.Histhumbpressesatthesoftskinbeneath.“Layla.Whydon’tyouthinkyoudeservethis?”
“Idon’tthinkthat.”
Hearchesabrow.Agustofwindblowsinoffthewaterandasinglelockofdarkhairfallsoverhisforehead.Ihesitate,andthensmoothitbackwithmyfingers.
“Idon’tthinkthat,”Isayagain,notsureifIamtryingtoconvincemyselforhim.“Ijustworry—”
Hesitationstealsthewordsfrommylips.Calebcupshisentirehandaroundmythighandtugsmecloser.“Whatareyouworriedabout?”
“Idon’twantittobeamistake,”Iconfessquietly.Heleansforwardtohearmebetterovertherushingsoundofthesurf.Itrytobebrave.“Idon’twantthemtoseemeandthinkthereissomethingbetteroutthereforthemagazine.Iwantmybakeshoptobeenough.Iwanttobeenough.”
Hishandreleasesmylegandhisknucklesbrushmychin.HetipsmyfaceupuntilI’mlookingathim.“Thisisn’tjustaboutthemagazine,isit?”
It’snot.It’severyfaileddateI’vebeenoninthepastthreeyears.It’stheeightmonthsIspentwithJacob,tryingtogethimtoloveme.It’smyparents,whofeignedinterestwhenIcalledandtoldthemabouttheinterview,butthenaskedmeifIplannedongoingbacktoschooltogetmyMaster’sdegree.It’smysisterswhocan’tbebotheredtoreturnmycalls.It’swatchingeveryonearoundmefallinloveandstrugglingatfindingthesameformyself.It’severydisappointmentI’veeverhad,stackedoneontopoftheotherlikeatremblinghouseofcards.
“No,”Ifinallyadmit.“It’snot.”
Caleb’sgazeisintentonmine.I’veneverseenhimlooksoserious,notevenwhenhethoughtsomeonewasbreakingintomybakeryandhewasthinkingofusingmyoversizedwhiskasaweapon.“Youdeservegoodthings,sweetheart.”Heswallowshard,eyessearchingmine.“Whycan’tyouseeyourself?Whycan’tyouseehowincredibleyouare?”
“Because,”Isay,myvoicecrackingattheedges.“Becausenooneelsehasbotheredto.”
Herubshisthumbagainsthisbottomlip,browneyesdarkening.Helooksbackoutoverthewaves,seemingtocollecthimselfbeforeturningbacktome.“YouknowyouwearorangeonTuesdays?
Iblinkathim,confusedbythesuddenchangeofsubject.“What?”
“Youwearorange,”hesaysagain.“OnTuesdays.Sometimesit’sjustascarfinyourhair,othertimesit’syourdressoryourshoesoryourapron.Onceyouworeabrightoranget-shirtandtheselittleorangeshortsthatIsweartooktwotosevenyearsoffmylife.”Heblowsoutadeep,gustingbreathandscrubshishandagainstthebackofhishead.“Andyoudrinkchamomileteaintheafternoons.Yougetaline,righthere,”hesays,draggingthetipofhisfingeratthecornerofmymouth.“Whenyou’reexcitedandtryingtohideit.”
Histhumbsmoothsoverthecurveofmycheek,downmyjawtothesoft,secretspacebehindmyearthatalwaysmakesmeshiver.Hestrokesthereonceandthencupsmyfacebetweenbothofhishands.
“Youmadesomethingforyourselfhere—outofanoldtractorshed.Somethingincrediblefortherestofus,too.Noonecomestoyourbakehousebyaccidentandnoonelikesyoubyaccident.Iseeyou,LaylaDupree.”Hesaysitsofirmly,soresolute,thatIcan’thelpbutbelievehim.
“Clearasday.Ialwayshave.”TWELVELAYLA
Astormchasesusoffthebeach.
OnesecondCalebhasmyfacecradledbetweenhishandsandthenextwe’refumblingtocollecttheblanketasthunderrumblesaboveus,thickcloudsrollinginquicklyovertheocean.Calebgrabsthecontainerwiththeshortcakeandholdsitclosetohischestlikeit’sastatesecretasthefirstfatraindropsbegintofall.
Aclapofthunderboomsoverhead.Webothfreezeandlookateachother.
Caleb’smouthissetinafirmline,hisshirtalreadystartingtosticktohisskin.“Makearunforit?”
Inod,thewindstartingtopickup.Isnatchthecontainerofshortcakeoutofhishandandshovethatinthebag,too,hoistingtheentirethingovermyshoulder.Calebrollshiseyes.
“Givemethebag,Layla.”
“No.”Ishakemyhead.“Icanmanageit.”
“Iknowyoucan,butIwanttohelp.”
“Idon’twanttoargueaboutthebag.Ijustwanttogettothecar.”
Thecloudsaboveussettleheavyanddarkandmorethanalittleominous.I’membarrassedIdidn’tnoticesooner,butIwasdistractedbyCaleb’seyesandhishandsand—
Iseeyou.Ialwayshave.
HowlonghaveIbeenlookingsomewhereelsewhenCaleb’sbeenlookingrightatme?
Aboltoflightningsplitstheskyrightoverthechurningsurf.It’slikeMotherNaturedecidedtogofromzerotosixtyinthespanofaminute.
“You’reright,”Calebsays.Hebendsdownandbandshisarmaroundthebackofmylegs,hishandwarmagainstthebareskinofmythighs.HeliftsuntilI’mslungoverhisshoulderlikeasackofflour,mybagbumpingagainstthesmallofhisback.“Let’sgo.”
Iclutchtighttothesidesofhist-shirtwithashriek.
“Thisisn’twhatIhadinmind!”
Helaughs,thesoundlostinthewindandtherainandtherollingthunder.Igrinlikealunaticandwrapmyarmsaroundhiswaistashehaulsusbacktotheparkinglot.Idon’tknowifI’mdizzyfromthepositionorfromtheechoofhiswords.AllIknowiscoldraindropsagainstheatedskinandCaleb—hisstrengthandhislaughasherunsusallthewaybacktotheparkinglot.HepropsmeupagainstthesideofhisJeep,fumblingforhiskeysinhispocketasrainbeginstopeltusboth,hisdarkhairstickingtohisforehead.Ibrushitawayandhesmilesatmefrombeneathhisthicklashes,smallandshyandsecretlypleased.
“Hopin,”heorders,urgingmeup,hisbodyblockingmineagainsttheworstoftherain.Assoonasmydoorshuts,hejogsaroundthefront.Raindrumsagainstthetopofthecar,aheavybeatthatdrownsouteverythingelse.WhenCalebfinallymanagestoslipinnexttome,hehasbeadsofwatersluicingdownhisarms,hisneck,thesideofhisface.Hispaleblueshirtissoaked.
Iclearmythroatandtearmyeyesawayfromthematerialclingingtohischest.Icanseeeverything.Alotof…definition.
Iclearmythroatagain.
“Doyou,uh,doyouhaveanytowelsinhere?”Myeyeskeepflittingbacktohimandhiswett-shirt.I’vebeenhypnotizedbyhisbroadchest.Renderedstupidbyflexingbiceps.
Hedragshispalmoverhisfaceinanefforttocleartherainfromhiseyesandblinksovertome,hisgazesnaggingonthecollarofmydress.Hischeeksflareabrilliant,burningredandhelooksaway,hiseyesfindingthedashandholdingtherelikehisradiohasjustexposedthesecretstotheuniverse.Iglancedownatmydress—atwheretherainhasmadethesoftwhitematerialalmosttransparent.Thelinesofmypalepinkbraarevisible,ateaseoflacethroughthetophalfofmydress.
Calebreachesblindlytowardsthebackseat.
“Ihavethis,”hesays,hisvoicegruff.TensionfillsthespacebetweenusuntilI’mrestlesswithit,mylegsshiftingagainstleather.Ilikeittoomuch,thewayhesounds.Iwanttoknowwhatthatvoicesoundslikeagainsttheshellofmyear,thespacebeneath.Howitmighttenseandtightenandgritwhenit’stuckedagainstthesoftskinofmystomach.Betweenmyspreadlegs.
Hehandsmeablackt-shirt,thematerialwarmandthreadbarebetweenmyfingers.Isittheredumblywithhisshirtinmylap.
“It’sclean,”hetellsme.“Youcanwearitoveryourdress.”
“That’sgreat,thanks.”Ipullmyscarffrommyhairanddropitinthecupholderbetweenus.Myelbowsbumpintothewindow,thecenterconsole—Caleb’sshoulder—asItrytoshimmyintohisshirt.Hehuffsalaughandthenhishandsarethere,guidingthematerialoverme.Arms,head,shoulders.Myheadbreaksfreeandheliftsthehairfrommycollar,histouchlingering.Hetracesthecolumnofmythroatwithhisthumbdowntothesleeveoftheshirt.Hesmoothsitdown.
I’mnotsureitwasoutofplacetobeginwith.
“Youlooknice,”hesays,voicehoarse.
“Ilooklikeadrownedrat.”
“Aniceone,though.”
Oureyescatchandhold.Hisjawclenches.
Itisnotapolitelook,thelookhe’sgivingme.
Itwouldbesoeasytoclosethesixinchesofspacebetweenus.Icouldtwistmyhandthroughthefrontofhiswett-shirtanddraghimtome,therainpoundingdownontheroofandthethunderrollingthroughthefoggyglassofhiswindows.I’dcatchhisbottomlipbetweenmineandkisshimlikeIwantedtoinmykitchen.Tastetheshortcakeonhistongueandseewhatsortofsoundshemakeswhenhewants.
“Layla.”Somethinglowcatchesinthebackofhisthroat.Somethingthatseverelyteststhelimitsofmyrestraint.
Ileanforwardandnudgemynoseagainsthis.Iwantthis—him—desperately.Thehandthat’sstillpressedagainstmeflexes.
“Fireworks?”Iask.“Etcetera?”
Hislaughbrushesagainstmylips.It’salowandhuskythingandittugsrightatthecenterofme.“Notyet.”Hedropsakisstothetipofmynoseandleansback.“Putyourseatbelton,troublemaker.”
Ipout.“You’reatease,CalebAlvarez.”
Heglancesatmeoutofthecornerofhiseyeashestartsthecarandreachesforhisseatbelt.Hestareshardatthehemofhist-shirtagainstmybarethighs.I’mcompletelydwarfedinit—thethick,softmaterialalmostdowntomyknees.Itcompletelycoversmydress,makingitlooklikeIdon’thaveanythingonbeneath.
Heheavesoutasighlikehe’senduredsomething.
“Rightbackatyou,LaylaDupree.”
“AllI’msayingisthatvanillaisapoorchoice.”
“It’saclassic.”
“It’sboring.Iaskyouifyoucouldhaveoneicecreamflavorfortherestofyourlifeandyousayvanilla.”IshakemyheadasCalebpullsintomydriveway.“I’malmostoffended.”
Heputsthecarintoparkandgrinsunrepentantlyatme.“Vanilladoesn’thavetobeboring.It’sveryadaptable.Youcancombineitwithallsortsofthingstomakeitdelicious.”
Itdoesn’tsoundlikewe’rediscussingicecreamflavorsanymore.Somethinginmystomachtwistsandthenplummetswhenhesaystheworddelicious,aslowrollofheatthrougheveryinchofmybody.Caleb’stonguelicksathisbottomlipandhisgringrows,thatdamneddimpleappearinginhisleftcheek.Ipokehimonceintheribs,quickandhard.
Heflinchesandslapsatmyhand.“Easy.Thisisthefirstdatewe’vebeenonthathasn’tresultedinmyphysicalinjury.”
Imakeashowofcheckingmynon-existentwatch.“Yet.”
“Here’shopingnothinghappensbetweenhereandyourdoor.”
Ilookoutthewindshield.Weleftthestormbehindus,buttherainhasstayedclose.Waterrushesdownoverthewindows,cloakingusinmydriveway.Itfeelslikewe’reinourownprivatebubble,tuckedawayfromtherestoftheworld.
Ilikeit.IlikebeingtuckedawaywithCaleb.
“Questionforyou,”Isayintothequietofthecar.Calebisbusyfiddlingwiththeradio,pretendinglikehehasn’tbeenwatchingmeoutofthecornerofhiseyesincewepulledintomydriveway.Ilikehisbashfulapproachtoflirtation.Ilikethathehastoworkhiswayuptoitsometimes.Ilikethathewearshisemotionsandthoughtsandfeelingssoveryplainlyonhisface.
IlikealotofthingsaboutCaleb.
“Let’shearit.”
Ifoldmyhandsinmylapandarrangemyselfinthepassengerseat.“Whydoyouneedhelpwithdating?”
Iwatchhissmilefalterandhisjawclench,hiseyesdartingtomethenbacktotheradio.HepressesabuttonandRickAstleyeruptsoverthespeakersbeforeheturnsthewholethingoff.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Imeantherollerrink,theescaperoom,thebeachpicnic—youmighthavehadsomehiccupswiththelocation,butyou’vealwaysbeengreat.”GreatfeelslikeasmallwordforsomeofthebestdatesI’veeverbeenoninmylife.“Idon’treallyunderstandwhyyoudon’thavealineofwomenaroundtheblock.”
Heshrugs,clearlyuncomfortable.“Itoldyou,”hemutters.“I’mtoomuchforsomepeople.”
“Idon’tunderstandwhatthatmeans.”
“Itmeans,”hesighsthewords,glancingoutthewindowattherainfallinginsheets.Heshiftswarmbrowneyesbacktome.“Ihaven’tbeenentirelyhonestwithyou,Layla.”
Oh,god.Myentirebodygoesrigidinhisniceleatherseat.IknewCalebwastoogoodtobetrue.IshegoingtopulloutatinyvoodoodollfromthecenterconsoleofhisJeep?Ishegoingtotellmeheonlylikeshavingsexwhilewearingafull-sizemascotcostume?Isheasecretfurry?
“Whatisit?”Iwhisper,bracingmyselffortheworst.
Caleblooksdownathislegs.Backupattheceiling.Overmyshoulderthroughthewindowandthenfinally,reluctantly,backtomyface.“Ihaveaprettygoodideaaboutwhywomendon’tgooutwithme.”
“Pleasedon’tsayyou’reafurry,”Imuttertomyself.
Hiseyebrowscollapseinaheavyline.“What?”
“Nevermind.Pleasecontinue.”
“I’mkindofapushover,”hefinallytellsme.“Itendtoseeonlythegoodthingsand—”Hismouthtwitcheswithasmall,self-deprecatingsmilethatalmostcracksmyheartcleanintwo.“—andIglossovertherest.”
Ifrown,notseeingtheproblem.“There’snothingwrongwithbeinganoptimist.Especiallywhenarelationshipisjuststartingout.”
“That’strue.Butnoonewantsapartnerwithoutanopinion,paralyzedbythefearthattheirtrueselfissomeonenoonewilleverwant.”
“Caleb.”Mychestpullstight.“Isthatwhatyouthink?”
Heshrugsagain.“Ihaven’thadanyluckwith…anyone.It’swhywestartedthisarrangement,yeah?IguessI’mtryingtofigureouthowtomakemypiecesfitwithsomeoneelse’s.Youreallydon’thaveanytipsforme?”
Theearnestquestionurgesthecrackinmyheartdeeper.IthinkaboutCalebonthedateswe’vebeenon,holdingopeneverysingledoor,hispalmhoveringoverthesmallofmyback.Theeager,interestedlookonhisface,anytimeI’vetoldhimanything.Howheremembers—mycoffeeorder,howIdon’treallylikeseafood,mypreferenceforoatmilkoverrealdairy.MyfavoriteicecreamflavorandwhattimeIwakeupinthemorningtogettothebakehousebeforethemorningrush.
“No,”Isayfaintly.“Ireallydon’thaveanytipsforyou.”Ipause.“Exceptmaybedouble-checkyourhealthinsurancebeforeyoustartdatingawoman.Youareawfullyaccidentprone.”
Hecracksahalfsmile,eyesstucksomewherearoundhisknees.“That’sjustwithyou,”hemumbles.
“Caleb,”Isighhisnameandhelooksupatme.Ihatethatthisishowheseeshimself,howheseeswhathehastoofferapartner.BecauseallIseeisamanwhoissteady,kindandtrue,withaheartaswideastheocean.“Maybethereasonwhyyouhaven’tfiguredouthowtofityourpieceswithsomeoneelseisbecauseyouhaven’tfoundtherightpuzzle.”
Hislipsquirkupatthecornersashestudiesme,weighingwhatIsaid.“Youthink?”
“Ido.”Inodonce.“You’vegottofindyourrare,one-of-a-kind,808-piecepuzzlewithtinypiecesandfrustratingcolors.”
AlowlaughrumblesoutofhimandI’mridiculouslypleased.EverytimeIhearthatlaugh,IfeellikeI’vewonsomething.
“Alight,well.”Hedragshishandthroughhiswethair.I’mdistractedbythestretchofhiswett-shirtoverhisbicep.ApparentlythepuzzleI’mofferingisapenthousepin-up.Acenterfold,maybe.“Iguessthat’ssomething.”
“Youhavealottooffersomeone,Caleb.Don’tsettle.”
Hiseyesarewarmashewatchesme.“Iwon’t.”
“Good.”
Isettleintothecomfortofthesilencebetweenus,rainonthehoodoftheJeepandthefaintrumbleofthunderinthedistance.Itsmellslikecinnamoninhere.CinnamonandcoffeeandCaleb,alltwistedtogether.I’dliketostayforalongwhileinthiscar,justsittingnexttohim.Fogonthewindowsandhishandexactlytwoinchesawayfrommineonthecenterconsole.Itwouldbesoeasytoedgemyfingersover.Tracehisknuckleswiththepadofmythumb.
InsteadIsighandsquintoutthewindow.“It’sstillraining.”
“Itis.”
“IthinkI’mgoingtomakearunforit.”
Iheartheclickofhisseatbelt.“I’llwalkyou.”
“Youarenotwalkingmetothedoor.”
IstarttocurlmyhandsaroundthehemoftheborrowedshirtbutCalebstopsmewithgentlefingertipsagainstthebackofmyhand.“Keepit.”Helookslikehe’sstrugglingwiththethoughtofseeingmywhitedressagain.Good,IamgladI’mnottheonlyonesufferinghere.“Anddon’tberidiculous.OfcourseI’mwalkingyoutoyourdoor.”
“Youarenot.”
“WhodoyouthinkIam?Peter?”
Ipause.“WhoisPeter?”
“Theguywiththelintroller.”
Ah,howquicklyI’veforgotteninthefaceofridiculousHawaiianshirtsanddimples.Ireachforthehandleofthedoor.“There’snoneedforyoutowalkintherain.”
Hesighs.“Layla.I’mgoingtowalkyoutoyour—”
Islipfromthecarbeforehecanfinishhissentence,slammingthedoorbehindmeandhoppingfromstonetostoneonmywalkway,myshoestuckedundermyarm.Thepathiswarmonmyfeetandtherainiscoolonmyskin,freshcutgrassandwetpavementandsunflowersrisinguparoundme.Icansmellthehoneysucklefromthebushesattheedgeofmyyard.Wetearthandfaintcitrus.
Thunderrollsinthedistance,afinalfarewellfromthesummerstorm.
Acardoorslams.“Layla!”
Iskipfaster.Thestubbornmancanstandintherainbyhimselfifhewantsto.Ibarelyhavemyfeetonthebottomstepofmyfrontporchwhentwostrongarmswraparoundmywaist.AlaughburstsoutofmeasCalebspinsmearoundandaround—thegrassandtheflowersandtherainandmyprettypinkhouseblurringtogetherbeneaththeeveningsky.Aswirlofcolorandsoundandhappiness.Hesetsmedownonmytopstep,goingstillasIturninhisgrip.
It’stheeasiestthingintheworld,toloopmyarmsaroundhisneck.Tofeelhisbroadpalmsettlewarmlyonthesmallofmyback.Igrinathim.“Yourshirtisgettingwetagain.”
Raindropscatchinhiseyelashes.Iwatchasadropofwaterworksitswaydownoverhischeekbone.Itslipsthroughtheday’sworthofstubbleonhisjawanddownhistannedneck.
“Idon’tcareaboutmyshirt.”
“No?”
Heshakeshishead.
“Whatdoyoucareabout?”
Hisarmstightenaroundmywaistandtheghostofasmiletipshislips.It’sasecret,thatlook.Apromise.It’stheonlywarningIgetbeforeheclosestheinchesbetweenusandpresseshismouthtomine.
Idon’tthinkI’veeverbeenkissedwithasmilebefore.I’mconvincedIcantasteitonhislipswiththerainwaterpouringdownoverusboth—tracesofstrawberriesandcream.OurlipsbrushandCalebmakesasoftsoundinthebackofhisthroat.Surprised,delighted,theverystartofalaugh.Heslipsonehandupmyspineandgripsmyhair,gentlyguidingmyfacetothesideuntilhefindsananglehelikes.Hisnosedigsintomycheekashecontinuestobrushhislipsagainstmine—once,twice,threetimes.
Sweet,tastingkisses.
Hepullsawayanddropshisforeheadtomine,histhumbtracingalineupmythroat.
“Whatareyouwaitingfor?”Iwhisper,dazedandhungry.Myhandsaretwofistsinthewetmaterialoverhisshoulders.I’mgreedy,absolutelyferociouswithwant.
Hehuffsalaughashebrusheshislipsagainstmineagain.Theperfectpictureofcontrol.Themanwhoordersasinglecroissantwithanentirebuffetofsugarinfrontofhim.
RightasIamabouttocombust,hetakesabreathandpresseshismouthtomine.
Andoh.Oh.Caleb’skissisthebestsortofindulgence.He’sslow.Contemplative.Hekissesmewithalloftheself-restraintIaccusedhimofhaving,butnowitfeelspurposeful.ItfeelslikeIambeingsavored.Hepressesakisstothedipinmytoplip,thecornerofmymouth,thetinywhitescaronthecurveofmyjawfromwhenIwassevenandstupidandstolemybigsister’sscooteronaneighborhoodjoyride.
There,eachkisssays.Thereandthereandthere.
Ifeellikehisfavoritebuttercroissant.
Eachtiny,perfectkissdrivesmehigheruntilI’mdesperatewithwanting.MyhandsiftsintohishairandItug,awhinecaughtinthebackofmythroat.Iwantmore.Iwanteverything.
IfeelCaleb’scarefulrestraintsplinterbeneathmyhandsandagainstmymouth.Iwanttogrinintriumph.
ButthenhehitchesmeupwithonearmwrappedlowaroundmywaistandtipsmebackwardsuntilI’mclingingtohimfordearlife,mythighssqueezingathishipsforpurchase.Hiswetjeanspressagainstthebareskinontheinsideofmyknees,aroughdragthatignitesmybloodandhasgoosebumpseruptingovereveryinchofbareskin.
Classicmoviekiss,Ithinkfaintly,insomerecessofmybrainthatisstillcapableoflogicalthought.Heholdsmesteadywithonestrongarmbeneathmyassasrainpoursdownonusboth,hisotherhandcradlingmyface.I’veneverbeenheldlikethisduringakissbefore,neverbeentouchedwithsuch…necessity.Calebcatchesmybottomlipbetweenhisteethwith
Everythinginmybodyclenchestight.Ourhandsmovefranticallybetweenus,thebothofusreachingforanybitofbareskinwecanfind.Thesmoothstretchofmythigh,thecurvebetweenhisneckandshoulder—thesmallofmybackandtheslopeofmyarm.It’safighttoseewhocanclaimnewgroundfirst.Whocantouchthemost.
WhenIslipmyhandunderthehemofhiswetshirtandsplaymypalmflatagainstastackofsolid,surprisingmuscle,hiswholebodylurchesagainstme.Mynailsscratchandhishandgrabsmine,gentlypausingmywanderingexploration.Heslowsourmouthstosomethingdeepandwet,hisfingersfannedagainstmythroat,thebackofmyneck.Hetasteslikeicecream.Likesweetnessandsugarandthebiteofsomethingdark,rightattheedge.ThecinnamonIsprinkleontopofmyapplepies.Warm,darkchocolate.
Histhumbtrailsdownfrommyjawtothehollowbetweenmybreasts.Helingersthere,hesitating.Iwanthimtogofurther.Iwanthimtosliphishandsbeneaththesoft,wetmaterialofthisborrowedshirtanddragthatthumbagainstmynipples.Makemearchandcryoutandtremble.
Buthejustkissesme.HekissesmeuntilIcan’tbreathe.UntilIcan’tremembermyownname.
“Layla.”
It’sagoodthinghesaysitforme
Heguidesmyhandoutfromunderhisshirtandtwistsourfingerstogether.Hesqueezesgently,settlingme.Settlingusboth.Isqueezebackandpressmyforeheadtohis.
“Layla,”hesaysagain,voicelowandalittlehoarse.
“Hmm?”Ihaveneverbeenkissedlikethatinmylife.I’mpunchdrunk.Mywholebodyisnumb.
Hechucklesandhelpsmeunwrapmylegsfromaroundhiswaist.Idon’tevenrememberhowwegottangleduplikethis.Hesetsmedownonthebottomstepofmyporchandmybarefeetsliponthewetwood.Hereachesouttosteadyme,almostfallingoverashetriestokeepmefromdoingafaceplantinthegrass.It’smessyanduncoordinatedandalittlebitperfect.
Ifindmyfooting,hishandsonmyhipsandmyheartinmythroat.Calebgentlyurgesmebackontothestepsuntilwe’reeye-to-eye.I’veneverbeenkissedlikethat,andI’veneverbeentakencareoflikethis.Hisborrowedshirt.Hiscarefulhands.Hisknucklesbrushingundermychin.
Ilookathimstandingthereintherain,dropletsstillcascadingoverhisskin.Hischeeksareflushed,hishairiswet,andhislipsarebruised.Rainslipsoverhisfaceanddownhiscollarbone.IhopeIrememberhimlikethisalways.
“Tellmethetruth,”Itry.Myvoicesoundslikesandpaper.“Youwantedtocontinueyourinjurystreak,kissingmelikethat.”Ismoothhiswethairbackfromhisface.Itugalittlebitandhiseyelashesflutter.Interesting.“Youhaveahurt/comfortkink.”
Heblinksatme.“Awhat?”
Hisvoiceisdeliciouslyrough,alowrumbledeepinhischest.Ishiverandhenotices,hiseyesflashingashadedarker.Rawcocoa.Darkcherry.
“Ahurt/comfortkink,”Isay,tryingtoholdmyselfbackfromhitchingmykneeathishipagainandgrindingusbothtosomethingdecadentandsatisfying.Somethingwithpantingbreathsandgrabbinghands,hisvoiceinmyearandmyteethagainsthisneck.Mygazetripsdownhisbody.Icanseetwoinchesofbarestomachwherehiswetshirthasriddenup,athickandheavybulgeatthefrontofhisjeans.NowI’mtheonewhohastoswallowhard.
MaybeIshouldn’thavesaidthewordkink
Darkeyesconsidermecarefullyashisfingerstuckawetlockofhairbehindmyear.Histhumbtracesmyjawandlingersonmychin,theswellofmybottomlip.It’slikehe’smemorizingwhatthatkissmademelooklike.Flushedandbreathless,Iimagine.Gobsmacked.
Deliciouslyanddeliriouslyhappy.
“I’mgoingtogohomenow,”hetellsme,notmoving.
Inod.“Okay.”Idon’tunwrapmyarmsfromaroundhiswaist.
Henuzzlesmycheek.“I’llseeyoutomorrow.”
“Okay.”Istilldon’tlethimgo.
Hehuffsalaugh.“Croissantsandcoffee.Inthemorning.”Itsoundslikehe’stryingtoconvincehimself.
Inodagainandtipmyfacetowardshis,hopingforanotherkissbeforehehastogo.Hechucklesandducksdowntopresshismouthtomine.
Thisoneissweet.Acherryontopofavanillaicecreamsundae.HistongueswipesslowlyatmybottomlipandIfeellikethaticecreamconehewaseatingonthebeach.Iswayintohim.
“Goodnight,Layla,”hesaysagainstmymouth.
Igrin.“Goodnight,Caleb.”THIRTEENCALEB
TherearetwelvepeopleinmykitchenwhenIletmyselfintomyhouse.
OrIguess,whenIfloatintomyhouse.
BecauseIhavenoideahowImanagedtogethomefromLayla’s.IhavenoideahowIputonefootinfrontoftheotherandwalkedawayfromher.Iprobablyshouldn’thavebeenoperatingamovingvehicle.Idon’tevenrememberpullingintomydriveway.
Warmskin.Pantingbreaths.Layla’smouthmovingagainstmine.
IwantedtogiveheraclassicmoviekissandinsteadLaylagavemeanendoftheworldkiss.Amountaintopkiss.Alaunchedintospacekiss.
I’veneverkissedawomanlikethatinmylife.I’veneverbeenkissedlikethat,either.
Irubmyfingertipsovermylipsandslipthroughthebackdoorofmykitchen,mymindstillsomewhereatthebottomofLayla’sporchsteps,herbodywrappedaroundmine.Herthighsaroundmyhipsandherhandagainstmystomach.Ihadbeensevensecondsawayfrompressingherupagainstherporchbanister,slippingmyhandsbeneathherborrowedshirt,andfeelingallthatlovelylaceteasingmethroughthewetmaterialofherdress.
Istepintomykitchenandmyentirefamilyfreezes,acomedicstill-frameofdinnerinprogress.Mymomisholdingalargesteakknifeoveratomato.Luisisdoingsomethingbizarrewithadishtowelandacorncob.Sofiaisdiggingaroundinmycrisper.Andinthemiddleofitall,likethecenterofaperfectlyorchestratedstorm,ismygrandmotherwithherhandsinamixingbowl.Shestopswhatshe’sdoingandgivesmeacriticallook,onesterneyebrowarchinghighonherforehead.
“Uh.”Ilookovermyshouldertocheckthatthere’snoonebehindme—thatIdidn’tinadvertentlyruinasurpriseparty.Atmyownhouse.Ileanbackanddoublecheckthemetalnumbersabovethedoor.Yeah.ThisiswhereIlive.Istepallthewayinandpullthedoorshut.“What’sgoingon?”
Theroomremainssilent,amiraclewhenallofmycousinsarewedgedtogetherinthesamesmallplace.ThiskitchenwasnotbuiltforthefullbruntoftheAlvarezfamily.
Mygrandmotherfinallyfindswhatevershe’slookingforinmyface.Shenodsonceandcontinuesmixingwhateveritisshe’sgotinthatbowl,hersleevesrolledtoherelbows.Ihopeit’spozole.
“Bien,”shesays.“Youkissedher.”
Likeshe’sjustsnappedherfingersandissuedanorder,movementresumesinmykitchen.MycousinSofiawhoopsfromthefridge,herentirefronthalfhiddenassherearrangesmyproduce.Mymomreturnstoherchoppedtomatoesandonions.AndLuisdoes—whateveritisheisdoingwiththatcorncob.
Istandthere,confused.
Alexappearsatmysideandhandsmeoneofmybeersthathegotoutofmyfridgeinmykitchen.ThekitchenthathehasbeensittinginforanuntoldamountoftimewiththerestofmyfamilywhileIwasnothere.
Iamstillsoconfused.
Iscratchthebackofmyneckandfrown.“DidIforgetsomeone’sbirthday?”
“No.”Alextakesalongpullfromhisbeer.“Abuelacalledandsaidyouwereincrisis.Thatweallhadtocometoyourhouseandfeedyou.”Hegrimacesatmyshirt.“Whyareyouallwet?”
Iignorehisquestion.“Howdidyougetin?”
“Thekey.”
“Whatkey?”
“Everyonehasakey.”
Iblink.“Everyone?”
Alexnods.“Everyone.”
Ofcoursetheydo.MymomprobablywenttothehardwarestorewheremycousinDavidworksandcutcopiesassoonasIgavehermyspare.
MyphonebuzzesinmybackpocketandIalmostflingitthroughthewindowinmyhurrytogetitoutofmypocket.It’sdifficult,myjeanswetanduncooperative.AlexsnickersasIstruggle.
IpushhimawaywithmyhandonhisfaceasIfinallyfreemyphone.It’satextfromLayla.
Igrin.
“Dios,”mycousinAdrianamoansfromthecorner.“You’realreadyhalfwayinloveagain,aren’tyou?”
MycheeksflushhotandIpocketmyphone.Alexshootsaglaretowhereshe’ssittingonastoolbytherefrigerator.Itlookslikeshe’susingoneofmyvasesasaglassforherCorona.Great.
“No,”Imumble.Icanfeeltheeyesofeveryoneintheroom.MythroattightensandIcoughtoclearit.“Ofcoursenot.”
Adrianafixesmewithasetofnarrowedeyesthatlookalittletoomuchlikeourgrandmother.“Youdothiseverytime,osezno.Yougoonacoupleofdates,youhaveanicetime,andthenyouthinkyou’resuddenlyinlo—”
“Bequiet,”Alexsnapsather.“You’rejustjealousbecauseFrankiewon’tgiveyouthetimeofday.”
Sheraisesoneperfectlypluckedeyebrowandbringsmyflowervasetoherlips.“Hegivesmeplentyoftime,andnoneofitisduringtheday.”Anothergroanechoesthroughtheroom,thistimelacedwithfaintsoundsofdisgust.MyauntrollshereyesandmutterssomethingsharpandquickinSpanish.Adrianalooksaway.
“Wewillhavethismealasafamily,”mygrandmothersays,aquietcommandinhervoice.“Bastaconeso.”
That’senoughofthat.There’sachorusofagreementinresponse.Someoneturnsontheradioandthelowmurmurofstaticandvoicesfillsthespace,theriseandfallofhornsunderneathitall.Mymom’sbrightlaughringsoutatsomethingmydadwhispersinherear.Knivesclackagainstacuttingboardandsomeonepopsthetopofawinebottle.
Alexhookshisarmaroundmyshoulderandsteersmeintomydiningroom.Mypoor,unprepareddiningroomthatcanprobablyonlyfithalfofthefamily.I’llhavetogetthefoldingtableoutfromthebasement.Someofthechairsfromthegarage.Adrianacanstayinthekitchentoeat.
ShemadeitsoundlikeIfallinlovetwiceaweekwithanyonewhopassesby.IknowIcangetaheadofmyselfsometimes,butthisthingwithLaylaisdifferent.Wehaveveryclearboundaries.Ourexpectationsareset.I’mnot—I’mnotgettingaheadofmyself.
“Don’tlistentoher,”Alextellsme,handingmeastackofcleanplatesfromthecabinetagainstthewall.“Shethinksloveisafourletterword.”
“Loveisafourletterword,”Igrumble,feelinglikeateenageragain,arguingwithmycousinsacrossthekitchenuntilmygrandmothergrabsusbytheearandmakesussitatthetabletogether.
Mywett-shirtsuctionstomychestandIpluckatitwithmythumbandforefinger.Thelightheaded,happy-dizzyfeelingIwalkedintothehousewithisgone,swappedforasinkingoneinmygut.AmIfeelingtoomuchfromasinglekiss?ShouldIhaveevenkissedher?Ihonestlydon’tknow.
Alexrollshiseyes.“YouknowwhatImean.”
Isetouttwoplacesettings,theforkstiltedaquarterinchtotherightjustlikemyabuelalikes.Mygrandfatheralwaysdiditthatwayanditmakeshersmilewhenwemaintainthatsmalltradition.“Still.Whatshesaid.ItmakesmesoundlikeI’msomenaiveidiot.”
Alexfrownsathistablesettings.Hetakeshistimeresponding,andthesinkinginmygutturnstoapainfultwist.
“It’snotabadthing,”hefinallysays.“Towanttobeinlove.”
“Thankyou.”
“ButIthinkyoushouldbecarefulwiththis,Caleb.Iknowyou.Youleadwithyourheart.AndthissituationwithLayla…”Hetrailsoff,staringhardatthetableclothmygrandmothermusthavebroughtoverwithher.It’swhiteanddelicateanddefinitelynotsomethingIown.
“WhataboutthissituationwithLayla?”
“You’vehadacrushonherforawhile.You’regettingtoknowherbetternowandIdon’tthink—Idon’twantyoutogettheLaylainyourheadmixedupwiththerealLayla.Laylatheactualperson,withflawsandfaultsandimperfections.”
Ishakemyhead,frustrated.“That’snotwhat’shappening.”
It’snot.I’mgettingtoknowher,understandingwhosheisbeneathherquicksmilesandeasylaugh.I’mnotprojectinganythingontoher.
“Youlookedlikeyouhadsunshineshovedrightupyourasswhenyouwalkedinyourdoortonight.”Heletsoutadeep,worriedsigh.“Youhavetroubleholdingboundariessometimes,especiallywhenitcomestofeelings.Ijust—Iwantyoutobecareful.AndIwantyoutobefairtoLayla.”Heswallows.“It’sdifficult,sometimes.Tobeonyourpedestal.”
“YousoundlikeAdriana.”
“No.No,it’snotlikethat.Sheisa—whatdoesmamaalwayssay?Cangrejoenojón?”
Isnicker.Adrianaisthetextbookdefinitionofanangrylittlecrab.
Alexgrinsatmeandthenflattenshismouthintoastraightline.“Ijustmean,makesureyouseethisforwhatitis.Yousaidthisthingwastemporary,yes?”
Inod.
“Ithinkit’llbeimportanttoremindyourselfofthat,”hesaysgently.“Soyoudon’tgetyourhopesup.”
“Yeah.”IpictureLayla’sfacecuppedbetweenmyhands,hereyesclosedasraindropspaintedherskininsweepingstrokes.Thedazedsmileonherlipsandhowsheswayedintomeatthebottomofherporchsteps.Irubatmyeyesandtrytowipethatimageaway.“Wouldn’twantthat.”
Iglancedownatmyfeet,atthepuddleofwaterI’mleavingonthehardwood.MygrandmothercalledeveryoneoverherebecauseshethoughtIneededemotionalsupport.Adrianalaughedinmyfaceaboutmyhopesforlove.Andmylittlebrotherisgivingmeapeptalkaboutboundaries.Resigned,Iscrubmyhandoverthebackofmywethair.“Ishouldgochange.”
“Caleb—”
IwaveAlexoff.“I’mfine.”
Iam.I’mfine.Perfectlyandcompletelyfine.IknewwhatIwasgettingintowhenIagreedtothisthingwithLayla.Itwasmyidea.Icankissherintherainwithoutcatchingfeelings.Well.IguessIcankissherintherainwithoutcatchinganymorefeelingsthanIalreadyhave.Icangiveherallofthethingsshedeserveswithoutdoodlingournamestogetherintinylittleheartsinmynotebook.
I’manadult.She’sanadult.Idon’tneedtobecoddled.Icanhandletherepercussionsofmyowndamnactions
IhandAlextherestoftheforkswithoutlookingathimandpokemyheadintothekitchentoletSofiaknowwherethesaladbowlis.InsteadI’mdistractedbymyparents,offintheirownlittleworldbytherefrigerator.Iwatchasmydadtucksalockoflonghairbehindmymom’sear,awhisperpressedintotheskinjustbeneath.Shelaughs,loudandhappy,andhesweepsheraway.Herarmsdrapeoverhisshouldersashestepsthemintoalightandeasyrhythm,spinningaroundandaroundthetinykitchenfloor.Shetipsherheadbackandlaughsevenharder,mydad’seyesfixedintentlyonher.
Somethinginmychestsqueezes,justshyofpainful.
“Don’tletTioBenjamínknowwehavetequila,”ImumbletoAlex.“I’llbebackinaminute.”
Islipawaybeforehecansayanythingelse,clompingupthestairstomyroom.MyphonebuzzesinmyhandagainandIswipetoopenit,theglowbrightinthedarknessofthehallway.
Idragmythumbovertheoutlineofhernamebeforetossingthephoneonmybedandpeelingthedampclothesfrommybody.
IcanfinishthismonthwithLaylawithoutmyfeelingsspiralingoutofcontrol.Icanbeeverythingshedeserveswithouthurtingmyselfintheprocess.Wasn’tthatthewholepointofourarrangementtobeginwith?I’dgiveLaylaapositivedatingexperience,andshe’dgivemesomefeedbackonhowtobemorerealistic.
Everythingisexactlywhereitshouldbe.
Myheartincluded.FOURTEENLAYLA
“Howlonghasshebeenlikethis?”
“Idon’tknow.Igothereabouthalfanhourago.”
Iignorethetwopeopleontheotherendofthecounter,carefullypluckingabrightpurplebloomfromtheedibleflowersscatteredacrossthemetalsurfaceofmycounter.ThesethingsaredelicateandIkeepmessingthemuponthetransfer.
“Isherfacestuck?”
“Beckett.”
“What?It’sanhonestquestion.”
Evelynsighs.“No,Idon’tthinkherfaceisstuck.”
“YouknowIcanhearyouboth.”Istraightenfrommybentpositionanddigmypalmintomylowerback.Everyinchofmybodyisaching.Iglancearoundthekitchen.Almostallofmycounterspaceisdedicatedtotheresultsofmyphotoshootpreparation.Tartletsandcustardsandminiaturecannoli.Breadsandbriochesandbagels.Aninterestinginterpretationofasoftpretzel.ItlookslikeCandylandexplodedbackhere.
“It’spossibleIoverdidit.”
Evelynsnorts.“Youthink?You’vebeeninabakinghazeforhoursnow.Whatareyouevengoingtodowithallofthisstuff?”
Beckett’sgreedyfingersinchtowardsachocolatewalnutbrownieandIslapathiswrist.
“I’mgoingtosellthis,andthenremakeitallagainnextweekwhenthepeoplefromBaltimoreMagazinecome.IthinkI’vegotmymenuset.”Irotatethetinystrawberryrhubarbtartletinfrontofme,theedibleflowersaprettywreatharoundthebottomedge.“Ithinkthesewillphotographwell.Whatdoyouthink?”
Beckettisbusyfrowningatmewithhisarmscrossedoverhischest,oneofhislegsproppeduponthebottomofEvelyn’sstool.Hedraggedherclosertohimassoonasshecameinfifteenminutesago,hiskneepressedtoherthigh.
“Ithinkwhatyouhadwasfine.”
Irollmyeyesandbendbacktoeyelevelwithmypreciousbabycustards.Ipluckadriedyellowpetalfrommyflowercollectionandplaceitgentlyontopofanother.“YousoundlikeCaleb.”
Evelyngrinsandswivelsbackandforthinherseat.HerlongdarkhairfluttersaroundhershouldersandBeckettbecomesinstantlydistracted.Hiseyesturnintoheartsandcartoonbirdsstartflappingaroundhishead.Hetwistshisfingersthroughhermidnightstrandsandtugslightly.Shebrushesaquickkisstotheinsideofhiswrist.
“TellmewhatelseCalebsoundslike.”
Beckettmakesachokingnoise.Iflushredallthewaydowntomytoes.
“Ohmygod,youguys.”EvelynsmacksherhandagainstBeckett’schestwherehe’sstillcoughingintohisfist.Idon’tthinkI’veeverseenhisfaceturnthatcolor.“Imeant,givemeanupdate!YouguysstarteddatingwhenIwasoutoftown.IfeellikeImissedallofthegoodstuff.”
“We’renotreallydating,”Imutter.“YouknowIpickshittymentodate.”
Butwearereallykissing,apparently.Idon’tthinkwecancallwhathappenedthatnightonmyporchpractice.Ihaven’tstoppedthinkingaboutit.Haven’tstoppedwantingittohappenagain,either.
Calebstoppedbythemorningafterourdatewithakissbrushedagainstmycheekandanothergreasybacon,eggandcheesebagelclutchedinhisfist.Hecouldn’tstopblushingeverytimehelookedatme,pinkonhischeeksandatthetipsofhisears.Ilovedeverysecondofit.
Beckettfinallystopshackingupalungandpointsatme,hisfingermakingacircleinfrontofmyface.“Yourfacesayssomethingdifferent.”
Islaphishandawayagain.“Myfacedoesn’tsayanything.”
“You’vebeensmilingforthreedays.”
“And,what?Idon’tsmile?”
BeckettandEvelynbothshaketheirheads.Evelynhasagiddylookonherface,herhandsclaspedunderherchin.
“Notlikethat,”Evelynsighs,alittletoodreamilyformyliking.“Notforalongtime.”
Irubmyfingertipsagainstmybottomlipandstretchoutmyneck.It’sbeennice,spendingtimewithCaleb.Datingsomeonethatactuallyseemstocareaboutme.Evenifit’snotexactlyreal.Evenifafterallofthis,I’llhavetogobacktoscouringthroughallthefishinthesea.IguessI’llhavethememories.
IsighanddowhatIdobest.Deflect.“Whatareyoutwodoinghereanyway?”
Theyshareaquickglancewithoneanother.Evie’seyeswidenandshebouncesinherseat.Beckettclampsahanddownonherknee.“Notyet,”hetellsher.
Iamimmediatelysuspicious.“Notyet,what?What’snotyet?”
“Nothing.”
“Beckett.”
“Relax,they’llbehereinasecond.”
“Whowillbehereinasecond?”
StellaburststhroughmybackdoorlikeshewaswaitingfortheintroductionfromBeckett,Lukahalfastepbehindher.They’rebothwinded,cheekspinkfromexertion.Stella’scurlsareabsolutelyoutofcontrolinthehumidity.Inarrowmyeyesatthem.
“Wereyouguysdoinginappropriatethingsinthefieldsagain?”
Lukasnickers.“No.That’stheirthing,notours.”HepointsatEvieandBeckett.EvieflushesredwhileBeckettshrugs,unrepentant.
“Itoldyounottolookatthesecuritycameras.”
Evie’sfaceflushesevendarker.SheducksherheadandtipsclosertoBeckett.“Therearecameras?”
Beckettcupsthenapeofherneckwithhishandandsqueezes.“Notatourplace,honey.”
“Alright,I’veheardenough,thankyou.”Idon’tneedtoknowwhatweirdexhibitionistthingsmyfriendsareupto.“Whyareyouallhere?”
EvieandBeckettstandfromtheirstools.Stellahooksherarmthroughmyelbowandstartstuggingmetowardsthefrontofthebakeshop.“Wehavesomethingtoshowyou.”
“That’sgreat,butmycustards—”
Sheshushesme,leadingmeforcefullyaroundthecounterandthroughthediningspace,outthefrontdooranddownthesteps.IstumbleasItrytokeepupwithher,andslamintoherbackwhenshecomestoanabruptstop.Sheturnstofacemeandclapsherhandovermyeyes.
“Ow.”
Sheignoresme.“Wedidsomethingforyourphotoshootnextweek.”
Oh,god.ThelasttimeBeckettandStellatriedtohelpmewithsomethingbaking-related,Iendedupwiththreedozenburntcookies,twoshatteredceramicbowls,andsprinklesovereverysquareinchofmykitchenfloor.IloveStellatothemoonandback,butshe’shopelesswhenitcomestothekitchen.AndBecketthasthepatienceofaniratethree-year-old.“Whoiswe?”
“Allofus,”Lukasaysfromsomewherebehindme.Thatmakesmefeelincrementallybetter.IfLukaisinvolved,itcan’tbetoomuchofadisaster.He’datleastcleanupthesprinklesfirst.I’mrearrangedinfrontofthebakehouse,turnedaroundandarounduntilIhavenoideawhichwayI’mfacing.“Caleb,too.Oncewetoldhim.”
“Toldhim,what?”
Stellapullsherhandfrommyface.Iblinkagainstthebrightsummersunsiftingthroughthebranchesofthetrees.I’mstandingattheverybottomofthestonestepsthatleaduptotheentrance,flowersandvinestwistingupandaroundtheheavywoodenframeoftheshop.Thebloomsframetheentryliketheprettiestofpictures,purpleandgoldandpaleblue.
Ifocusonthebankofwindowsontheleft.
“Um.”Myeyebrowsknitinconfusion.“AmIsupposedtobewatchingGusdoinappropriatethingstoaquiche?”
Stellahuffs.“No.Overthere.”
Shedirectsmyattentiontothemassivewindowontheoppositesideofthedoor,thickclustersofBlack-EyedSusanoneitherside.Istillrememberplantingthose,theveryfirstdayStellagavemethekeystotherenovatedbarn.Dirtuptomyelbowsandasmilesplittingmyface.ItfinallyfeltlikeIwasintherightplace,atexactlytherighttime.Anechoinmyheartandinmyblood.
Home.
Itakeinthenewadditiononthewindow.
Paintedwithcare—inflowinggoldscriptthattakesupalmosttheentirespace—isLayla’sBakehouse.Alinecurvesbeneath,dottedwithsmallwhiteflowers.Andjustaboveitisabrandnewmetalsign,swinginggentlybackandforthinthewarmbreeze.Abronzecirclewiththesameflowingscript,apieetchedbeneath.I’dbetallofthecroissantssittinginmyworkspacethatBeckettmadethat.
Ihavetopressmyfingersbeneathmyeyes.Mywholefacefeelssuspiciouslytight.
“Youtoldmeyouwantedsomethingtobeyours,”Becketttellsmequietly.Hisarmswingsaroundmyshoulderandhepullsmeclose.Stellapilesinonmyotherside,andthenLukaandEvie.Iguessgrouphugsareofficiallyathingforusnow.
“Thishasalwaysbeenyours.Nowitjustsaysso.”
CalebiswaitingonmyfrontporchwhenIgethome.
SprawledacrossmybottomstepslikethemostdeliciouslawnornamentI’veeverseen,Caleblookssun-kissedandlazy.Half-smileonhisface.Onelonglegstretchedoutinfrontofhim.IhavetostopandtakeamomentasIslipoutofmycar.
“Ithoughtyouweretakingmeouttonight,”Icall.I’mdistractedbyhiswhitebutton-up,thesleevesrolledtohiselbowsandthecollarundone.Hemusthavecomerightfromschool,alightdustingofchalkagainsthisleftpantspocketwhereheprobablyleanedupagainstsomething.
“Changeofplans,”hesayswithagrin.Henudgesthegrocerybagathiship.
Istrolltoastopattheverybottomofmystairsandtipmyheadbackasheuncurlshimselffromhisstep.Thelasttimewewerestandinghere,Ihadmykneeshugginghishipsandhismouthagainstmine.Heexhalesslowly,alookofdeepconcentrationonhisface,thelinebetweenhiseyebrowsdeepeningthelongerhelooks.Ithinkhe’sremembering,too.
“Thankyou,”Itellhim,myvoicesofterthanImeanforittobe.
Oneeyebrowarchesonhisforehead.“Forwhat?”
HegrabshisbagofgroceriesasIleadhimupthestairs.He’swarmatmyback.Solid.Itwistmykeyinthelockandusherusinside.
“Forthesign,”Isay.“BeckettandStellashowedmetoday.Theysaidyouhelped.Thankyou.”
“Oh.Yeah.”Calebsetsthebagofgroceriesdownonthecountertopandbeginstounpack.Tomatoes.Rice.Acoupleoflimesandabagoftortillasthatlookhomemade.Mystomachgivesanappreciativerumble.“I’mnotsuredistractingyouinthebackwhileBeckettmeasuredeverythingcountsashelping.”
Ipulloutacuttingboardandtaketheproducetothesink.“Whenwasthat?”
“Friday,”hesays.Hetearsopenabagoftortillachipsandholdsoneinfrontofmyfacewhilemyhandsareinthesink.Ibitedownontheedge,mybottomlipagainsthisthumb.Hisbreathstuttersinhischestashepullshishandaway.“Whenyoushowedmethatthingwiththestrawberries.”
Thatmakessense.Calebkeptactinglikehe’dneverseensomeonecutstrawberriesbefore.HemusthaveaskedmesixtimestoshowhimhowIslicethemforgarnish.Ifrown,atickleofuneasebrushingagainstthebackofmymind.I’vehadmenpretendtobeinterestedbefore,andit’sneverendedwellforme.Iknowthisisallpractice,butIdon’twanttobea…chore.
Calebnoticesmyfidgeting.Hesetsdownthebagofchipsandpropshishipagainstthecounteratmyside,darkeyesmappingmyface.“Whatisit?”
“Nothing.”Ishakemyheadandlineupthelimesonacleandishtowel.Inudgethewateroffwithmyelbow.
He’shavingnoneofmydeflection.“Tellme.”
Ithoughthewantedtobeclosetome,thathewasmakinganexcusetonotchhischinovermyshoulderandpresshisbodyclosetomine,watchingintentlyasIslicedmywaythroughapileoffreshstrawberries.Ithoughtmaybehewantedtokissmeagain,butheneverdid.
Hehasn’t,actually,sincethatnightintherain.
“Ithoughtyouweremakinganexcusetogetclose,”Imumble,notquitemeetinghiseyes.“Ididn’trealizeitwaspartofaplan.”
Hemirrorsmyfrownandtakestwostepsforward,crowdingmeagainstthesink.Hishandsfindthecountertopatmyhips,hisarmscagingmein.Hesmellslikesummerrainandfreshcoffee.Iwanttodipmynoseinthenotchatthebaseofhisthroatandbreathedeep.
“DoIneedanexcusetogetclose?”
Ishakemyhead.Hefingersalockofmyhair,hisknucklesbrushingagainstmyneck.Ishiver.
“Whatisit,Layla?”
“Youhaven’tkissedme,”Iblurtout.Ifeellikeanabsoluteidiot,buthehasn’tmadeasinglemovetokissmesinceourfirst.Ipeerupathimfromundermylashes.“Didyou—didtheothernightmakeyouuncomfortable?”
Hehuffsalaughandmystomachsinks.Asharptugallthewaydowntomytoes.Ilookdownatthebuttonsonhisshirt.
“I’msorry,Ididn’trealize—”
“Layla,no.”HenudgesmychinupuntilI’mlookingathimagain.Hiseyesaregentle,awarmgoldenbrowninthesunlightthatspillsthroughthewindowsofmykitchen.“IfI’veseemeduncomfortable,it’sonlybecauseI’vebeenwanting—”Heswallowshard,histhroatbobbing.It’shisturntohesitate.
“Whathaveyoubeenwanting?”
Ifhesayshewantsmorespace,Imightwalkrightoutmyfrontdoorandkeepwalking.Idon’tthinkI’veeverbeensoinvestedinamanwantingtokissmebefore.It’sanagonizingfeeling,waitingontheledgeforhisanswer.
“I’vebeenwantingtokissyou,”Calebsays,hisvoicerough.Mystartledgazeswingstohis.“I’vebeenwantingtokissyoueverysingleday.”
Coolshockmeltsintosomethingliquidandwarm.“Really?”
“Yes,really.”Hedragshispalmdownhisjawandpeersdownatme.Asmiletugsatthecornerofhismouth.Hehesitates,justamoment,andthenheleansdownandnudgeshisnoseagainstmyforehead.“Haven’tyounoticed?Ican’tstopthinkingaboutit.Aboutyou.”
Idraghimcloserwithtwohandsfistedinthewhitematerialofhisshirt.Itipmyfacetowardshis.“Thenwhyhaven’tyoukissedmeagain?”
Hishandsflexontheedgeofthecountertop.“Idon’tknowifit’ssuchagoodidea,Layla.”
“Why?”
“BecauseeverytimeI’maroundyou,IfeellikeI’vegotaballooninmychest,”hesaysrightagainstmytemple.Heexhales,lowandslow.“BecauseI’mprettysureifIkissyouagain,I’mgoingtowantmore.”
Myentirebodyflusheshot.Calebcupsmyfacewithoneshakinghandandtrailshisthumbbeneathmyear.Westandthereagainstmysink—heldinthewaiting.Myhearthammersinmychest,mybreathinguneven.Iwantmore,too.Theghostofhiskisshasbeenhauntingmethepastcoupleofdays,warmlipsandfleetingtouches.Iwanttoknowwhatitfeelslikewhenhisteethfindmyneck.Howhispalmswouldfeelonthebareskinofmythighsandtheswellofmyhips.WhatitfeelslikewhenCalebfinallyletshimselfgo.
“Whatisitwesaidtheothernight?”Ibrushmylipsoverthecurveofhisjaw.Hisbigbodyshuddersagainstmeandhepinsmyhipswithhisagainstthesinkinasudden,roughjerk.Amoancatchesinthebackofmythroat.“Maybeweshouldrevisitthedetailsofourarrangement.”FIFTEENCALEB
Ican’tcatchmybreath.
Idon’tunderstandhowIwentfromunloadingthegroceriestopinningLaylaagainstherkitchensink.Patience,I’vebeentellingmyselfeverydaysincethebeach.Restraint.Shemightnotwantyoutokissheragain.
ThoughI’vecertainlywantedto.Thatfeelslikeanunderstatement.Everythinginmybodyhasbeenbeggingmeto,everysingletimeI’veseenher.WhenIwalkedintothebakehousetheotherday,shehadabrightorangescarftwistedthroughherhair,anold,fadedbandt-shirttiedinaknotatherwaist.ShesmiledassoonasshesawmeandIwantedtohoistherupagainsttherefrigeratorintheback.Iwantedtocurlthatscarfaroundmyfistandpull.
IknowIshouldbeholdingmyselfincheck,remindingmyselfofthearrangementlikeAlexkeepstellingmeto,butfuck.It’shardtokeepmydistancewhenitfeelssogoodtobeclosetoher.WhenshelooksatmeanditfeelslikeshecouldwantthisevenhalfasmuchasIdo.Ican’tpretendwithLayla,andIdon’twantto.
Ilikethisbetter,anyway.Layladoesn’tdeservesomeonetuckingawaypartsofthemselveswhilethey’rewithher.IfIwantto,Icankissheratherkitchensinkandenjoyeverydamnsecondofit.
Ismoothmyhanddownherback.
“CanIaskyouaquestion?”Layla’svoiceislow,herhandstoyingwiththetopbuttonofmyshirtlikeit’spersonallyoffendedher.Shetwistsitoneway,andthentheother.HerpinkfingernailscratchesatthebareskininthegapbetweenandIalmostfalltomyknees.
Iswallowhard.“Youcanaskmeanything.”
“Whatwouldwebedoingifwedidn’thaveanarrangement?”Sheslipsonebuttonfreeandmovestothenext.“IfIweresomeoneelse,tellmewhatyouwouldhavedonethelasttimeyouwantedtokissme.”
“Thelasttime?”
Shehumsandnodsherhead.“Yes.”
“Well.”Icombmyfingersthroughherhairandhesitate,thengatheritallupinmyfist.Shetugsagainstmygripandasmallmoancatchesinthebackofherthroat.Christ.“I’dhavewaitedonyourfrontporchforyoutogethomefromworkwithabunchofgroceries.SoIcouldmakeyoudinnerathome.BecauseIwouldn’thavebeenabletostandtheideaofbeingsomewhereIcouldn’ttouchyou.BecauseIwouldhavewantedtobealonewithyou.”
Layla’sheadlollstothesideandIpressalingeringkissagainstherpulsepoint,atthespacebelowherear.Myrestraintcrumbleswithmylipsagainsthersoftskin.Shesmellslikecaramelandseasalt.Likeanentiretrayofbakedgoods,freshfromtheoven.
“IwouldhavewaitedforyoutoshutthefrontdoorandthenIwouldhaveputthegroceriesdownbythesteps.Helpedyouwithyourbagandbackedyouagainstthatlittlewindow,rightbyyourdoor.”
Laylamakesanothersmall,wonderfulsound,herhandsclenchinginmyshirt.Iwanttolickthatsoundfromthecornersofhermouth,feelitwithmylipsinthespacebetweenherbreasts.Iwantathousandthingsinathousanddifferentcombinations.
“I’dhavepickedyouupandwrappedyourlegsaroundmywaist.Liketheothernight,doyouremember?”
Shenods.
“Iremember,too.Wefitsowelltogetherlikethat,”Imumble.Ihaven’tbeenabletothinkofanythingelsesince.IgotobedatnightandthinkabouthowperfectLaylafeltinmyarms.Howeveryinchofherlinedupperfectlywitheveryinchofme.“Iwouldhaveheldyouthereagainstmeandkissedyouhello.”Ibrushmylipsagainsthersteasingly.“Iwouldhavegottencarriedaway,Ithink.Draggedmymouthdownyournecktotheedgeofthisprettyshirt.IprobablywouldhaveslippedmyhandsunderyourskirttoseeifyouwantedmeasmuchasIwantedyou.”
Airrushesoutofher.“Caleb.”
Iclingtothethreadsofmyrestraintandtrytoholdmyselftogether.Ileanbackuntilourhipsarenolongertuckedtight,needingthespace.Shelooksatmewithheavy-liddedeyes,hergazelazyasshecatalogsme.Shoulders,chest,stomach—Ifeelhergazelikeafingertipagainstmybareskin,allthewaydown.Shecatcheshertonguebetweenherteethwhenhereyeshitmybelt.Lower,whereI’vethoroughlyworkedmyselfup.
Iproponehandagainstthecountertopatherwaistandignoretheneedrushingthrougheveryinchofmybody.“That’swhatIwouldhavedone.”
Sheblinksatme.“Allofthatsoundsveryagreeable,fortherecord.”
“Goodtoknow.”Thekitchensuddenlyfeelslikeitiseightthousanddegrees.
Iturnbacktothecuttingboardandthetwofreshlywashedtomatoessittingattheedge.IneedsomethingtodowithmyhandsorI’mgoingtoflipupLayla’slittleorangeskirtandseewhatsoundsshemakeswhenmymouthissomewhereelse.
Ihavetoswallowagainstthesoundcaughtinmythroat.
“Inthespiritofouragreement,”Laylahesitates.“Ihaveaconfessiontomake.”
“I’mallears.”I’mallthumbs,too,apparently,asthetomatorollsrightoutofmygrip.Ifumblewiththekitchenknifeandcatchitbeforeitcantumbleitswaytothesink.
“I’veneverhadapartnerwho—”Shetrailsoff.Iwaitforhertocontinuebutshedoesn’tsayanything.Ilookatherovermyshoulder.
“You’veneverhadapartnerwho,what?”
Idon’tknowwhatI’mexpectinghertosay.Herhistorywithmenisstoried,andafterthelintrollerthing,shereallycouldsayanything.Hercheeksflushandshesmoothsherhairbehindherears.Sheglancesatmebrieflyandthenstaresovermyshoulder.Sheshrugshalfheartedly.
“Youknow.”
Idon’tknow.MaybeI’mstilldrunkoffthefeelofherpressedagainstmybodyormaybeI’mjusttired,butIdon’thaveaclueastowhatshe’stalkingabout.
Ifrown.“Idon’tknow.”
Hereyeslifttotheceilingandsheblowsoutadeepbreath.“I’veneverhadapartner,um,youknow,bringmetocompletionbefore.”
Shesaysthelastbitofhersentencethroughgrittedteeth,likeit’sbeingphysicallypulledoutofher.WhenIdonothingbutblinkatherinresponse,sheexhalessharplyandcrossesherarmsoverherchest.
“I’venever—noonehasevermademecome,Caleb.”
Thetomatoinmyhandgoesflyinghalfwayacrossthekitchen.Ithitsherrefrigeratorandthenfallstothefloorwithawetplop.Seedsandjuiceoozeoutofitsside.
LaylaandIstareatit.Aminutegoesbyincompletesilence.Thenanother
“Iprobablyshouldn’thavetoldyouthat,”shemumblesunderherbreath.
“No.No,I’mjust—”Reelingabit.Havingamedicalevent,morelikely.MybrainisstuckonanimageofLaylaspreadoutagainstcrisp,whitesheets,herbodybareandherbackarched.I’mthinkingaboutherkneestippedopen,herhandlowonherstomach.Mybrainisrecord-scratchingonthewordcomeslippingoutofthoselips.
Iclearmythroat.ThenIclearitagain.“Never?”
Sheshakesherheadandlooksdownatthetileofherkitchenfloor.Ican’tseemuchofherface,butIcanseehercheeksareabrightandbrilliantred.Isettheknifedown.“Hey.Don’tbeembarrassed.”
Shedigsherpalmsintohereyes.“Idon’tknowwhyIjusttoldyouthat.I’venevertoldanyonethat.”
Ihopeshetoldmebecauseshetrustsme.Thatshefeelscomfortableenoughwithmenowtotellmethings.Iclosethespacebetweenusandrubmyhandsupanddownherarms.“I’mgladyoutoldme.”
“It’sembarrassing,”shewhispers.“It’sjust—foralongtime,Ithoughtsomethingwaswrongwithme.”
“There’snothingwrongwithyou.”Myhandssqueezeagainstherarmsreassuringly.
“Ireallydon’tknowwhyItoldyou,”shewhispersagain,hervoicesplinteringinthemiddle.Herhandstwisttogetherbetweenus.Istillthemwithmine.
“Layla.Itdoesn’tsayanythingaboutyou,okay?Itsayseverythingaboutthepeopleyou’vebeenwith.Douchebags,remember?”
Asmalllaughslipsoutofher,butshekeepsherfaceangledawayfrommine.
“Couldyoulookatme?Please?”
ShesighsbutshedoesasIask,tippingherheadbackandlookingatmewithshy,carefuleyes.Icanfeelmyheartpoundinginmythroat,atthebaseofmyskull.Thisiseitheraterribleideaorareallyfuckinggoodone.Ihaven’tdecidedyet.
Iguessitdependshowsheresponds.Ifshesmacksmeacrossthefaceornot.
“Isthatsomethingyouwant?”
Hereyebrowsslantlow.“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Thepointofourarrangementisforustopractice,yeah?Wecouldpracticethis,too.Youcouldtellmewhatyouwant.”Iswallow.“Wecouldworktogethertofigureoutwhatyouneedandhowyouneedit.”
Christ.Mymindgoeswildwiththepossibilities.Laylabeneathme.Laylaupagainstthewall.Laylawithbothofherlegscurledhigharoundmyback.
Herfaceisstilletchedinconfusion.“Caleb,you’regoingtohavetospellitoutforme.Ihavenoideawhatyou’retalkingabout.”
“Doyouwanttopracticeinbed?”Iaskher.Itrynottoblush,butit’sinevitable.Ican’tfightitbackwhenI’mpicturingustogether,twistedinhersheets.Ibettheyhavestrawberriesonthem,too.Maybetinycupcakes.“Doyouwantourarrangementtobephysical,too?”
Hermouthgapesopen.Shemovesitsoundlesslylikethewordsshewantsaresomewhereoutofreach.Far,faroutofreach.Thatis…probablynotagreatsign.
Itrytopullawaybutshegrabsmyhandsandholdsontight.“Why?”shemanages.
“Because,”Isay.“Becauseyoudeservetohavesomeonetry.”
Herlipstwitchatthecornersandherhazeleyesnarrow.“Anyotherreasons?”
ThistimewhenIuntanglemyfingersfromhers,sheletsme.Ihovermyhandoverthesmoothlineofherjaw,watchingthewaysherespondstome.HerheadtiltstothesideandItracemyknucklesdownthesoftskinofherneck,lowertothedelicatejutofhercollarbones.Itraceoneandthentheother,dipmyfingerdowntothewarmskinbetweenherbreasts.Icanfeelthesteadydrumofherheartbeat.Everyexquisiteinhale.
Idohaveanotherreason.Aselfishone.
“BecauseIwanttowatchyoucomeundone,”Itellher,myvoicearoughscratch.IlookupandmakesureI’mholdinghereyes.“BecauseIwanttobetheonetodoit.”
Fuck,Iwantitmorethananything.Iwanttoknowwhatshelookslikewithmyhandsonherbareskin.Iwanttoknowwhatshapesmythumbsmightmakeagainstherhips,herthighs,thecurveofherass.Iwanttoknowhowshesoundswithmymouthagainstherneckandherbodyflushedwarmbeneathmine.Ifshesighsormoansorbitesdownagainstsweat-slickedskin.Iwanttoknowallofthesecretsshehasn’tsharedwithmeyet,everythingImightunravelwithourbodiestogether.
WithLayla,Ijustwant.
Hereyespitchdarker.Mossgreen.Thickbranchesinaheavingsummerstorm.Herlipspartashereyesdancebetweenmine,weighingthetruthofmywords
“That’sagoodanswer,”shefinallysays.
Ihumandtaketwostepsback.Ihaveto.IfIdon’t,I’lltuckmyhandbeneathherthighsandurgeheruponthecountertop.I’llkissherandkissherandkissheruntilIhavemyanswer.Iwon’tbethepolitegentlemanIwanttobewithher.
Iturntothecuttingboardandblindlygrabanothertomato.Istartchoppingwithshakinghands.IfeellikeI’vejustbeenkickedoutthesideofanairplanewithoutaparachute.Idon’tknowifI’mbreathingorjustwheezing.I’veneverbeensoboldwithawomaninmylife.
Iturnthetomatoandchopfromtheotherend.Thepiecesarehorrendouslymisshapen.It’sawonderIdon’tslicemythumbcleanoff.
“IthinkI’dlikethat,”Laylasaysoverthesoundoftheknife.Ipauseandlookatherovermyshoulder.She’sstandingwithherbacktothesink,bothofherhandstuckedbehindherandhereyesheavyonmine.Herhairisslightlymussedandthecollarofhershirtistwistedtotheside,theriseandfallofherchesttuggingmeintosomesortofhypnotictrance.Again.
Shelooksgorgeous.
“Withyou,”sheclarifiesandtherigidlinepullingmyshoulderstighteases,settles.Theweightrestingonmylungslessens.
Itmattersthatshewantsthiswithme,specifically.Thatshetrustsmeenough.
Laylasmilesatmesoftlyandpushesherselfoffthesink.Shescansthecounter,lookingfortheproduceshewasinthemiddleofwashing.Hereyesarecontemplative.Thoughtful.Likeshe’smakingalistandcheckingittwice.
Iswallowhard.
“Withyou,IthinkI’dlikethatalot.”
Weeatourdinner.
LaylasitsatonesideofthetableandIsitattheother.
Wemakeconversationlikewedidn’tagreeoverasmashedtomatoonthefloortomakeourrelationshipaphysicalone.
Wetalkaboutmyclassworkattheschool.AboutJeremy’sprogresswithLydiaandhowacoupleofotherkidshaveshownupaskingformyhelptranslatingtheirnotes.Laylacallsitmyloveclubwithanadorable,snortinglaughthatmakesmefeellikesomeone’stryingtowrenchmyheartoutofmychestthroughmythroat.Wetalkaboutherupcomingphotoshootandthelittlecustardsthatshe’sfinallyperfected.Beignetsandbriocheandbaguetteswithfigjam.
Ionlygethardtwicewhensheusesfancybakingterms.Iconsiderthatasmallmiracle.
Wedon’ttalkaboutourconversationinthekitchenagain.
Laylawantsto.Icanseeiteverytimeshelooksatme,anticipationinhereyesandinthecurlofherhandsaroundherglass.Oneofhersockedfeetnudgesminebeneaththetableandmykneejoltssohardintothesolidoaktopthatmyglassgoestiltingtotheleft.Icatchitbeforeitcanspill.
Laylahideshersmugsmilebehindherfingertips.
“Okay?”sheasksjustalittletooinnocently.
“Fine.”
I’mfine.Totallyfine.Ijustcan’tstopthinkingaboutthewayherbreathslippedoutofherwhenIhadmyknucklesagainstherneck.Ican’tstoppicturingthesoftswellofherbreastandhowshearchedintome,chasingmytouchwithoutevenrealizingit.
She’ssodamnresponsive.Andthefactthatnoonehasevertakenthetimetorewardherforthatisacrime.
“Caleb?”
Ishakemyhead.Distractedagain.“Yeah?”
Hersmilewaivers,hereyesunsure.“Iaskedifyouwanteddessert?”
Ifollowthelineofherdressstrapagainsthershoulderwithmyeyes.It’sthin,adustyorangethatmakesherskinglow.Shewaswearingacroppedbutton-upwrappedovertopofitbeforedinner,tiedinabowaboveherwaist.Sheslippeditoffslowlywhileshepouredourwine,thematerialglidingoverhershoulderstothebendofherelbows.Itwhisperedagainstherskinwhenshetuggeditoffanddrapeditoverachair.
Myhandshaditchedwiththedesiretodoitformyself.Iwantedtounwrapherlikeapresent.
“You’redriftingagain.”
“Sorry.”Irubmyhandacrossmyforehead.“IknowIam.”
“Doyouwantanydessert?”
Ishakemyheadandherfacefalls.“ButIhaveBostoncreampieinthefridge.”
ItsayssomethingabouthowbadlyIwantherthatIdon’tevenflinch.Ipushmychairbackfromthetable.“Comehereforasec.”
Shedoesn’tmovefromherseatontheoppositeendofthetable.Herbottomlipisstainedadeepredfromthewine.“Why?”
“BecauseIwanttokissyou,”Itellher.Mightaswellbehonest.Iwanttolickthewinefromherlipsandcirclemyhandsaroundherwaist.TheonlydessertI’minterestedinhavingtonightisLayla,inanyvariationshe’swillingtoserveup.
Sheblinksatme,owlishandslow.Hergrinstrikesquickthough,likeaboltofheatlightningreachingitsfingersoutacrossthesky.Shewatchesmeforasecond,andthenshepushesherchairback.
“Youcouldhavetoldmethatearlier,”shequips.Earlier,Iassumeshemeans,whenIhadherplasteredagainstherkitchensink.
Ipatmythighandhereyebrowquirks.“Well,I’mtellingyounow.”
Shetakeshertimecomingaroundthetabletome,herhazeleyesblazinginthelightofthesettingsun.Warmgoldsandburnishedredslightheruplikeshe’sadancingflame,twistingcloserandcloser.I’veneverwantedtobeburnedsobadlyinmylife.
Herfingertipsskimmyknee.Thetopofmythigh.Shestillsrightinfrontofmeandstandsinthenarrowspacebetweenmypartedlegs.Itipmyheadbackandwatchher.
“CalebAlvarez,whoknewyouweresobossy.”Hersmilesaysthat’snotnecessarilyabadthing.“It’sgonnabelikethat,huh?”
Inod,myhandsreachingforherhips.Ihelphersettleonmylap,sittingsidewaysagainstmythighs.Thecurveofherassisadeliciousweightagainstme,hermouthhoveringrightovermine.Iplaceakissunderherchin.Anotherwherehershouldermeetsherneck.
“It’sgonnabelikethat,”Iwhisper,andthenIkissher.
Ithoughtitmightbedifferent,kissingLaylaforthesecondtime.It’swhyIheldoffallweek,stillhighofftheadrenalineofourfirst.Ithoughtoursecondmightbemoresubdued—calm—thebothofussettlingintoourrespectiveroles.
Maybethesecondtime,Iwouldn’tfeelsooutofcontrol.
ButI’manidiot,apparently.
BecausethesecondIpressmymouthtoLayla’s,I’magoner.Everythingdriftsawayuntilit’sonlymeandherandpantingbreaths,ourbodiescreatingdeliciousfrictionasherhandstwistinmyhair.SheshiftsinmylapandIgruntintohermouth,mytongueslidinghotandwetandslowagainsthers.Shetastessosweet.Likewine-soakedstrawberries.LiketheslicesoforangesatthebottomofmyglassshekeptsneakingwhenshethoughtIwasn’tlooking.
Icurlmyhandaroundthebareskinofherankleandgripherleg,adjustingitagainstmylapuntilherfootispressedagainstthearmofthechairandmypalmistracingsecretsuphercalf.Shejoltsinmyholdwhenmythumbsmoothsbehindherknee.Ahuffofalaughtravelsfromhermouthintomine.Thattastessweet,too.LikechampagnebubblesandthebestgoddamnbuttercreamicingI’veeverhadinmylife.
Islipmyhandhigherandshetipsherkneesopenslightly.Ipause,myfingerscurledpossessivelyaroundherthigh.
“Whatdoyouwant,Layla?”Iaskherandthenlickslowlybelowherear.Shetasteslikepowderedsugar.Likepeacheswithcream.Herwholebodyshiversandshescratcheshernailsagainstmyscalp.
“Idon’tknow.Thisisgood.”
“Thisisgood,”Iagree.Ipressasuckingkisstothecolumnofherthroatandhernailsscratchharder.Ifshekeepsmovingonmylaplikethat,it’sgoingtobebetterthangood.I’mbalancingontherazoredgeofcontrolandwildindulgence.“ButIthinkyoushouldtellmewhatyouwant.”
“Idon’t—”Shedragshernoseagainstmycheekandrocksherforeheadagainstmine.“Idon’tknowwhatIwant.”
Mythumbslipshalfaninchhigheragainsttheinsideofherthigh.Shemakesasoundlowinherthroatanddesireclenchesafistaroundmyheartandsqueezes.“Doyouwant—”Ihavetoswallowtwicetofinishmyquestion.“Doyouwantmetotouchyou?”
Shenodsherheadeagerlyandrocksherhipssotheyinchforward.Iholdherbodystillagainstmine.
“Ineedyourwords,Layla.”
“Yes.”Sheturnsherheadandbreathesheranswerintomymouthwithherhandcuppedagainstmyjaw.“Yes,Iwantyoutotouchme.”
Myfingersskimhigher,toyingwiththeflimsymaterialofherskirt.Iwatchtheirprogresswithfascination,mylungsburning.“Howdoyouwantmetotouchyou?”
Shechokesonalaughwhenmythumbslipsoverthetopofherthightothenakedskinofherhip,toyingwithathinbandofelastic.Itfeelslikeshe’swearingdaintyunderwearmadeoutofthesoftestcottonimaginable.Idon’tknowwhythatmakesmedragmyteethagainstherneck,justthatitdoes.Mycontrolishangingbyagossamerthread
“Idon’tevenknowhowIliketobetouched.”She’sstillsmilingatherprivatejoke,herheadlollingbackagainsthershouldersassheoffersmemoreskintobiteandtasteandsuck.Itaketheinvitation,worryingamarkjustabovehercollarbone.Mine,itsays.
Minefornow,avoiceinthebackofmymindremindsme.
Ishoveitaway.
Laylacardsherfingersbackthroughmyhairandshivers.“Iwantyoutotouchme.Isn’tthat—canthatbeenoughfornow?”
It’saneasyenoughdecision.Iurgeherupandoffmylapwithmyhandsbracketingherwaist.Confused,shefrownsdownatme,herhandsrushingtotuckherhairneatlybehindherears.Igrabthemandsetthemagainstmychestinstead.Idon’twanthertobeunsure.Idon’twanthertohide.
Notwithme.Notlikethis.
Herhandsclenchinthematerialofmyshirt,eyessearching.“What’swrong?Didyouchangeyourmind?”
It’smyturntolaugh.
“No,”Isay.“Ididn’tchangemymind.Justfindingabetterposition.”
Ibringherbacktome,herkneesoneithersideofmythighsonthenarrowdiningchair.Straddledaboveme,there’snomissingthethickridgeofmyerectionbeneathmyworndenimjeansorhowperfectlywelineup.ButIdon’tcare.Iwanthertoseehowsheaffectsme.Iwanthertoknowhowwantedsheis.
“Likethis,”Itellher,myvoicerough.
Therearebetterplacestodothis,probably,butIcan’tbeartowalkthefivefeettothecouch.Orsetheronthetableinfrontofme.Iwantherchestpressedtomine.Iwantherbreathonmyneckandherkneeshuggingmyhips.
Itugherdownimpatiently,herskirtcaughtbetweenus.Webothletoutechoing,rumblinggroans.Laylafeelssogood,evenwithlayersofmaterialbetweenus.Warmandsoftandfuckingperfect.Sherocksherhipsasshesettlesabovemeandashowerofstarsexplodesbehindmyeyes.IhavenoideahowI’mgoingtolast.
Shetracesherthumbsoverthesidesofmyface.Lowertothecurveofmybottomlip.Inipatthepadofherthumbandshehuffsalaugh.
“Whatnow?”sheasks.
Igrinandslipmyhandsbackupherskirt.Herthighstremblebeneathmypalms,herhipstwitchingintomytouch.MythumbsfindthethinstrapsatherwaistandIsnapthematerial.
“Nowwefigureouthowyouliketobetouched.”SIXTEENLAYLA
Ididn’texpecttoendtheeveningperchedinCaleb’slapwithhishandsbeneathmyskirt,buthereweare.I’mcertainlynotmadaboutit.Hiseyesaredark,hishairiseverywhichway,andhehasahickeyforming,justunderhisleftearfromwhereIwasalittletooenthusiastic.
It’sagoodlookforhim.
HisthumbsmakeanotherpassfromthetopsofmythighstotheinsideofmykneesandIalmostlaunchusbothoutofthechair.
“I’mnervous,”Iwhisper,decidingtobehonestwithhim.Idon’twanthimtogetdiscouragedwhenIdon’t…respondtohistouch.I’vehadpartnersgetupsetinthepast.Frustrated.Ilearnedquicklythatfakingitisusuallyaneasierpathwithoutthecomplicationofbruisedegos.
ButIdon’twanttofakeanythingwithCaleb.
“Whyareyounervous?”Heslipshishandsaroundtothecurveofmyassandsqueezes,makingsparksdanceupmyspine.“It’sjustme.”
Butthat’sthething,isn’tit?ItturnsoutCalebisn’tjustanything.He’scarefultouchesandlingeringlooks.Rollerskatesontheveryfirstdate.Sharednachosandkissesintherain.Hishandonmyelbowandthesmallofmyback,hislipspressedagainstthebackofmyneck.Solid.Dependable.Kind.Smokinghot.
Calebisturningouttobeawholelotofsomethingforme.
“Sometimes—”Irollmyeyesupandstareatthelightfixtureabovemykitchentableinsteadofhisface.“Sometimesittakesmeawhile.Togetgoing.”
Alowsoundslipsoutofhimandhishipsrockbelowmine.Myeyessnapbacktohis.
He’spanting,justalittlebit,thebuttonsstrainingonhisshirt.Helooksalittlewild,alittlewrecked.Hungryforsomethingotherthandessert.
“Thatsoundsliketheoppositeofaproblem,Layla.”
“Yeah?”
Henodswithenthusiasmandthenleansforwarduntilhislipsmeetthespotwheremydresscutsacrossmybreasts.Hepressesasmallkissabovemyheart,andthenlicksahotstripeallthewayupmyneck.Everythinginmybodyclenchestight.
“Iliketoworkforit,”hewhispersagainstmyear.
Mybreathgustsoutofme,asmallexplosion.
Okaythen.
Hetapsthesideofmyhipbeneathmyskirt,hisfacestillburiedinmyneck.“Up,”hegentlycommands,andIriseonmykneesabovehimsohishandscanmove.Hetracesthelineofmyunderwearfromonehiptotheotherwithasingle,deliberatefingertip.
“Doyouliketobeteased?”Hisknucklesbrushoverthefrontofthesoftcottoncoveringme,justbarely.Isuckinasharpbreathasgoosebumpsbreakoutovermyskin.“Ordoyoulikeitfast?”HisthumbpresseshardoverwhereIachethemost,andweletouttwinsoundsofappreciation—mineagaspingmoan,hisalowrumble.
“Teased.”Ipantthewordintothetopofhishead,myvoicebreathyandthin.“Ithink.”
I’veneverbeenaskedthatquestionbefore.I’venevergivenitmuchthought,whatIdoanddon’twantwhenI’mwithsomeonelikethis.ButIlikethisbuildup,thelowacheinmybellythatswellswhenhistouchisfleetingandsoft.Ilikethebrushofhisthumbashetraceseveryinchofmebelowmyskirt—slow,slow,slow.Likehe’ssavoring.Likehe’smemorizing.
Likehewantsittolast.
Histhumbdipsagainandhegruntslowinhischestwhenhefeelsthesmallpatchofwetbetweenmyspreadthighs.
“Christ,”hecurses.Mywholebodytrembleslikealeafcaughtinthewind.“Tellmewhenitfeelsgood,okay?”
Inodandrockintohishand.“Okay.”
Oneofhishandsslipsoutfrombeneathmyskirtandhetoyswiththestrapofmydressjustashisknucklesdragoverthecenterofmeagain.Ibitebackmymoanandfistmyhandsinhishair,myhipspushingintohistouchandthenrockingaway.Thispositionisawkward,mybodyheldsuspendedabovehisasheworksme.Ifeelclumsyandoffbalance,everythingpulledtootight.
“No,stay.”Caleb’shandgoesbacktomyhipandhepullsmebackdownontohim,encouragingarhythmoverhishandandhislap.Morecomfortable,Iwindmyarmsaroundhisneckandsettle.Ahalfsmiletugsathislips,teasingoutthatdimpleIlove,andIsettlesomemore.
ThisisCaleb,andwithCalebI’msafe.
Iwatchhimfrombeneathheavy-liddedeyesasIrock,hisgazefixedonmeperchedinhislap.Ifeeleachtouchofhiseyeslikethepadofhisfingersagainstmybareskin.Myshoulders.Theswellofmybreastsstrainingagainstmytop,andthehemofmydressridingupagainstmythighs.Heslouchesbackinthechairandkickshislegswider,makingminespread,too.Hisfingerscurlbeneathmydressandmybreathcatches.
“Youaresobeautifullikethis,”hesaysonalowrumble.“Doesitfeelgood?”
Ihumhappilyinresponseandclosemyeyes.Itiltmyheadbackashepushesoneofmydressstrapsdownandthentheother,bothofthemsettlinginthebendofmyelbows.Hislipsbrushagainstmycollarbone,intheslighthollowbetweenmybreasts.Thefabricofmydressholdsthere,constricted.
Itfeelsamazing.Adelicioustease—justlikeIwanted.Warmthcollectslowinmybellyandeveryplacemybodyispressedtohis.Knees,thighs—headandheart.
“Words,Layla.”HeadjustshishandbetweenmylegssoI’mpressingdirectlyintohisthumbwitheachrollofmyhips.Mywholebodyshudders.
“Itfeelsgood,”Itellhim,mywordsslurred.It’sthebestit’severfeltwithanyoneeverandhehasn’tbotheredtoremoveanyofmyclothes.Hehasn’ttouchedthebareskinunderneaththem.Oneofhisknucklesnudgestheedgeofmyunderwearandanerraticsoundcatchesinthebackofmythroat.
“DoyoulikeitwhenItalktoyou?”Histeethclampdownontheedgeofmybodiceandhetugsthematerialaninchlower.Thestrainofmynipplesagainstthesoftfabricdistractshim.Hetonguesatonethroughtheflimsymaterialofmybarely-hanging-ontopuntilI’marchinginhislap.
“Ilikeitwhenyoutalk,”Imanagebetweenheavingbreaths.Ican’tstopwatchinghim.Histanarmflexingbetweenmylegsandhismouthatthetipsofmybreasts.Hecatchesonebetweenhisteethandheatlicksupmyspine.I’venever—it’sneverfeltlikethis.NotevenwhenI’mbymyself.Iletoutashudderingexhale.“Ilikeitwhenyou—”
Ibreakoff,mythoughtsscattered.Hedropshisforeheadagainstmychestandgrindshishipsupintomine,hishandtrappedbetweenus.
“Whatdoyoulike?”
Heatblazesinmycheeks.I’venevertoldanyonethis,either.“Ilikeitwhenyoutellmewhatyoulike,too.”
Ilikethepraise,Ithink.I’dliketohearallofthegoodthingsI’mmakinghimfeel.
Hegroans,ahelplesssound.HeturnshishandsoI’mrockingintohispalm,theheelofhishandgrindingintomyclitwitheveryroughjerkofmyhips.Hepresseswet,suckingkissestomyneck.
“Youwanttoknowhowgoodyoufeel?”
“Yes.”
“YouwanttohearhowI’mbreakingapart,gettingtoseeyoulikethis?”
Inod,frantic.Yes,that’sexactlywhatIneed.IwanttoknowthatCalebisfeelingeverythingI’mfeeling.Thathefeelsjustaswildlyoutofcontrol.Thetensioninsidemetwistsdeeper—aspringcoiledlowinmybelly.Irockmyhipsharderintohistouch.
“You’redoingsogood,sweetheart.Sogood.”Thehandabovemydressclampsdownonmyhipandheguidesmeagainsthim.EverywhereImove,Ifeeladifferentdecadentsensation.Thebuttonofhisjeanswhenmyhipsjump.ThehardpressofhiscockontheinsideofmythighwhenIgrinddown.Hismouthonmychestandhismessyhairagainstmyneck
“That’sit,”heencouragesandIrollmyhipsharder.Igripthetopofthechairwe’rebalancedonandchasethefeeling,makingmylegstwitchandshake.Ichasethatdelicious,goldenedge—rightoutofreach.“Justlikethat,Layla.Ridemyhanduntilyoufeelgood,yeah?”
“Jesus,”Imutter.Ithinkit’sacombinationofhissteadytouchandhislow,murmuringwords—praisewhisperedinmyearasIclimbhigherandhigher.Hedoesn’twaiverasIworkmyselfagainsthim,theroughmaterialofhisjeanschafingtheinsideofmythighsmakingeverythingbetter.Iliketheburnofit.Ilikethedesperation.
ImoveandCalebtellsmehowperfectIfeel,howwarmandwetIamthroughthethinmaterialofmyunderwear.Hetellsmehowalreadyhecan’twaittodothisagain,allofmyclothesstrippedoffsohecanwatchmyblushpaintmyskinpink.
“Justoneofyourprettyscarves,”hemumbleswithhismouthonthehollowofmythroat,hispinkyedgingunderthehemofmyunderwear.“Nothingelse.”
“Idon’t—”Awhineliftstheedgeofmyvoice.I’msoclose,butIcan’tmakemyselftipovertheedge.TheharderIworkmyselfagainsthim,thefurtherawayitseemstodrift.Mypleasureflickers,hazyfrustrationdullingthesharpcorners.Ibitebackamoanthatsoundssuspiciouslylikeasob.
Calebcarefullyslowsmedownwithgentletouches.Hisfingertipsatthesmallofmyback.Akissbetweenmyshoulderandneck.“Whatdoyouneed?”hewhispers.
“Idon’tknow,”Imumbleintohisneck,scrapingmyteethagainsthisearandforcingmyhipsharderintohishand.Iwanttocome.Iwanttocome,Iwanttocome,Iwanttocome.“Idon’tknowwhatIneed.”
CalebstillsmeabovehimandIwiggleinhishold,frantic.Needpulsatesrightbeneathmyskin,afranticbuzzdeepinmybones.Isuckathisneck,fumblewiththebuttonsofhisshirt.I’mamess,tuggingandgrabbingathimbeneathme.Patienceisgone.Hesitation,too.
“Caleb,please,”Ibeg,embarrassedthatI’mpleadingwithhimforanorgasmbutalsounabletostop.I’msoclose.“Pleasekeepgoing.”
Hesmoothshishanddownmybackandcupsmyassovermydress.Hegrabsahandfulandlifts,holdingmesteadyagainstthefrontofhisbodyashestandsfromthechair.Iwrapmyarmstightaroundhisshoulders.
“I’mgonnakeepgoing.”Hewalksfourstepstothecouchanddropsusbothdownontoit,rearrangingourbodiesuntilI’mpresseddeepintothecushionsandhe’saboveme,mylegshigharoundhiswaist.Icrossmyanklesandtughimintome,hiscockheavyandhardagainstthespacebetweenmylegs.“We’regoingtogetyouthere,Ipromise.IthinkIfiguredouttheproblem.”
“Youstoppedtouchingme,”Ipointout,feelingpetulant.Bothofhishandscirclemywrists,guidingmyarmsupabovemyhead.Iwantthemundermyskirt.Iwantthemonmyskin.“That’stheproblem.”
“Iwasmakingyouworktoohard,”hesays,watchingtheprogressofhisbroadhandsdownmyarms,overthesidesofmyribcage.Hehookstwofingersinthetopofmydressandtugsuntilmybreastsarebarebeneathhim.Hemakesalow,appreciativegruntandbrusheslightlyovermynippleswiththepalmsofhishands.Heteasesmejustlikethat,hischestheavingasheholdshimselfonhiskneesaboveme.WhenIslipmyfingersthroughoneofhisbeltloopsandtug,hegrabsmywristandguidesitbackabovemyhead,pressingmeharderintothecouch.Mywholebodyshakeswithneed.
Eyeslikeburningcoalsglanceupatme.“You’renotsupposedtoworkforit,sweetheart.Iam.”
AndthenCalebgoestowork.
Heholdsmedownonthecouchandmovesagainstmelikewe’reinabed.Likewe’reinabedandwe’rebothnakedandhe’sdeepinsidemeandwantstogetdeeper.Herollshishipsandsucksatmyneckanddragsonepalmdownthelineofmyarmtomybreast.Hepinchesmynippleashegrindsintomeandeverythingeruptsintobrightcolors.Shapes.Sensationandthepantingsoundofourbreathstogether.
“Youlooksodamnpretty,Layla.Fuck.”Alockofdarkhairfallsoverhisforeheadashereachesformyankle.Hecurlshislongfingersaroundthedelicateboneandguidesithigheragainsthisback.MykneestipwiderandIchokeontheedgeofagasp.
“Ibetyoulookprettierwhenyoucome.CanIseeit?”Hecatchesmyearlobewithhisteethandtugs.“Willyoushowme?”
“Caleb.”IsayhisnamefornootherreasonthanIwantto.IwanttotastethesyllablesonmytongueasIwindtighter.Hehumsandpresseshisthumbtomychin,guidingmymouthtohis.Hekissesmeslowanddeepandkeepshispaceexactlythesame.Hedoesn’tspeedup,hedoesn’tslowdown,hejustkeepsrockingintomeinthatperfect,delicious,heavyrhythm.
“Youalmostthere?”
Inodandthennodsomemore.Idon’tknowhowlongwe’vebeenmovingtogetherlikethis,justthatitfeelsso,sogood.Hefeelsso,sogood.Histeethcollarmyearjustashishandslipsbetweenourgrindinghips,aheavydragofhisthumbthathasmearching,gasping,whimperingbeneathhim.
“Tellmehowyouneedit.”
“Faster,”Igasp.HetakesmyinstructionbeautifullyandIwhimper.“Twofingers,alittlehigher.Please—I—”
“Good.Thereitis,”Calebtellsme.Hishipsbumpintothebackofhishand.“Chaseit,Layla.Takeit.”
Maybeit’shisencouragementormaybeit’shisthumbslippingbeneathmywetandtwistedunderwear.Maybeit’shisfirsttouchagainstmybareskinorthedeep,appreciativesoundhemakesinresponse.Thecut-offcursebeneathhisbreathlikehe’sunravelingjustasthoroughlyasIam.Idon’tknow.IjustknowthatinonebreathI’mwatchingCalebmoveabovemeandthenextIamtumblingovertheedgeofmyrelease
It’ssudden,aroughjerkrightinthecenterofmychest.Aropebeingyanked.IclingtoCalebasitroarsthroughme,awildfireofpleasureandwild,messysensation.Itmighthavestartedsuddenly,butitspreadsslowly—thebacksofmylegs,thecradleofmyhips,thetipsofmybreastswherethey’repressedagainstthecoolmaterialofCaleb’sshirt.IwhimperandmoanandmakesoundsI’veneverheardcomeoutofmymouthbefore.
WhenIfinallycalm,Calebisstillaboveme,pantingintomyneck.Islidemypalmsdownhisbacktothehemofhisshirtandtuckmyhandsbeneath.Hishipsjumpandhenuzzlesdownintome,hisskinwarmbeneathmytouch.Hefeelsliketheheaviest,mostdelicioussmellingblanket.
Igrinattheceiling.“Ithinkthatwasthebestideayou’veeverhad.”
Hisnosenudgesatmyneck,andIcanfeelhislipscurlintoasmile.“Betterthantherollerrink?”
Iwigglebeneathhim,pleasedaspunch.“Oh,definitely.”
Helaughsandrestshishandatthebaseofmythroat.Histhumbtracesovermyskin.It’sacomfortandabrand.Agentlereassurancethateverythingwejustdidwasexactlyright.“Iagree.”
“Doyou—”Ishiftbeneathhimandtracethestrongcolumnofhisspine,allthewaydowntothedivotsjustabovethebandofhisjeans.Iwanttostripthisshirtoffofhimandtracepathwaysacrossallthisgorgeousskin.Iswallowhard.“Doyouwantmetotouchyou,too?”
Calebleansuponhisforearms,adeliciousflushonhischeeksandthroatandthetipsofhisears.Hislipsareswollenandhishairissweaty,tangledwaves.IhopeIthinkofhimexactlylikethis,everysingletimehestandsontheoppositesideofmycounterandordersacroissant.
ThoughIimaginethatmightbeachallengetomyproductivity.
“I,uh—”Histeethclampdownonhisbottomlipwithawince.
“It’sokay.”Iignorethetwistinmygut,thestingofhisrejection—kindandgentleasitwas.It’sokaythathedoesn’twantmetotouchhimthewayhejusttouchedme.It’sfine.
Istareupattheceilingandstillmyrovinghands.
“Layla.”Calebsighsmyname.“It’snotlikethat.Ialready,uh—Ialready—”
Ifrownandwatchhisfacetwistinembarrassment.“Whatisit?”
Helooksdownatmewithatimid,ruefulsmile.Heliftshishandandtracesthelinesofmyface,theswellofmybottomlip.Helookscaptivated.Thatmemorizingtouchofhis,alloveragain.Icurlmyhandaroundhiswristandpressasmackingkissrightagainstthecenterofhispalm.
Hedropshisforeheadbacktomycollarboneandrocksitbackandforth.
“Ifinished,”hetellsmewithnoshortageofreluctance.HerubsthehandIjustkissedoverhischest.“Watchingyouwasenough.Touchingyouwas—”Heexhalesslowly.Incredible,thatsoundsays.Anothersighandalow,rumblingchuckle.“Ifeellikeateenager.”
Asurgeofwarmthreplacesthehollowfeelinginthecenterofmychest.Affection,steadyandsure.“Teenageyoumusthavebeenfun.”
Heshrugsandliftshimselfuponhispalms.“Iwasanawkwardkid.Ididn’treallyknowhowtotalktopeople.Girls,especially.”
Ifindthathardtobelieve,sincehewastellingmetotakeitaboutthreeminutesago.ButIlikeitallthesame.Ilikethathefeelscomfortableenoughtobehimselfwithme.Thathedoesn’tcensororshapehimselfintosomethinghethinksIwant.IgetCalebinallhisbeautiful,imperfectshades.
HeleverageshimselfupuntilhisbackispressedtomycouchandIstaysprawledacrossthecushions,mydressruckedaroundmymiddle,myarmflungabovemyhead.Caleb’seyestravelameanderingpathdownmybody,lingeringonthecurveofmybreasts.
Heblowsoutadeepbreath,eyeshoodedandheavy.Appreciation.Somethingsofter,too.
Igrin.
“Tenoutoften,”Itellhim,feelingoffaboutassigningthisanumberonascale.ButIneedtorememberwherethebothofusstand,thefoundationonwhichwe’rebuilding.Itwon’tdomeanygoodtohavetherugpulledoutfrombeneathmeattheendofthisthing.Despitehowincrediblethatjustwas.Ieaseoutabreathandcardmyfingersthroughmysweatyhair.“Sevengoldstarsandapartridgeinapeartree.”
Hesmiles,eyescrinklingatthecorners.“Rightbackatyou.”
Calebsitsonmycouchwithhislegsspreadwide,onehandrestinglowonhisbelly,theotheronthetwoinchesofspacebetweenus.Hisgazelingerseverywheremyhandstouch.Theslopeofmyshouldersandthesmoothexpanseofmyarms.Thehollowbetweenmybreastsandthesoftskinofmybelly.
It’sasimplething,tohavesomeonewatchmepiecemyselfbacktogether.Simpleandbeautifully,wonderfullyintimate.
Anotherfirstformetonight.
Hishandskimsaroundmyankleandhedrumshisfingersagainstmycalf.HedragshispalmuptotheundersideofmykneeandbackdownagainasItwistmyarmsbackthroughthestrapsofmydress.Atap,tap,tapallthewaybackdown.
“What?”IaskasIstrugglewithastubborn,twistedstrap.
Caleb’shandliftsfrommykneeandhefindsthestubbornmaterial,thumbdraggingacrossmycollarboneashestraightensit.Hetraceshispalmlightlyacrossmyshoulderstothecenterofmychest.HerestshishandthereuntilI’msurehecanfeelthepoundingofmyheartbeneath.
“Nothing,”hesays,hisvoiceimpossiblydeep.“Justlikelookingatyou.”
Ismiletomyselfandsmoothmyskirtbackdownovermythighs.Icatchhishandwithmineandtwistourfingerstogether,snugglingintohissideuntilwe’rewrappedtogether.Wesitthereonmybluecouchandlistentothesoundsofmyhousesettlingaroundus.Thecreakofhardwoodandthecricketscallingtooneanotherthroughtheopenwindowabovethesink.Idon’tthinkI’veeverbeensostillwithsomeonebefore.Socontenttojustbe
ItiltmyheadanddropakissagainstCaleb’sknuckles.Hemakesapleasedsound,lowinhisthroat,andtipshisheadtolookatme.
“Doyoustillhavethatpie?”heasks,hisvoicehopeful.
Ilaugh.“Yeah.”Ileanforwardandkissthecurveofhissmile.IfeellikeI’mfloating.LikeI’minthemiddleofthepondthat’sontheveryedgeoftheLovelightgrounds,staringupatthesunbeamstwistingthroughthetrees.Mylipstraildownthesharplineofhisjawtohischin.Inuzzleintohischestandwrapbothofmyarmsaroundhim.“Istillhavesomepie.”SEVENTEENCALEB
“Weshouldreally—god,Caleb—”Laylapantsmynameintomymouth,herteethagainstmybottomlipandbothofherflour-dustedhandsclenchedtightinmyhair.I’mgoingtolooklikeIdunkedmyheadinamixingbowlwhenIwalkoutofhere.ButIcan’tgatheranyofmyusualcontrol.Ihaven’tbeenabletokeepmyhandstomyself,really,sincetwonightsagoonLayla’scouch.EverytimeIclosemyeyes,Iseethatorangedresstwistedaroundhermiddle.Bareskinandmyhandspressinghersintothecouch.Ikeephearingthelittlesoundsshemadeinthebackofherthroatasshemovedonmylapandchasedherpleasure.
IfIthoughtthefeelingofwantinghermightfadewithmyfirsttasteofher,I’manidiot.It’sonlygottenworse.
Especiallysinceshe’swearingtheapronwiththestrawberriestoday.There’ssomethingaboutthepopofredagainsthercreamyskin,thestringsloopedtwicearoundherwaistandtiedinaneatbowinthefront.Iwanttoundothemwithmyteeth.
Nottomentionhercherryredlipstickandgoldhoopearrings.Thebrightbluescarfwithlittleyellowbananastwistedthroughhershorthair.Iwalkedinthroughthedoorandsheglancedupfromatrayoftinyvanillacrèmebr?lées,hersmilecrackingwideopenatthesightofme.Ihadtostopforamomentandbreathedeepthroughmynose.Rubtheheelofmyhandagainstthecenterofmychestandtrytoputeverythingbackwhereitbelongs.
Iattemptedtobehavemyself.IsatonmystoolandpretendedtodrinkmycupofcoffeebutIreallyjustwatchedthecurveofherbodyasshebentlowoverthecountertop.Iwatchedasshemixedandstirredandrolledoutfreshdoughforcinnamonrolls,ignoringthelowpullinmygutwhenshepulledoutajarofcinnamonsugar.Icouldn’thelpmyfaintmoanwhenshestirredabowlofmeltedbutter,herbrushpaintingthedoughinwidestripes.
Itwasthebuttercreamicingthatfinallydiditforme,though.Onesecondshewaspullingabowloutofthefridgeandthenextshewasholdingoutherhandinmydirection,aperfect,pristinedollopofcreambalancedonthepadofherfinger.Isuckeditintomymouth,hereyelashesfluttered,andthenwewerereachingforoneother,mixingbowlsandadisplayplateintheshapeofacupcakeclatteringtothefloor.
“Weshouldstop,”shesays,rightbeforeshedragsherteethupmyneckandguidesmymouthbacktoherswithherhandonmyjaw,leavingmoreflourprints.Ipressherharderintothefridgeandtightenmygriponherthighs.
“Weshould,”Iagree.Inudgemynoseagainstherchinuntilshetiltsherheadback,untilIcansuckatherpulsepointandtastethedustingofsugaronherskin.HerhipsjumpagainstmineandIamaboutfoursecondsfromtuckingmyhandsunderthisapronandfindingoutwhatsortofunderwearLaylaDupreewearswhensheisinthekitchen.
I’vealwaysbeenmeticulouswithmycontrol.Perfectlypolite,alwaysexactlywhatisexpectedofme.ButLaylamakesmefeelunhinged.Untethered,unfocused,undone.Idragoneofmypalmsupherlegandbackdownagain,thehemofherdressbrushingagainstmyknuckles.
Herbreathhitchesandshetugshardonmyhair.Somethingslowandhotunfurlsatthebaseofmyspine,mybreathshorterthanitwasasecondago.Hersmileshiftsintosomethingdelightedandsurprisedandshepullsagain,anglingmyheadback,hermouthonmyAdam’sapple.Hereyesrightonme.
Mywholebodygoesbonelessagainsthers.
Shelaughs,ahuskysoundrightbelowmyear.“Ineedtogetbacktowork.”
“Okay.”Idon’tmovefromwhereI’mplasteredagainsther,myfaceinherneck.
“Caleb.”Icanfeelhersmileagainstmyshoulder.Shecirclesherarmsaroundmywaistandgivesmeasqueeze.“Gositonyourstool.”
“No,thankyou.”
Idon’twantto.Iwanttostayrighthere,wrappedaroundLayla,smellingflourandsugarandlilaconherskin,herheartbeatricochetingagainstmine.AlexhasbeentellingmeIneedtoholdontomyexpectations,butIdon’tseeanythingwrongwithindulgingmyselfinthis.
I’vealwayslikedLayla—inthewayanyonelikessomeonewhoisgoodandkind.Warmyetvaguelyimpersonal.Ilikedhersmile.Ilikedherlaugh.Ilikedthewayshealwaysworkedtheregisterherself,nomatterhowcrowdedthebakehousegot.Ilikedwatchingherdecoratehercakeswithhertonguebetweenherteethandthattinylittlespatulaheldcarefullyinherhand.
Butnowthatlikeisslippingintosomethingdeeper.Ilikehowsheleadswithherheartnomatterhowmanytimesit’sbeenbruised.Thewayshetiltsupherchinanddoesherbesttobebravewhenshetalksaboutherfamily.Theunwaveringloyaltyshehasforherfriendsandhowproudsheisofthisplaceshe’sbuilt.
Ilikethewayshetouchesmetoo,howshemindlesslytrailsherfingersupanddownmyarmwhilewe’resittingagainstthebumperofmyJeep.IlikewatchingthesunpainttheskyinakaleidoscopeofcandycolorswithLayla’sheadagainstmyshoulder.Thewayherthumbdigsintothesoftskinatthebaseofmyneckwhenshe’sexcitedaboutsomething,hervoicetrippingoneoctavehigher,onebeatfaster.
SheisallthethingsIthoughtshewasandthensome.
Shehumstheambiguousbeginningofasongbeneathherbreathandwigglesbeneathme.HerfingertipsplaywiththeshorthairatthebackofmyheadasIswayusgentlybackandforth.AprivatedanceforthetwoofusinthebackkitchenofLayla’sbakehouse.Flourinmyhairandmyheartpoundinginmychest.BetterthananydateIcouldhaveeverplanned.
“Doyouthink—”Sheswallowshersentenceandscratcheshernailslightlyagainstmyskin.AfaintlyembarrassingsoundrumblesoutofmeandIleanharderintohertouch.
“What?”
Icanfeelherhesitationinthewaysheholdsherselfagainstme.Iswayusbackandforthagainasshecollectsherwords.“Doyouthinkthingsareworkingsowellbetweenusbecauseofourarrangement?”Hervoiceisawhisper.“Ordoyouthinkit’sus?”
Ihumandletmymouthbrushagainsthertemple.“Whatdoyoumean?”
Shetiltsherfaceuptowardsmine,bothofherpalmspressedagainstmychest.
“Thingsbetweenusfeel—”AsmilecurlsattheedgeofherlipsandIlikeitsomuchIbendmyheadtotasteit.Shehuffsalaughintomymouthandpushesmebackagain.“Stopdistractingme.”Herprettyeyessearchmineandwhenshespeaksagain,hervoiceissoft.Shy.AlilttoitthatIhaven’theardbefore.“Thisfeelsreallyeasy,Caleb.AndIdon’tknowhowmuchofthatismeandyou,orthearrangement.”
Itracemythumbdownthecurveofherjawtothedipinherchin.“Can’titbeboth?”
Shefrowns.“Whatdoyoumean?”
Iconsidermywordsandvoiceatheorythat’sbeennudgingatme.“Maybeourarrangementhasmadeiteasierforustobeopenwithoneanother,butIdon’tthinkit’sallofit.Maybeit’sjust…ashoveintherightdirection.”
Atleast,that’showI’mlookingatit.Thearrangementmighthavemadeiteasierforustofindourwaytogether,butthewayIfeelwhenI’maroundher?That’sonehundredpercentLayla.
Ikeepherclosetomewithafirmhandatthebaseofherspine.Sheburiesherfaceinthefrontofmyshirt.Hershorthaircurtainsaroundhercheeksuntilshe’shidingasmuchasshecan
“Howdoyouknow?”shemumblesintomyshirt.
Ibreatheout,lowandslow,andthentakealeapandmakeaconfession.“February17th.”
Shesighs,alittlepuffofwarmairsomewhereovermysternum.“WhathappenedonFebruary17th?”
“Iboughtacake.”
I’mtauntingher.Temptingherwithtoo-shortanswerssoshehastoleanbackandlookatme.Sheholdssteadythough,raisingonehandtoknockagainstmyribsinadmonishment.“Ifyoutellmeyouboughtacakefromthebakeryofasupermarketstore,I’mgoingtopunchyourightintheface,CalebAlvarez.”
Asurprisedlaughrumblesoutofme.“What?”
“Ifitwasoutofaboxormadebysomeoneelse,you’redeadtome.”
“Ididn’tbuyacakefromthegrocerystoreandIdidn’tbuyitfromsomeoneelse,”Itellher.“Iboughtthiscakefromyou.”
Shedoesn’tsayanything.Idancemyfingertipsdownherback,alongtheridgeofherspine.She’ssostronghere,sosteady.Idon’tthinksheevenrealizes.
“IboughtacakeonFebruary17th.IrememberthedatebecausetherewasstillabunchofValentine’sDaystuffstrunguparoundthefront.Youhadthispapercupidthingthatkeptknockingintomyhead.Ithinkyouhangyourdecorationstoolow,sometimes.”
“Ormaybeyou’retootall,”sheargues,somewherebelowmycollarbone.
“Yeah,maybethat.Buttherewassomeonegivingyoucrapaboutacakeatthecounter.Theysaidyougottheicingwrongandtheydidn’twantitifitwaswrongandyoujust—youlookedsoflusteredandalittlebitsadandIwantedto—”Iremembertheangerburninginmychest,thequickrollofitdownmyshoulders.Aburninthepalmsofmyhands.“IwasstillDeputyandIfiguredpunchingtheguyinthefacewouldn’tbeappropriate,so.Iwaited.Heleft,andhelefthiscaketoo,andwhenIaskedyouwhatyouweregoingtodowithit,yousortofdidthislittleshrugandlookedattheprettyflowersontopliketheyweretheworstthingyou’deverseen,and—”Andithadbrokenmyheart,alittlebit,towatchherstandbehindthecounterandtrynottocry.“SoIboughtthecake.AndLayla,itwasthebestcakeI’deverhadinmywholelife.”
Herhandsrisefromhersidesandpressagainstmyribs.Herfingersfanout.
“AndIliked—”Ihalt.Thisisthehardpart.ThepartI’mnotsosureabout.ThisiswhereIfeeleveryfailedconversationwithawomanlikeabrandagainstmyskin.Idon’twanttobetoomuchrightnow,notforLayla.
Iwanttobejustenough.
“Ilikedopeningthefridgeinthemiddleofthenightforaglassofwaterandseeingyourcakeboxthere.Ilikedhavingasliceinthemorningwithmycoffeeandstaringatthelittleflowersontop.Sometimesyoubitethetipofyourtonguewhenyou’repipingdesignsonthetopofyourcakes.Didyouknowthat?”
Iwouldsometimescomeearlytopickupmycake,justsoIcouldwatchherfacetransforminconcentration.Thecarefulandquietjoythatblossomedinhersmile,likehertinydaisiespipedinicing.
Ikeepthatparttomyself,though.“Ikeptittoonesliceaday.Whentherewasjustalittlebitofcakeleft,Istartedmakingtheslicessmaller.Andthen,whenIhadthelastsliverwithmycoffeebecauseIcouldn’tentertaintheideaofwaitinguntilafterwork,Istaredattheemptyboxofcrumbsandthought,whydon’tIjustorderanother?Iwas—”Ilaugh,feelingself-consciousandstupidandamillionotherjumbledupthingsthatsitheavyinmyheadandheart.“Iwassonervoustocallandorderanotherone.”
Icalledtwiceandhungup,stompedalaparoundmykitchen,bracedmyhandsonmyhipsandglaredatmyphoneonthekitchentable.BythetimeIfinallycalled,Laylawasn’teventheonetotakemyorder.IrememberthinkinghowstupidIwasbeing,overacake
“IthoughtyouhadastringofAlvarezbirthdaypartiesandyouwereresponsibleforthecake,”shemumblesintotheshoulderofmyshirt,rubbinghernosebackandforthagainstthematerial.Hervoicesoundssuspiciouslythick.
“No.Iwasnotresponsibleforthecake.”Ihuffalaugh.Itooksoleownershipoverthosecakes,andIgotanewwaistlinemeasurementtoproveit.“IneverknewwhyIkeptorderingcakes.Ijustlikedseeingyou,Ithink.Ilikedbeingaroundyou.Istilllikeallofthat,Layla.”
Shesnifflesandclingstometighter.Everypoundofmyheartfeelslikeit’stryingtofightitswaythroughmuscleandtendonandbonetogettoher.I’mstandingonaledgehere,hoping—
Idon’tknowwhatI’mhopingfor.
IguessI’mjusthoping.
Idragmyhandupthelengthofherbackandsiftmyhandunderherhair,cupmypalmagainstthebackofherneck.“So,yeah.Idon’tthinkallofthisisbecauseofourarrangement.Ithinksomeofthisisme,andsomeofthisisyou,andsomeofthisisus.Allofthisisgoodthough,yeah?”
“Yeah,”shewhispers.“Yeah,it’sgood.”
“Ithinkwecanfigurethisnextpartouttogether.Just—justkeeptellingmewhatyouneed.”
Shefinallypullsawayfrommychestandtipsherchinup,hereyessurprisinglyclearandbright.Shehasaslightcreaseunderherrighteyetotheappleofhercheekfromwhereherfacerestedagainstmyshirt,adelicatelittlelineofwhereshebumpedupagainstme.Ilikeittoomuch,probably.
Hereyessearchmine,backandforth.HernosescrunchesandItracemythumboverthemutedline.
“Youtellmewhatyouneed,too,”shefinallysays.“That’showwedothis.Wehavetokeeptalkingtoeachother.”
“Iliketalkingtoyou.”
Itfeelslikeastupidthingtosayuntilhercheeksturnpinkandatimidsmilestartstobloom.IcupherfaceinmypalmsoIcanwatchasitblossomsintoagrin.Sheturnsherheadandpressesakissrightinthemiddleofmyhand.IwishIcouldcurlmyfingersaroundthat,too.
“Iliketalkingtoyou,too.”
Isigh,feelinglighterthanIhaveinages,andtakeastepcloser.“Idohavearequest,actually,nowthatyoumentionit.”
“Youdo,huh?”
“Ido.”
“Let’shearitthen.”
Inudgeunderherearwithmynoseandpressasingle,lingeringkissonthesoftskinbeneath.Igrinwhenherhandsclenchinthefrontofmyshirtandshetriestopullmecloser.Laylamighthavetroubleverbalizingwhatsheneeds,butsheneverhasanyproblemshowingme.
“Morehandholding,”Iwhisper.OneofmyhandsreachesforhersandItangleourfingerstogether.“Morebuttercroissants.”
Morerunningthroughtherain.Morebeachpicnicswithourfeetinthesand,strawberryshortcakeincontainers.Lessescaperoomsandrollerrinks,probably,butI’mflexibleonthatifit’ssomethingshewants.
Alaughburstsoutofher.“Moreicecream,”shedemandsback.Shedropsaquickkisstomyjaw.“Morekissing,”shewhispers.
Icupmyhandaroundthebackofherneckandbrushmymouthagainsthers.“Shouldprobablystartthatpartrightnow.”
Shenods,hernosebumpingmine.“Mmhm.Ithinkso.”
SoItipmyheadtohersandkissher,slowerthanthelasttimeandsweeter,too.Itfeelslikesomethingmore,thiskiss.
MoreofLayla.Moreofme.
Moreofustogether.
Moreofeverything.EIGHTEENLAYLA
Threedayslater,Calebisstandinginthemiddleofmykitchenagain.Butthistimehishandsaredeepinhispocketsandhe’sstaringatallofthefruittartscrowdedonthecountertopslikehe’sasteportwoawayfromstaginganintervention.Hescratchesathischinandthendragshispalmoverthebackofhisneck.Heglancesatmeandthenbacktothecountertop.
Hesitation,personified.
It’scute.
“Thisis…alotoffood,”hesaysslowly,carefully.Ithinkhe’safraidImightspook.It’snotaninappropriatereactiontomycurrentmentalstate.Hepokeslightlyattheedgeofacupcakestandwithhispinkyfinger,headtiltedslightlytothesideinconsideration.That’sanewcupcaketowerandprobablyunnecessary,butmyBahamaMamacupcakeslookrealprettyonitandthat’swhatmatters.
Calebturnstomeandrocksbackonhisheels.Ithinkthisisthefirsttimewe’vebeeninthesamespaceindayswithoutmaulingeachother.Apparentlyourconversationtheotherdayhaslargelytranslatedtomakingoutonandagainsteveryflatsurfaceinmybakehouseandbeyond.ButkissingCalebhasn’tevenenteredmymindtoday,atestamenttohownervousIamformyBaltimoreMagazineinterviewtomorrow.
He’swearingabuttonupchambrayshirttoday,too.Loosewiththesleevesrolled,twooff-whitebuttonsundoneatthehollowofhisthroat.Iwipemyhandsdownovermyapronandlookaroundmykitchen.
It’snotasbadasthemorningEvelynandBeckettcametovisit,butit’sclose.Itoneditdownslightly.Ifyousquint,maybe.Istillspenthalfofmydayonsixdozencustardtartlets,edibleflowersliningtheedgesofeverysingleone.Calebhadshownupduringthelastbatchwithanothergreasybreakfastsandwichandakisspressedtothebackofmyhead.Heslippedontooneofthestoolsandwatchedmewithhischinagainsthisfist,alazylookonhishandsomefaceeverytimeIglancedup.Smallsmile,heavyeyes,justahintofdimple.Helookedlikehewantedmemorethanthetartlets.
Itdidn’tstophimfromswipingone,though.
ThingswithCalebaregood.Betterthangood.Lastnightwegoticecreamatalittlewoodenstandhalfwayoutoftownandsatintheparkinglotwithourfeetswingingoffhisbackbumper.Cottoncandyskiesandawarmsummerbreezetwistingthroughthefields.Isatwithmykneetuckedagainsthisthighandatebutterpecanicecreamandwatchedthewaythewillowsdancedinthebreeze.Caleb’shandontopofmythigh,histhumbdriftingbackandforthonthesensitiveskinbeneath.
“Moreicecream,”hetoldmewithagrin,echoingourdiscussiontheothernight.Ismiledbackandhiseyessettledintosomethingsofter,moreserious.Hehadthumbedatmycheekaffectionately,leanedforwardandpressedakissrightatthecornerofmymouth.“Moreofthissmile,”headded.
It’sthemostcomfortableI’veeverbeenwithaman.It’sliberatingandlovelyandterrifyingandwonderful.
Butmostlyterrifying.
Ikeepwaitingfortheothershoetodrop.It’shardtobelievethatmydatingdisastershavesuddenlyevaporated.IlovedCaleb’sstoryaboutthecake,butIthink—Ithinkourarrangementhasmoretodowithitthanhethinks.Maybetheparametersofourpseudorelationshiphavegivenusbothapairofrose-coloredglasses.Maybethetickingclockismakingsureweonlyseethebestineachother,Idon’tknow.
Itjustfeelstooeasyrightnow.
Iglanceathimoutofthecornerofmyeye,watchingasherearrangessomeofmycleanspatulasinorderofsize.Hesawmedoitonce,andnowhedoesiteverytimehe’sbackherewithme.Ifoundthealuminumfoilorganizedintheclosettheotherday,too.Lukawouldbesoproud.
Hecatchesmestaringandasmilequirksthecornerofhismouth.Thedimpleinhisleftcheekflaresbacktolifeandmystomachswoops,anansweringthumprightinthecenterofmychest.
Maybeit’sjustchemistry.I’vebeenfooledbythatbefore.Ormaybeittrulyisthefreedomofourarrangement.Theabilitytobeexactlywhowearewithoutanysortofpressurefromoneanother.Atimeclock,slowlytickingdown.Ithastobethat,becausethissortofthingdoesn’tjusthappen.
Notforme.
MyheartsinksabitandIbusymyselfwithasquareofparchmentpaper.Ifit’sjustthearrangement,allofthesefeelingsshouldfadeassoonasourmonthtogetherisdone.We’llpartongoodtermsandgobacktohowthingswerebefore.Friendlyconversationthreetimesaweek.Acoffeewithcream.Buttercroissant.
I’llhaveashinynewmeasuringsticktoholdupagainstmydates,andCalebwillknowexactlyhowtowoothenextwomanhesetshiseyeson.It’llbelikenothingeverhappenedbetweenusatall.
ThecookieI’mtryingtowrapcrumblesinmyhands.IstaredownatchunksofoatmealandwalnutandtrytoclearawaytheimageofCaleboutwithsomeoneelse.Wouldtheygetvanillacustardinconesonthebeach?WouldtheysitbehindtheSkateItEasyandeatslightlystalenachos?
“Hey.”Calebtapsthetipofmynose,suddenlyrightinfrontofme.“Wheredidyougo?”
Iblinkandsettheparchmentpaperdown,rubbingapalmagainstthetensionpullingatthebackofmyneck.Idon’tneedtobethinkingaboutthisrightnow.It’sanotherworryforanotherday.AhillforFutureLaylatoclimb.Rightnow,theonlythingIneedtobefocusedonistheinterviewandmakingthisplacelookasbeautifulaspossibleforthephotoshoot.
“Iwasjustthinkingaboutflowers.”It’seasyenoughtobendthetruth.Iwasvaguelythinkingabouttheflowersinthefrontoftheshop,themassivecanopyofpeoniesandlavenderanddaisiesthatMabelhelpedmetwistalongtherafters.Nowwhenyouwalkinthefrontdoor,it’slikesummerispouringdownthroughtheceiling.Bloomsandblossomseverywhere.
“Well,theylookgreat.”Calebleanshishipagainstthecounteratmysideandplucksawaywardchocolatechipoffmyparchmentpaper.“DidMabelhelpyou?”
Inod.Gus,too.Awholetruckloadofgreenerybeforethesunwasevenupthismorning.Athoughtoccurstome,acoincidencethat’sbeennudgingatthebackofmymind.“Hey,haveyouheardfromthephonetreelately?”
IusuallyhearfromMattywhennewsistravelingdownthebranches,butit’sbeensuspiciouslysilentthelastcoupleofweeks.Idon’tevenknowifthere’sbeenanupdateontherubberducksituationinthefountains.
Caleb’seyebrowscollapseinaheavyline.“No.Nowthatyoumentionit,Ihaven’t.”
“That’skindofweird,isn’tit?”
Henodsandgrabsanotherbiteofcookie.He’sluckyhe’scute,Beckettwouldhavegottenmyspoonacrosshisknucklesforthat.“Itis.Ihaven’theardfromDarleneeither,andsheusedtobeatwicedailycaller.”
Mysuspiciondeepens.“Whatdoyouthinkitmeans?”
“Doesithavetomeansomething?”Heshrugs.“Maybethere’snonews.”
Ilevelhimwithalook.Oh,sweetCaleb.“Rememberthattimewhentherewasatown-widediscussionaboutmacaroniandcheeseandGussentadecreethatbowtiepastawasexpresslyforbiddenasamethodofdistribution?”
Calebchewsthoughtfully.“RememberthattimewhenJesseranoutofcherriesatthebarandtriedtosetupaphone-a-thonfordonations?”
Isnort.BeckettfoundoutandchangedthedonationphonenumbertothelocalASPCAwhenthetreegottohim.Ithinktheyraisedoverseven-hundreddollars.“Exactly.SoIdon’tthinkthere’salackofnewsorwhateverinterpretationthereofthephonetreespecializesin.”Ipauseforayawn,thebackofmyhandagainstmymouthasmywholebodyshiversandshakes.“It’sweird,isall.”
I’mexhausted.Icanfeelmypulseatthebaseofmyspine,mybodyangrywithmeforallthestandingandliftingandbaking.Idon’trememberthelasttimeIsteppedoutofthiskitchen,nowthatIthinkaboutit.Yesterday,maybe?Thedaybefore?Idon’tevenknowwhattimeitis—ifit’smorningornightormid-afternoon.
“Alright,sweetheart.”Calebabandonsthecookiecrumbsandcurlsbothofhishandsovermyshoulders.“That’senough.”
Iswayonmyfeet,oatmealchocolatechunkcookiesdancinginfrontofmyeyes.“Whatis?”
“Thebakingbootcampyou’reputtingyourselfthrough.”
Hestandstohisfullheight,fingertipsspreadoutwide.Histhumbseasebackandforthovermycollarbonesandslipunderthecollarofmyshirt,justbarely.It’sacomfortingtouch,onethathaswarmthslippingovermelikeablanket.Tall,mybake-drunkmindsighshappily.Good.Hislipstwistinamusement.
IhopeIdidn’tsaythatoutloud.
“You’vemadeenoughfoodtosupplyasmallarmy.Ithinkyoushouldcallitanight.”
“It’snightthen,Iguess.”Myblearyeyesscanmykitchenbeforelookingbackatthetall,handsomemanholdingmeupright.“Iwasgoingtomakepeachdumpcakenext.”
IwatchasCaleb’seyesdarkenslightly,hispupilsblowingoutatthesuggestionofpeachcake.“Fuck,”hemutterslowly,adeepgrindofthewordsbetweenclenchedteeth.Heflexeshishandsonmyshoulders.“Ican’tbelieveI’msayingthis,butforgetaboutthepeachcake.Youneedtogetsomesleep.”
“Ijustwanteverythingtobeperfect.”IwantthepeoplefromBaltimoreMagazinetolookaroundandseeallofthethingsthatmakethisplacespecial.Iwanttobeimpressive.Memorable.
Someoneworthstickingaroundfor.
“Everythingisperfect,Layla.”Heurgesmecloseruntilmyforeheadtipsagainsthischin.MyeyesslipclosedandIgrabblindlyathisshirt.He’ssowarm.Likea—likea—likeamochafudgebrownie.Iswayinhisarmsandsnickerintothebuttonsofhisshirt.Maybehe’sright.MaybeIdoneedsomesleep.“Evenwithoutallofthisstuffyou’vedone,thisplacewouldlookperfect.Letmetakeyouhome.”
“ShouldIhangsomecupcakesupfirst?”Ileanbackandrestmychinagainsthischest,myarmsloopedaroundhiswaist.“Togowiththeflowers?”
“NowIknowyou’redelirious.”Heleansbackuntilhecanthumbatmychin,bighandcuppingmyface.“No,youdon’tneedtowastecupcakesbyhangingthemfromtheceiling.”
Isquint.“Areyousure?”
Hesmiles.Asmallone.“I’msure.”
“Itlooksokay?”
“Itlooksgreat.”
“You’resure?”
Hislaughrumbleslowagainstmychest,rightwhereI’vegotmychinpressedagainsthim.Hesmoothshishandovermyhairandpresseshispalmbetweenmyshoulderblades,soothingme.“Yeah,I’msure.”
Ileanmoreofmybodyweightagainsthischest.Hewrapsbothofhisarmsaroundmyshoulders,cocooningme.Idon’tthinkI’veeverbeenmorecomfortableinmylife.
Ihearthedoortothekitchenswingopen,heavybootsagainstthehardwood
“Oh,shit.Sorry.Didn’tmeantointerruptanything.”Beckettsoundscomicallydistressed.Idon’tbotherlookingbutitsoundslikehe’stalkingwithhisbacktowardsus.Ibethehashishandspressedoverhiseyes,too.Rich,comingfromthemanwhoIknowlovesaromanticinterludewithEviebeneaththestarsinthemiddleofourtreefields.IgrinintothecollarofCaleb’sshirt,myeyesstillclosed.AmIasleep?AmIawake?Idon’tevenknow.
“Notinterrupting,”Imumble,myarmsstilllockedaroundCaleb’swaist.Iwanthimtocarrymetothecarexactlylikethis.Iwanthimtodrivemehomewithmewrappedaroundhimlikeakoala.
“That’sillegal,sweetheart,”hewhispersintomyhair,anothersmileinhisvoice.“Seatbeltsareimportant.”
“Icanbeyourseatbelt,”Islur.
CaleblaughsagainandBeckettmakesagruff,grumblysoundthatisavagueapproximationofalaugh.“Isshebakewasted?”
“Icalleditbakebootcamp.”
“Thatfeelsright.”
“Icanhearbothofyou.”Ijustcan’ttellwhoisspeaking.Andwhytheirvoicessoundlikethey’recomingfromtheendofaverylongtunnel.Andissomeoneplayingmerenguemusic?
Steadyhandsworkatthestringsofmyapron.IletCalebmanipulatemyarmsashegentlyguidesmeoutofthecanvascontraption.Iswayonmyfeetandslitmyeyesopenandwatchashetraceshisthumboveroneofthestrawberries,drapingitcarefullyovertheshelfbythedoor.
IturnmymuddledattentiontoBeckett.IdofeellikeI’mdrunk.LikeI’mtenthousandleaguesunderthesea.“Didyouneedsomething?”
Beckettshakeshishead,watchingCalebtidyupsomeofthebowlsonmyworkspaceanddropthemintheindustrial-sizeddishwasher—thesmalleronestiltedhalfwayonthetoprack,justthewayIlike.Aknowingsmilestartsinhiseyesandheturnshishatarounduntilthebillisbackwards,alittleembroideredChristmastreeabovethesnaps.
“Hey,man,”hetipshischintowardsCaleb.“Howdoyoufeelaboutdogs?”
Calebglancesoverhisshoulder.“Ingeneral,oraspecificone?”
Inarrowmyeyes.“Don’teventhinkaboutit.”
Beckettignoresme.“Iknowaguywhoislookingforahomeforadogthatwasabandoned—”
“Wheredoyoufindthesepeople?”
“—andhethinksshewassupposedtobeapolicedog.She’sgotallthecommandsdown.Hethinksshewasdumpedbecauseshe’salittlesmallforitandnotnearlyaggressiveenough.Arealsweetgirl.Shelovespizzacrust.HernameisPoppy.”
Calebpausesandtiltshisheadtotheside,thinkingaboutit.“I’mopentoit.”
Ilookathim,alittleshocked.“Youare?”
Heshrugs.“Whynot?”
Beckettnodsandcrosseshistattooedarmsoverhischest.“I’lllethimknow.Maybethetwoofyoucanmeet.”
ItrytopictureCalebwithalittlerescuedogwholovespizzacrusts.Aslightlyhystericallaughbubblesoutofme.That’sjustwhatIneed.Anotherreasontobeattractedtotheman.
Beckett’sconcernedgazesnapstowardsme.“Yougood?”
“Didyoureallycomeallthewayoverheretotryandgetanotheranimaladopted?”
HeshrugsandreachesforoneofthetartsIhaven’tpackedinthefridgeyet.Isnapathisknuckleswithatowel.“Ouch,Layla.Christ.”Heholdshishandagainsthischest.“Icameovertocheckin.Iwantedtomakesureyouactuallyleavethisplacetonightinsteadofmakingatinycocoononthebottomshelfinyoursupplyclosetagain.”
Irollmyeyes.“Ithappenedonce,anditwassoIcouldkeepaneyeonmysourdoughstarter.”
Calebfreezeswithhisbacktome,hunchedoverthedishwasher.HeturnshisheadtothesideuntilIcanseehisfaceinprofile.“Yousleptinthesupplycloset?”
Icrossmyarmsovermychest,preparedtodefendmycommitmenttomycraft.“Itwasthebottomshelf,closetothefloor,anditwasverycomfortable.”
“Youscaredtheshitoutofme,”Beckettgrumbles.“Ithoughtyouwereavampire.”
BeckettcameinthroughthebackdoorthatnightandIrolledrightofftheshelf.Ithinkwebothscreamedateachotherforclosetosevenminutes.Nowords,justincoherentshrieking.
Calebfinishesupwiththedishwasherandcomesovertome.Hestandsbehindmeandhooksanarmovermychest,tugginguntilmyshoulderbladesarepressedneatlytohisfront.Iclosemyeyesandhumashepressesakissagainstthebackofmyhead.
Thisisnice.Iwanttodothisforever.
“Howdoyouwanttostoreallthisfood?”heasks.It’snotasexyquestion,butitfeelslikemaybeitcouldbe.Idon’tthinkI’veeverhadamanaskmewhatsortofcontainersheshoulduseforcinnamonrollsbefore.
IgivehimsomeinstructionsandBeckettlendsahand.Togetherthethreeofuscleanupthekitchenandpackeverythingaway.I’malittleconcernedaboutthestateofmyrefrigerator,butIonlyneedtomakeitthroughtomorrow.Afterthat,Idon’tcareabouthowmanytartletsBeckettsteals.
Beckettdisappearswithagruntandawaveoverhisshoulderassoonasthelasttrayisputaway,probablyofftoseduceEvelyninafieldsomewhere.Hopefullythistimeoutofcameraview.IleanintoCaleb’stouchagainstthebackofmyneckandsigh.“I’mreadytogo,Ijustwanttolookatthefrontonemoretime.”
Iwanttomakesureeverythingisexactlyasitshouldbe.
“Alright.”Hishandslipsdownmybackandcurlsaroundmyhip.“Followme.”
Heleadsmeoutofthebackdoorwithhisfingerstangledwithmine,steppingalongthestonewalkwaythatwindsaroundthebakehousetothefront.Thepathislinedwithclustersofwildflowers,yellowandpinkandbrightpurpleagainsttheweatheredwoodoftherenovatedtractorshed.WhenStellaboughttheplace,itwasfallingapart.IthinkHankuseditforstorage.Weclearedouttheinside,madeanadditionofmostlywindowsoffofthefront,hookedupwaterandpower,boughtanobsceneamountofpaint—andthebakehousewasborn.
Caleb’shandtightensaroundmineashelooksatmeoverhisshoulder,thelightfromthemoonslippingalongthelinesofhisbody.Shoulders.Jaw.Halfwaysmile.Ittickswiderthelongerhelooksatme.
“Closeyoureyes.”
“Why?”
Hehuffsandduckshisheaddown,guidinguscarefullyaroundawaywardlilacbush,onehandinmineandtheotheratmyhip.Heglancesbackupatmethroughhislashes,standingperfectlystillasIdragmysleepyfeetacrossthetwostonesbetweenus.Ibumpintohim,hisarmscirclingmywaist.Myforeheaddropsagainsthischinandhelaughs,huskyandlow.
“Doyoutrustme,LaylaDupree?”
Islipmyfingersunderneaththehemofhissoftt-shirtuntilIfindwarmskin.He’slikeafurnace,warmerthanthehumidnightairpressinginonus.ItracemyfingertipsatthebaseofhisspineandhereleasesashakysoundingsighthatIlikeverymuch.
“Itrustyou,CalebAlvarez.”Mynosenudgesunderhischinandheslipshisfingersalongthescarfinmyhair.“Alotofotherthings,too.”
“Oh,yeah?”Hisvoiceisgentle,amused,alowrumblesomewhereabovemyhead.“Wanttosharewiththeclass?”
Irubmynosebackandforthagainsthisneck.I’mprettysureheissupportingtheentiretyofmybodyweight.Again.“Notatthemoment,no.”
“Maybeanothertime,then.Comeon.Notmuchfurther.We’lltakealookandthenwe’llgetyouhome.”
Openingmyeyesfeelslikeamonumentaleffort.“Willyouholdmyhand?”Myvoiceslursaroundtheedges.
“Yeah,sweetheart.I’llholdyourhand.”
Heleadsmethelastthreestepswithmybodypracticallyplasteredtohis,myeyesobedientlyclosedandourfingerstangledtogether.Hestopsmewithagentletouchagainstmyshoulder,andturnsmecarefullyonthebiggeststoneatthebaseofthestairs.TheoneImadeBecketthaulhalfwayacrossthepropertywithhistractorafterIfounditbythepond.
“Takealook,”Calebwhispers,andIopenmyeyes.
Thewholeplaceisglowing.Warmyellowlightspillsoutfromthewindowsanddancesalongthestonesinashimmeringshowerofgold.Theflowershangingfromtheceilinglookpictureperfectfromouthere.Snowwhitewisteriaandpalepinkpeonies.Thickgreengarlandthattwistsaroundandaroundthethickwoodenbeamsacrosstheceiling.Allofitfloatsabovemycozyboothsandneatlittletables,mismatchedchairsandoldpatternedvases.Daisiesandchamomilespilloverthechippededgesofthecolorfulceramic,abundleforeachtable.
Magic.Itlookslikemagic.
MyfootslipsinapatchofgravelandCalebloopshisarmaroundmywaistagain,tuggingmecloseruntilI’mpressedintohisside.Iclingtohimasmyeyestrailovereverybloom.Everyfleckofpaint,everyshingle,everylastdetail.
“Lookatthis.”Calebholdsmetighter.Brusheshismouthagainsttheappleofmycheek.“Youmadethis,Layla.”
“Withalotofhelp,”Itrytodeflect,butmyeyesareburning—thickpressurerightbetweenmyeyebrowsthatletsmeknowI’mabouttostartblubberingonthefrontstepofmybakehouse.
Calebignoresme.“I’msoproudofyou,”hetellsme,hisvoicehushedandearnest.Hishandsholdmetighter,andIwrapmyselfaroundhimjustasfiercely.Somethinginmychestshifts,realigns,andclicksintoplace.
Asingletearslipsfrommylashesandglancesalongmycheek.WhenwasthelasttimeIheardthatfromanyone?WhenwasthelasttimeIbelievedit?Ibrushthewetnessawaywithmyknucklesanddropmyforeheadintohisshoulder.
“I’mproudofme,too.”NINETEENCALEB
Morningcomesfartooquickly.
LeavingLaylalastnighthadbeen…difficult.Idroppedheroffjustasthesunwasslippingbelowthehorizon,theskyapalelilaccascadingintomidnightblue.Shehadfallenasleepwithherfacepressedupagainstthepassengersidewindow,bothofherhandsclutchingoneofminetighttoherchest.Ipulledintoherdrivewayandcuttheengine—sattherewiththeskyswirlingbrilliantstrokesofblueandpurpleanddeep,deepnavyandjustwatchedherforalittlebit.Myhandinbetweenhers,asmileflirtingwiththecornersofherlips.
Thenshejoltedawake—screamedWHATatmeloudenoughtohavemerocketmyheadagainstmywindow—andalmostgavemeaconcussion.Ittookherawhiletostoplaughingafterthat.
Shehadbeenpiepunchdrunk,donutdelirious.Ihelpedherintoherhouseandsheclungtomyt-shirtlikeatiny,persistentlittlebarnacle.Shetwistedandtuggedandtriedtodragmebacktoherbedroom.Idon’tknowwhenLaylagotsodamnstrong,butitfeltlikeIhadtouseallmyphysicalandmentalstrengthtoresisther.
Comecuddle,Caleb,shehadwhisperedinmyear,teethgrazing.I’llbegood,Ipromise.
Ialmosttossedherovermyshoulderandcarriedhertheremyself.
ButtodayisimportanttoherandIdidn’twanttobeadistraction.Plus,shefellasleepassoonasherprettyheadhitthepillow,acutelittlesnorewitheveryinhale.
SoItuggedoffherbootsandcoveredherwithherblanketandslippedoutthefrontdooraftermakingsureitlockedbehindme.IsetmyalarmforanatrociouslyearlyhourandnowhereIam,withoneofmyarmsflungovermyface,groaningcursesattheincessantbuzzingfrommynightstand.Islapatitwithoutlookingandsighwhenitstops.
IwanttostopbythebakehousebeforeLayla’sscheduledinterview.Iwanttobrushakissagainsthernoseandgetthatnervousedgeinhereyestoslip,justalittle.She’sgotnothingtoworryabout.Thebakerylooksamazing.I’mprettysureIhaderoticdreamsaboutthosefruittartslastnight.BaltimoreMagazineisgoingtohaveafielddaywithherlittleglasscottageinthemiddleofthewoods.It’slikesomethingoutofabook,likethestoriesparentstelltheirkidsbeforetheydriftofftosleep.
Laylainthemiddleoftheroom,allofthoseflowerssurroundingherlikeahalo.Acoysmileonherlipsandpinkinhercheeks.Bareskin.Strawberryshortcake.
Myphonestartsbuzzingagain.
Ireachforitwithoneeyesquintedshut,sittingupwhenIseethescreen.It’snotmyalarm,butaphonecall.IalmostfumbleitwhenIseeLayla’snameblinkingacross.
“Hey,”IanswerandtrynottosoundlikeI’msportingabonerattheideaofherbareskinandshortcake.Iarrangetheblanketsovermylapandclearmythroattwice,likeshecanseemethroughthedamnphone.“Goodmorning.”
Herbreathhitchesontheothersideofthephoneandthelingeringheatevaporates.Alarmpunchesmerightinthechestinstead,andI’mreachingformysweatshirtbeforeshecansayaword.
“Caleb.”
Hervoiceisthickanduneven.Shesoundslikeshe’sbeencrying.Igrabarandompairofjeansandshovemylegsthrough,thephoneheldbetweenmyshoulderandear.Ilistentohertryandcollectherselfandalmostlosemyfuckingmindintheprocess.
“Whatisit?”
“There’s—”Herbreathhiccupsandsheletsoutanothershakysigh.IchargethroughmyhouselikeI’monmywaytocommitafelony.WhichImight,assoonasIfigureoutwhatthehellisgoingon.
“Takeadeepbreath,sweetheart.Justtellmewhereyouare,andI’llcometoyou.”
Istopinthemiddleofmyhallwayandcatchthebarely-theresoundofamuffledsob.Likesheturnedherheadawayfromthephone,likeshe’stryingtostopcryinglongenoughtotalk.Aflashofferociousheatandthenbone-chillingcoldroarsthroughmyblood.
IliketothinkI’mareasonableman.Controlled.ButI’mfeelingneitherofthosethingsrightnow.
“Layla,”Iplead.“Whereareyou?”
“Thebakehouse,”shefinallywhispers.“Thepowermusthavecutoutovernight.”Aheavyswallowandaraggedexhale.“Everythingisruined.”
It’sworsethanIthought.
Withnoclimatecontrolandthefloor-to-ceilingglasswindowswelcomingintheheatfromoutside,alloftheflowersinthefrontoftheshophavewilted.Pristineandwhitelastnight,they’renowhanginglimpandfaded,tingedwithyellow.Petalswithcurlededgesdecoratethefloorlikelittlefallensoldiers,ahaphazardbattlegroundleadingtoLayla.Laylawhoissittingonthefloorofthebakehousewithherbacktothefrontcounter,herarmsoverherkneesandherforeheadtuckedintoherthighs.
“Sweetheart,”Isigh.Itfeelslikeit’sahundredandtendegreesinhereandthesunhasn’tevenfullyrisenyet.Iglanceatthecountertopwhereshestackedhercookieslastnight.Theylooklikeanamorphousblobundertheglassdisplaycase.Iwince.
“Therefrigeratorsstoppedrunning,”shemumbleswithoutbotheringtoliftherface.Isquatdowninfrontofherandsoothemypalmsupanddownherbarearms.Herfingerstwitch,butshedoesn’treachforme.“Allofthetartsareruined.EverythingI—”Shepullsinashakybreath.“EverythingImadeyesterdayisruined.Idon’tknowwhattodo.”
“Wecan—”Twopeonybloomsfallfromtheceilingandlandwithasoftthudatourside.Laylamakesasad,defeatedhuffthatwedgesrightinthecenterofmychest.Aknifeundermyribs.“Wecanfixthis.”
LaylaleansbackandIgetalookatherred-rimmedeyes,theteartracksonhercheeks.Iwanttopullherinmylapandwrapbothofmyarmsaroundher.Iwanttofightadefunctairconditioner,apparently.
“How?”shecroaks.“Howcanwefixthis?Idon’thaveanypower.Myovenswon’tturnon.Noneofmyingredientsareusable.”Sheblinks,herbighazeleyesfillingwithmoretears.“Thepeoplefromthemagazinearesupposedtobehereatteno’clock.”
IglanceattheclockabovethecounterbeforeIrememberitmusthavestoppedworkingwhenthepowerwentout.Thehandsarefrozenat10:12pm.Almostsixfullhoursofnoelectricity.Thatexplainsthestateofthings.
Iclearmythroatandcheckmywatch.“Thenwehaveafewhourslefttoworkwith.”
Layla’spalmsdigintohereyes.Shehasflowerpetalsinherhair,adiscarded,crumpledupapronatherhip.Likeshecameinandgrabbeditoffherhooklikeshealwaysdoes,butdidn’tbotherloopingitoverherneck.“Todowhat?”
Ipushuptomyfeet.“Isthereanythingyoucanmakefromwhatyou’vegot?Anythingyoucangetstartedon?”
Sheshakesherhead,ashakyhandswipingunderneathhereyes.“Idon’t—”
“Justthefirststep,Layla.Youonlyneedtostart.”
Iholdoutmyhandtoher.Sheblinksupatmefromherspotonthefloor,afrowntwistingherlipsandhershouldershunchedforward.Shelookssosmalldowntherelikethat.Smallandsadanddiminished.Ineverwanttoseeherlikethisagain.
“I’veseenyoubake,Caleb,”hervoiceiswatery—scratchyandsubdued.“Yourcakebatterisshit.”
Ihuffalaugh.“Mycakebatterisfine.”
“It’stheworstcakebatterI’veeverseeninmyentirelife.”
Itriedbakingwithheronce,anditendedwithherlaughingsohystericallyshecouldbarelyholdherselfup.
“Alright,well.Howaboutyoushowmehowit’sdone?”Ibeckonherforwardwithmyfingersuntilsheheavesoutadeepbreathandholdsoutherarms.Iclaspmyhandsaroundherwristsandguideherupandintome.Ibrushakissagainsthertempleandthebridgeofhernose.
“Youdothebaking,sweetheart.”Iwipethelastofhertearsawaywithmythumbs.“Letmetakecareoftherest.”
Beckettismyfirststop.
IsetLaylaupinthebackkitchenwithasmallbattery-operatedfanIfindinthedashofmyJeep,clippingittotheedgeofashelfandanglingitsoitblowsherhairoffherneck.Shegivesmeathin,wobbly,gratefulsmileandIdisappearouttheback,hoppinginmyJeepandtearingacrossthefarmataspeedthatteststhelimitsofmysuspensiononthebumpy,rockydirtroads.IturnintoBeckett’sdrivewayandsendashowerofgraveloverthebottomtwostepsofhisporch,narrowlymissingtherowofdaffodilsI’mprettysurehissisterNovaplanted.
Ipoundonhisfrontdoorwithmyfistuntilheanswerswithaferociousscowlandarosegoldbaseballbatclutchedinhislefthand.IspotEvelynoverhisshoulder,swimminginanoversizedflannel,twoofthecatsperchedonhershoulders.Evelyngivesmealittlewave.
Beckettdropsthebatwithaheavingsigh,handsonhisknees.“Whatthefu—”
“Doyouhaveagenerator?”I’llapologizelaterthisweekandmaybeaskaquestionortwoaboutwhyhehasapinkbaseballbatcoveredingoldsparklesinhisfrontcloset.“Somewhereonthefarm?”
“Caleb.”Beckettstraightensbacktohisfullheightandscratchesroughlyatthebackofhishead.Hetossesthebat…somewhere…andstoopstostoponeofthecatsfromdashingthroughthedoor.Prancermeowsatmeandbatsherlittlepawingreeting.It’scute,butIdonothavethetime.“Whyareyouatmyhouseatfiveinthemorningaskingaboutgenerators?”
Evelynpadsdownthehallandnudgeshimoutoftheway.“Doyouwantsomecoffee?We’vegotapotonalready.”
Ishakemyheadandglanceacrossthefieldstowardsthebakery.Athicklayerofhumidityhangsheavyoverthegrassfields,blurringeverythinguntilit’sjuststreaksofcolor.Evergreen.Copperandgold.Evennow,Icanfeeltheheatclingingtomyskin.Thebackofmyneckandthehollowsofmywrists.It’sgoingtobehotashelltoday.
“Powerwentoutinthebakehouseovernight.”IturnbacktoBeckettandEvelyn.“Shelostairconditioning,refrigerators,ovens.Allofthefoodisscrapped.”
Evelyn’seyeswiden,justatouch.“Themagazinepeople,”shebreathes.“That’stoday,right?”
Inod.Beckett’smouthsettlesintoafirm,determinedline.Hepropsthecatuponhisshoulderandturnstojogdownthehall.
“I’llbethereinfifteenminutes,”hecalls.Hegrabsasetofkeysoffasmallhookbythebackdoor.“Eviehoney,I’llmeetyouthere.”
Sandymeetsmeatthegrocerystorewithafaintlybewilderedlook,herkeysjanglingonthelittlecordatherwristassheunlockstheseriesofdeadboltsonthedoor.Sheushersmeinsideassoonasthedooriscracked,hersmallhandatmyelbow.
“Iseverythingalright?”ShelooksovermyshoulderatmyJeepparkedhalfonthecurb,halfoffofit.Hereyesdarttohercozylittlesedanparkedintheusualspot,acoupleoffeetfromthedoorway.Herbrowscollapseintoaline.“Whatonearthcouldyoupossiblyneedfromthegrocerystoresoearly?”
“Allofthebutter,sugar,flour,andeggsyouhaveinstockwouldbeagoodstart,Ithink.”Iglancetowardstheproducesectionandmakeadecision.“Strawberries,too.”
Sheblinksatme.“Allofit?”
Inod.“Allofit.”
“Wereyoucravingshortcake?”Sheglancesatherwatch.Shewanderstowardstheregistersandflicksonthelights,fluorescentsbuzzingtolifeaboveus.“Atfive-thirtyinthemorning?”
AsmileIdon’treallyfeelhitchesatthecornerofmymouth.“Somethinglikethat.”
BythetimethebagsareloadedinmytrunkandI’mturningbackontoMainStreet,thesunisjuststartingtocreepoutfrombehindthetrees.IwatchlightcrawlacrossthepavementandfeellikeI’minaraceagainsttime.IhopeBecketthasthegeneratorgoing.IhopeLaylahasherapronon.IfIwalkbackintothatbakehouseandseetearsonhercheeksagain,Imightlosemymind.I’llprobablystartcompulsivelybakingthingsinanefforttohelpandshe’sright.I’mabsoluteshitatmakingadecentcakebatter.
Irolltoastopandlowerthepassengersidewindow.Itonlytakesonebellowofhernameacrossthesidewalktogetherattentionfrombehindthecounter.
Beatricecracksopenthefrontdoorofherbakerywithafrown,longgrayhairbraidedinacrownacrossherhead.She’swearinghercombatbootsagain,abloodredsundressthatfallsbelowherknees.
“What?”
“Getinthecar.”
Herfacecracksintoagrinandshefoldsherarmsoverherchest.“WhileIloveaninvitationfromahandsomeman,Ican’tgojoyridingwithyouthroughthesunrisetoday.”Shepushesoffherfrontporchbanisterwithhershoulder.“Comeseemeafterclosing,”shesayswithawink.
“It’sLayla,”Ishout,beforeshecanshutherdoorinmyface.“Shehasherinterviewwiththemagazinetodayandshelostpower.Sheneedsanextrasetofhands.”
It’ssortofincredible,thewayBeatricedoesn’thesitate.Shepullsasetofkeysoutofahiddenpocketinherdressandturnsthelockonthefrontdoor.ShehustlesdownthestonestepsandpracticallyfliesintothepassengersideoftheJeep,leveragingherselfupwiththehandleabovethedoor.Shebucklesherseatbeltandgivesmeanimpatientlook,herhandthrustforwardoutthewindow.
“Whatthehellareyouwaitingfor,then?Let’sgo.”
“Onemorething.”Iholdmyphonebetweenmyearandshoulder,backingupintothealleywaybetweenthebuildings.ItringstwicebeforeI’mgreetedwithaflurryofSpanish.IwincewhenIlookattheclock.It’slikelyIinterruptedhermorningre-runviewing.
HerhuffsoundsmetallicontheotherendofthephoneasIturntowardsLovelight.“Losiento,abuela.Ineedafavor.”TWENTYLAYLA
Idon’tquiteknowhowhemanagedit,butIthinkCaleb’spulledofftheimpossible.
Theentirebakehouseisaflurryofactivity,fromGusaggressivelypullingdowndriedbloomsinthefronttoBeatricewhippingsomethingintosubmissionatmyside.Ihaven’tseenCalebsincehedroppedBeatriceoffatmybackdoorandwentrunningoffthroughthetreesagain,butIknowhe’sbeeninandout.Igetawhiffeverynowandthenofdarkcoffee.Hearthelowsoundofhisvoiceoverthesteadythrumoforganizedchaosthat’sdescendedovermykitchen.
Hisgrandmotherarrivedshortlyafterheleftwithafleetofhiscousins.Shetookonelookatmyface,grabbedbothofmycheeksinherweatheredhands,andsaidsomethingfierceanddeterminedinSpanish.Shethensmackedmeontheassandtoldmetochopsomestrawberries.
SoIchoppedthestrawberries.
Beatricedropsanothertrayofshortcakeinfrontofmeandthrustsasmallroundcookiecutteragainstmychest.
“Cutthese,”shesays.“Thenhand‘emoff.”
Idon’thavemypictureperfectminiaturetartletswithanedibleflowerhaloorthechocolatemoussecupsIspentapainstakingamountoftimeon,butIdohavesixtraysofwarmshortcakeandageneratorpumpingpowerintotheplace.IhavefunctioningovensandmorehelpinghandsthanIknowwhattodowith,averitableconveyorbeltofproductivitymadeupofStella,Evelyn,Beatrice,twoofCaleb’scousinsandacoupleofotherpeoplefromtown.Barney,oneofBeckett’sfarmhands,isshockinglygoodatcuttingthestrawberriesintotinyflowers.AndI’veneverseenanyonewhipshortcakefillingbetterthanAlexAlvarez.
Hiddentalentsallaround,apparently.
Icuttheshortcakeslicesandthensomeonepipesthecream.Strawberriesareslicedandplacedandmoreshortcakeislayered.Onandonwego.
Iwon’thavemyfullmenu,butIwillhavefood.That’smorethanIhadanhourago.
IknewsomethingwaswrongassoonasIsteppedfootonthepathwaythismorning.Thefrontlightthatisalwaysonwassnuffedout,theairconditioningunitsilent.Iwedgedopenthefrontdoorandstaredforthreelongbeatsattheflowerpetalsonthefloor.Icouldfeeltheheatpressingagainstmyskin,theslightlystaleandsoursmelloffoodleftsittingout.Mywalktothebackfeltlikeathousandmiles.
Icheckedtherefrigerators,sawmydestroyeddesserts,satonthefloorandcalledCaleb.
ItwastheonlythingIcouldthinktodo.
Whichisterrifyinginitsownright.WehaveanarrangementwithclearboundariesandsafeguardsinplacebutwhenIfeltlikeIwasburstingattheseams,CalebwastheonlypersonIwantedtocall.NotStella.NotBeckett.NotEvieorLuka.
IwantedCaleb.
Andhehadshownup.Immediately.Withhisshirtoninsideoutandbackwards,thetagjustunderhischin.Sleeprumpledandwearingtwodifferentshoes,heshowedupforme.
That’sdefinitelynotincludedinourarrangement.
Stellanudgesmewithherelbow.“Whendothesconescomeout?”
Iblinkandpressanothercircleintotheshortcake.IglanceattheclockthatBeckettfixedbeforehedisappearedsomewherewithCalebandLuka.“Tenminutes.”
Whichgivesmealmostforty-fivebeforetheinterviewteamshowsup.Itshouldbeenoughtimetogettheselastshortcakesdoneandkickeveryoneout.MaybeIcanpretendthisisanormalmorningandnotthemostcategoricallystressfulmomentofmylife.Evieappearsonmyothersideandstartstoyingwithmyhair.
“Notbythefood,”Imumble.That’sthelastthingIneed.
“Thencomeoverhereforasecond.”
Beatriceswatsmeawaywithhandscoveredinflourandaggressivelyyankstheshortcakeoutofmyhands.Decisionmadeforme,IrollmyeyesandfollowEvelynobedientlytothecorner.IfanyonehasquestionsaboutwhyBeatriceandIaresuddenlyworkingtogether,theydon’tsayaword.Maybeourportrayedrivalryisn’tasfierceasIthought.PerhapsIshouldbodycheckherintothejamdisplaythenexttimewe’reatthegrocerystoretogetherjusttoreinforcethenarrative.She’dgetakickoutofthat.
EvelynblocksmeinagainstthewallandimmediatelyuntanglesthelooseknotItuckedmystrandsinto.Shedragsherfingersagainstmyscalp,partingandfluffing.Iblowoutananxiousbreath.
“Idon’tknowifIhavetimeforthis.”
“You’regettingyourpicturetakentoday.”Sheremindsmewithanarchofonedark,perfectbrow.“You’llthankmeforthiswhenyourfaceisinamagazine.”
She’sright.Iguess.Itdoesn’tmakeitanyeasiertostandherethough.Atleastwithalloftheactivity,I’vebeenabletokeepmymindfromrunning.IcanholdbackthethoughtsthathavelurkedlikeshadowssinceStellafirsttoldmeabouttheopportunity.Idon’tdeservethis.They’regoingtoshowupandtellmeit’sallamisunderstanding.Mysconesaren’tanythingspecial.I’mnotanythingspecial.
Theintrusivethoughtshaven’tstoppedsincethatfirsttrickle,acoupleofweeksago.They’vegottenworse,actually,analmostendlessbarrageofdoubtsandmisgivings.
It’sbetterwithCaleb,though.Whenhe’saround.Itrynottothinktoohardaboutthat.
Evelynpullsoutsometintedlipstainoutofthefrontpocketofheroverallsandunscrewsthetop,tap-tappingitagainstmybottomlip.I’dbesurprisedwithanyoneelseiftheysuddenlypulledoutatubeofmakeupfrommud-splatteredclothes,butnotwithEvie.
Iclosemyeyesandinhaleashakybreath,holdit,andthenexhaleslowly.Evie’shandfallsawayfrommyface.
“Layla.”Iblinkopenmyeyes.Evelynsmilesgentlyatme.“Itlooksamazing.Iknowit’snotwhatyouplanned,but—they’recominghereforyou,notthescones.”
Thatdoesn’tmakemefeelanybetter.Anxietywindstightinmychest.“They’resortofcominghereforthescones,”Icontest.Andthecustards.Andthetarts.Andeverythingelseonthespecialmenustenciledonchalkboardoutfront.Allofthatstuffonlyexistsinmytrashbinsoutback.Abreathwheezesoutofme.
Evieshakesmealittle.“Layla,honey,everythingisgoingtobe—”
“Hey.”Caleb’sinterruptionissmoothashesuddenlyappearsatourside,dirtonbothofhiskneesandinaswipeacrosshisforehead—hist-shirtstilltwistedinsideout.HereachesformeandthereliefIfeelisimmediate.Somethingabouthisarmwindingaroundme,holdingtightandsure.It’sawarmpressureexpandinginthecenterofmychest—anunravelingofthattwisted,tangledupknot.I’mreachingforhimbeforeIevenrealizeit,myhandloopingaroundhiswrist.Hisshiftsuntilourfingerstwinetogether,hislongfingersoverlappingthebackofmyhand.HetipshisheadclosersoIcanhearhimoverthenoiseofthekitchen.SpecificallythesoundofBeatricebarkingorderslikeawargeneral.“CanIborrowyouforasecond?”
Inod.
Eviepokeshimhardinthechestashetugsmetowardsthebackdoor.“Don’tmessuphermakeup.”
“Noted.”Hislipstwitchandhisgazesettlesontheswellofmynewly-stainedbottomlipwithinterest.“Iwon’tkeepherlong.”
Thebackdoorswingsshutbehindusandheleadsusdownthesamestonepathwaywetooklastnight.WhenheheldmeinhisarmsandwegazedatthefrontofthebakehouselikeitwaseverydreamIeverhadcometrue.Itfeelsmorelikeanightmaretoday.LikeI’mwearingapairofshoesthatdon’tquitefit
LikeI’manimposter.
“Caleb.”Ipullonhishand,surenowofhisintention.“Idon’twantto.”
Heignoresmeandpicksuphispaceinstead.Ihuffanddragmyfeetbehindhim.Ihavehalfamindtoclingtomyazaleabushandkickmyfeet.MaybeI’lldisappearamongthebranchesandjustlivethere.Theycaninterviewmefrombetweentheleaves.
IkeepmyeyesfirmlyonmyfeetasweroundthefrontofthebuildingandCaleblinesmeupinthesamespotwewerestandingtwelvehoursago.Hedrapeshisarmsovermyshouldersandtugsmeintohischest.
“Look.”
Ishakemyhead.Idon’twanttoseemyowndisappointments,myunmetexpectations.Idon’twanttoseetheresultofallmypainstakingeffortreducedtosome…ramshackleattempt.Calebhuffs,hishandgentlebeneathmychin.Hebrushesakisstomytempleandguidesmyfaceup.
“Look,Layla.”
Ireluctantlylookupatthefrontofmybakehouse.ThehangingflowersthatIcouldseefromthewindowslastnightaregone,thediscardedpetalssweptupandthefloorbare.Thestemsthatwereoneverytablearemissingtoo,themasonjarsbackintheirusualspot,stackedbehindthecounter.Itlookslikethebakehouseonanyotherday.Bigwindowsandwoodentables.Thickpinetreescrowdingclose.
Perfectlynormal.Perfectlyplain.
“I’msoproudofyou,”hetellsme,hisvoicewarminmyear.Theexactsamewayhesaiditlastnight,whenthisplacelookedlikemagic.
Iletmyheadfallbackagainsthischestandlookup.Icanonlyseethecurveofhisjaw,thelinesbyhislefteye.Ican’ttellifhe’sbeinghonest.
“Why?”Iask.“Allofmywork,everythingIdid—itwasfornothing.”
“Itwasn’tfornothing.”
“Itwas,becauserightnowallIseeistheusual.Nothingspecial.”
Hemakesadisbelievingsoundunderhisbreath.“Nothingspecial?”Heswallowsheavily,aclickinthebackofhisthroat.“Youdon’tneedallofthatextrastuff.Theflowerswerenice,buttheywerejustdetails.Itriedtotellyouthatlastnight.”
“Tellme,what?”
“It’syou,Layla.Withoutthefrills,maybe,butthisplaceisyou.Yourheart.Yourkindness.Yourbuttercroissantsandyourcoffee.Thereisn’tasinglepersonwhowalksupthosestepsthatisn’tcharmedbyyou.”
Iexhaleashakybreathandturninhisarms.Itrytobelievethewordshe’ssaying,butit’shard.
“Youreallythinkso?”
Hispalmslidesdownthecolumnofmyspine.“Iknowso,andsodoyou.WhereistheLaylathattakesmycomplimentswithagrinandanodbecausesheknowsthey’reexactlywhatshedeserves?”
“Hiding,”Imumble.She’sburiedunderlayersofself-doubtandexhaustion.“Maybetryagain.”
Icanfeelhissmilelooseninghisshoulders,relaxinghisbody.Ituckasmallonerightinthemiddleofhischest.
“You’reamazing,Layla,”hewhispers.“IfIcouldonlyeatonethingfortherestofmylife,itwouldbeyourbuttercroissants.”
Isnicker.“Liar.”
“It’strue.IwantapictureofonetokeepinmywalletforwhenI’mfeelinglonely.”
Alaughburstsoutofme.Irestmycheekagainsthischestagainandsqueezetight.
“I’mgoingtogetNovatotattoooneonmybody.”
Nowthere’saninterestingidea.Iflushwarmwiththepossibilities.Maybeonthespanofhisribcage.Onthejutofhishipbone.Inthatdeliciouslinethatrunsdownthemiddleofhisabs.SomeplaceIcantracewithmytongue.It’salovelydistraction.
Irubmynoseintohischest,likeoneofBeckett’scats.Iletoutadeep,rattlingsigh.Allofmyanxietyandfrustrationanddisappointmenttumblesrightoutofmeintothesummerair.
“Thankyou,”Iwhisper.“Forbeinghere.”
Hecupshishandaroundthebackofmyneckandsqueezes.Ifeelhislipssomewhereinmyhair.
“Iwouldn’tbeanywhereelse.”
ThepeoplefromBaltimoreMagazinearriveatteno’clockonthedottoaclean,airconditionedbakery—blueberrysconesandstrawberryshortcakefillingeveryinchofthedisplaycases.Thebakehouseisbustlingwithalineoutthedoor.Ithinktheentiretownishere,waitingforsomethingtoeat.Notonlythepeoplewhoshowedupatthecrackofdawntohelpmepiecemyselfback
SheriffDaneJonesstandsnearthefrontoftheline,hishandloopedaroundMatty’selbow,hishattuckedunderhisarm,ararebutbrightsmilehitchingatthesideofhismouthwhenMattyleansintohimandwhisperssomethinginhisear.Jeremyandhismomarecaughtsomewherenearthemiddle,Jeremybreakingawayeverynowandthentobounceupanddownwhileshootingmeanenergeticwave.AndCharlie,somehowdownfromNewYork—wearingacrispdarksuitwithhisnoseburiedinhisphone,leaningupagainstthecoffeestationwithablueberrysconeinhishand.HeglancesupbrieflyanddoesadoubletakewhenheseesNova,Beckett’syoungestsisterandresidenttattooartist,examiningthechalkdrawingsonmymenuboard
ButmyeyesfindCaleb.He’ssittinginthecornerwithBeckettandLuka,allthreeofthemlookingliketheyjustwenttenroundsinamudpit,sippingteaoutoftinychinacups.Apparentlytheywentscavengingthroughthefieldsforallthewildflowerstheycouldgettheirhandson.Thebakehouseisdottedwithsplashesofcolor—thesmellofhoneysucklethreadingwithwarmbutterandfreshblueberries.
Calebcatchesmyeyewithawink,andmynervessettlealittlemore.
Ifingerabouquetofdaisiesbythecashregisterandwatchastheyapproach.There’sonlytwoofthem,acasually-dressedmanwithdarkblondehairandasmallwomanwithacameraloopedaroundherneck.Iwatchastheman’sheadtipsbackashelooksattherestoredwoodenbeamsslantedacrosstheceiling,thewickerbasketsweturnedintolampshades.Asmilestartsinhiseyesandtugsathischeeksuntilhe’sgrinning,spinningonhisheeltotakeitallin.
Theymaketheirwaythroughthecrowdofpeople—thecrowdofmyfriends—andIstandalittletaller.Ifindthatquietwellofpridethatbursttolifemyveryfirstdayhere,asetofkeysinmyhand.Isinkintoitandmysmilesettlesintosomethingsure.
“Hey.I’mLayla.”Iintroducemyself,thesoundsofthebakehouseflowingaroundmelikethetide.Ateacupsettlingintoasaucer.Thegrindofcoffeebeans.Abrightlaugh,overbythechalkboard.“Welcometomybakehouse.”
“Didyouseehisfacewhenhetriedthescone?”IgrabtwofistfulsofCaleb’st-shirtandshakehimbackandforth.Well,Idomybest,buthe’saboutassolidasasmallmountain,standingproppedupagainstmycounter.“Helookedlikeheascended.”
Calebscrubsthebackofhishead.“Isawhisfacewhenhewaslookingatyou,”hegrumbles.
Iwavethataway.“Theyseemedreallyhappy.Theystayedlongerthantheysaidtheywould,andthentooksomanypictures!”Anita,thephotographer,barelystoppedtoeat.Will,thereporter,atesixsconesandtwocupsofshortcake.Heaskedforaboxtogo.Iamhighontheendorphinsofadrenalineandexhaustion.
Caleb’sfacesoftens.“Ofcoursetheydid.”
“Ithinkit’llbeagoodfeature.”
“Ofcourseitwill.”Hepressesthebackofhishandagainsthismouthtostifleayawn,thenshakeshisheadlikehe’stryingtoforceawayhisownfatigue.Hereachesforahandtowelandfoldsitintoneatsquares.“Itwasgreat,Layla.EvenifBillcouldn’tkeephishandsoffofyou.”
“Will,”Icorrectwithasmallsmileandapoketohisforearm.“Andheshookmyhand.Thatwasit.”
“Itwasareallyfriendlyhandshake,”Calebinsists.
“Relax.”Iuntiemyapronfromaroundmybackandstretchoutmyneck.“You’restillstuckwithmeforanotherweek.Idon’tplanonendingourarrangementearly.”
Apartofmeisconsideringextendingourarrangement.I’vethoughtaboutitmorethanonceoverthepastweek.ButIstilldon’tknowwhatpartsofusworkwithintheparameterswe’vecreatedforourselves,andwhichpartsaretruly,genuinelyus.Istilldon’ttrustanythingthisgoodtobereal.
IglanceupandmeetCaleb’seyes,hislipstilteddowninafrown.
“Whatisit?”
Hepusheshimselfoffofthecounterandwipeshispalmsagainsthisjeans.Hestillhasn’tfixedhisshirt.“Hasitbeenthreeweeksalready?”
Inod.“Yep.Yourfinalevaluationisgoingtobearealbanger.”
Thejokelandsflatbetweenus.Ishiftuncomfortablyonmyfeetandsearchforsomethingtosaytogetridofallthisawkwardtension.“Whatdoyou—”Iwatchashetracesanaimlesslineagainstmycountertopwithhispointerfinger,facestillsetinsharpedges.“Whatdoyouhaveplannedforyourlastdate?”
Heconsidersmyquestionforfartoolong,adeepbreathcurlinghisshouldersforward.Hecollectshimselfslowly,asmileathalfofitsusualwattagenudgingthatdimpleawake.Hestopsfussingwiththestuffonmycountertopandstandstohisfullheight.
“You’llseewhenwegetthere,yeah?I’mnotgivingupmysecretsnow.”Hemeetsmyeyes.Warm,goldenbrown.Flecksofamber.Myfavoritecrinklesatthecorners.“HowaboutIstartwithgivingyoualifthome?”
Relieved,Idrapemyapronoverthehook.
“Yeah.Thatsoundsreallynice.”TWENTY-ONECALEB
Ididn’trealizeweonlyhadaweekleft.
IthinkIstoppedkeepingtrackaftertheescaperoomincident.Maybeourpicniconthebeach.It’seasyenoughtogetsweptawaybyLayla,soIdon’texactlyblamemyselffornotmarkingthedayswithabrightred“X”onthedogearedcalendartapedtothesideofmyfridge.
Idon’tknowhowIfeelaboutit.Thedeepswellofhesitationinthepitofmystomachfeelsabittoodramatic,andtheanxietyclawingatthebackofmythroatfeelsliketoomuch,too.Atthestartofthiswesaidthatthingswouldgobacktonormalbetweenus.Weagreedthattherewouldn’tbeanybadblood,but…willIbeabletostandontheothersideofhercounterthreedaysaweekandpretendeverythingisnormal?HowdoIstop…wantinghersomuch?WillIbeabletowatchhersmileandlaughandspinaroundthebakehouseandnotwanttopressmylipstotheedgeofhersmile?Feelthejoythrummingthroughher?Fanmyfingersoutbetweenhershoulderbladesandtuckherclosertome?
Laylahadjokedaboutitearlier—ourlastdatetogether.MaybeIneedtotakeastepback.Getsomeperspective.Isn’tthatwhatIamtryingtogetbetteratdoing?
Anendtoourarrangementdoesn’thavetobeabadthing.Infact,itcouldbeaverygoodthing.Maybe—maybethiscouldbethestartofanewthing.Amoreserious,intentionalthing.
I’dlovetostopthinkingaboutthewordthing
IfallbackonLayla’scouchwithahuff,mypalmsdiggingintomyeyesuntilIseespots.
IjusthavetoconvinceherthatI’mworththechance.
“What’reyouthinkingabout?”sheyellsfromherkitchen.
“Mycroissanttattoo,”Iyellback.ButreallyI’msittingonhercouchwithmyfeetproppeduponhercoffeetabletryingtofigureoutwhatsortofdatemighttipthebalanceontheLaylascaleinmyfavor.Whatsortofthingmightleaveherwantingtoreconsiderthetermsofourarrangement.
I’malsotryingnottofallasleep.Andwonderingwhynoonetoldmemyt-shirtisonbackwardsandinsideout.MyheavyeyesslipfurthershutandIreachforoneofherthrowpillows,cradlingitclosetomychest.
Thiscouchissoft.Comfortable.Warm.
It’spossiblethedayiscatchingupwithme.
I’mexhaustedandnestledintoacouchthatsmellslikewhippedcreamandsugar,hintsoffreshbakedbreadandwarmpiecrust.It’slikebeinginacloudora…dream.Itmightbeadream,actually.Itmightbemyfavoritesortofdream.
EspeciallywhenLaylapadsinfromthekitchenwithaplateineachhand.Iperkupabitandglanceattheslicesofpieshe’sholding.Questionsslipthroughmymindlikewispsofsmokeorbubblesinachampagneglass.AssoonasIcatchtheedgeofone,anotherreplacesit.Whendoesshemakeallofthisstuff?Whereisshehidingit?Isshetiredatall?
Luckily,I’mabletovoicethemostimportantone.
“Isthatblueberry?”
Ipracticallyslurthewords.Isounddrunk.Sixteenbottlesdeep.
“Itis.”Shesetstheplatesdownonthetableoutofreach.IfIhadevenanounceofenergy,I’dbereachingforthatpie.Asitis,Isprintedthelengthofthefarmtwiceovergatheringwildflowersforthebakehouseandmylegsfeelliketheyhavedecidedtocallitadayaheadoftherestofmybody.LaylacollapsesonthecouchnexttomeandallIcanmanageisasubtletiltofmybody.MyeyesslipshutandIrestmychinontopofherhead.Shecurlsintome.
“Youlooklikeyouneedanapmorethanyouneedsomepie.”
“Ialwaysneedpie,”Imumble.
Shesiftsherfingersthroughmyhair,nailsscratchingatmyscalp.Imakeanembarrassingnoisethat’spartwhimper,partgrowl.Shehuffsalaugh.
“Takeanap.Thepiewillbeherewhenyouwakeup.”
“Willyoustaywithmeforalittlebit?”Ilikethewayshefeelswithherbodynexttomine,herfingertipsworkingdownmyneckinsmooth,easyglides.
“Yeah.”ShepressesakissagainstthehollowofmythroatandIslipbotharmsaroundherwaist.“Thepiewillkeep.”
Iwakeupface-downonthecouch,oneofmylegshangingofftheedgeandachunkycableknitblanketthrownoverhalfofmybody.IcanhearLaylainthekitchenhummingalongtoasongontheradio,amumbledstringoflyricseverynowandagainthataredefinitelywrong.Sockedfeetshuffleacrossthefloor,anunevenstepthattellsmeshe’sdancing.Ortryingto,Ithink,asshethunksherkneeonacabinetwithamuffledcurse.Ismileintoathrowpillow.
Mydreamscomebacktomeinflashesofcolorandsensation.There’saheavinessinmychest,awarmcurlofwantingthatcoilstighterthelongerIlistentoLaylainthekitchen.Alickofcomfort,too,inallthesoundsandsmellsthatfillherhome—intheplaceshe’scarvedoutformeinit.Thesimplejoyoflisteningtoanotherpersoninhabitthespacearoundme.
Laylahumsalittlelouder—justslightlyoffkey—andsomeofthelonelinessthatfeelslikeaconstantcompanioneases.Aknotunravelsaroundmyheart
Ileanupontomyelbowsanddragmyhandovermyface.Theshufflinginthekitchenstops.
“Hey,”shesays,asmileinhervoiceasshepopsherheadintomylineofsight.“You’reawake.”
“AmI?”
Myvoicesoundslikesandpaper.Itdoesn’tfeellikeI’mawake.ItfeelslikeI’mstillcaughtinadream.Isitupandyawnsowidemyjawcracks.
Layla’slaughiswarmandeasyasshemovesaroundthetallcounterthatseparatesherkitchenfromthelivingroom.ShemusthavechangedwhileIwasasleep.Tiny,soft-lookingshortsandanoversizedt-shirtthatfallsoffofoneshoulder.Someflouronherelbowandsomethingthatlookslikestrawberryjamonherjaw.Myhearthitsdouble-time.
“Youare,infact,awake,”shetellsme.Shestopsrightinfrontofmyslightlypartedlegs,oneofherbarefeettappingatmyshin.“Doyouwantyourpienow?”
It’sthetemptationofallherbareskin—maybethementionofpie.Idon’tknow.Idon’twantthepieatall.IonlywantLaylaandherlaughandhersmileandherhazeleyesshiningbrightwithhappinessinthiscozylittlehouse.Iwanttheflouronherhandsstreakingthroughmyhair,maybethatstrawberryjamonmytongue.
Sheswaysfurtherintomeandmyhandsfindthewarmskinbehindherknees,fingertipstracingtwinfigureeights.Oneofherlegsbucklesandshegripsmyshoulders.
“Caleb.”
“Hm?”
“Whatareyoudoing?”
I’mtryingtoholdmyselftogether,butI’mfrayinginthemiddle.EverymomentIspendinherspace,Ionlywanthermore.Ionlylikehermore.Irunmyhandsupanddownthebackofherlegs,alittlehigherwitheverypass.Howhaven’tIbeentouchinghereverymomentofeveryday?Myrestraintdeservesanaward.Mynameinlightsabovethebackcounteratthebakehouse.Maybeoneofthoselittlegoldenplaquestheyselldownatthepawnshop.
IdropmyheadagainstherchestandshecardsherfingersthroughmyhairinthatwayIlovesomuch.
“Wereyoubaking?”Iask,myvoicemuffledbythematerialofhershirt.Shesmellslikecleandetergentandbrownsugar.Iwanttoliveinthisexactspotfortherestofmylife.
Shehedges.“Maybe.”
“Doyougettiredofbakingthings?”Irubthehemofhershortsbetweenmythumbandforefinger.Gray.Somesortofsweatshirtmaterial.Iwanttosinkmyteethintothewaistbandandtug.
“Notreally.”Shepausesandconsiders.“Well,sometimes.Ifit’sjustformyself,Ican’tmusterthemotivation.”Shemakesasmall,interestedsoundinthebackofherthroatasIcurlmyhandaroundherthigh,myknucklesedgingunderthehemofhershorts.Isqueezepossessively.“Butyou’rehere,”shebreathesonanexhale.
Inod.Istillhaven’tmovedmyfacefromherchest.Inuzzleatthecurveofherbreastthroughhershirtandsheshiftsonherfeet.Ican’tfigureoutifshe’swearingabra.
“Whatwereyoumaking?”
“What?”
“Justnow,whatwereyouworkingon?”Idragmychindownhersternum,teethbarelygrazingthesoftswellofher.
Nope.She’snotwearingabra.
“Oh.”Herbackarchestowardsmymouth.“Jellythumbprintcookies.”
Igroan.Ican’thelpit.SomethingaboutLaylaandcookies.Herlaughishuskyandknowing.
Shetipsherheaddownuntilhermouthisrightatmyear.“Marmalade,”shewhispers.Goosebumpseruptalongmyarms.Ishiver.“Shortbread,”shesays,slower.
Shemakesahigh-pitchedsqueakingsoundasIstandfromthecouch,myhandsjustbelowthecurveofherassandherlegshigharoundmyhips.Iconsiderthewallbyherwindow,thenthecountertopstillcoveredwithflourandalittlejaroforangemarmalade.NeitheroptionwillworkforwhatIwantwithher,butthere’saninterestingideaonthetipofmytongueforthespoonrestingacrossthehalf-openlid.Iwantmorespacethanthecountertopwillgiveme.Iwanttotakemytime.
“CanImakeyoucomeagain?”Thequestionslipsoutofme,morebluntthanIliketobe.Butneedhasmefrantic,handsshakingandmouthworkingatherneckinbetweeneverygaspedword.LayladropsherheadbackwithapantandIgiveintotemptation,pressingherupagainstthewallatthestartofhershorthallway.Oneofherframesrattles,andshegrabsmyjawwithherhandtoguidemymouthtohers.Ourkissismessy.Hotandwetanddesperate.There’snothingelseIwantmorethantosinktomykneesonthiscolorful,plushrugandhookherthighovermyshoulder.Iwanttoknowwhatshetasteslike,whatshesoundslike,whatshelookslikecompletelybareintheglowofthelateafternoonsun.
LaylastillhassomanysecretsthatIhaven’tuncovered.
Inoseatheroversizedt-shirtandbracketherhipswithmyhands.ShekeepswigglingagainstmeandIcan’t—Ican’tthink.IcanonlyrememberthelasttimeIhadherthisclosetome.Thesoundsshemadewithmybodybetweenherlegs.Thecolorinhercheeksasshegotcloserandclosertowhatsheneeded.
Weonlyhaveoneweeklefttogether,andIintendtomakethemostofit.
Icupherbreaststhroughhert-shirtandrubmythumbsoverhernipples.Herheaddropsbackagainstthewallandshedrapesherarmsovermyshoulders,watchingmewithlazyeyes.
“Whatkindofdreamswereyouhavingonmycouch?”shesighsout.
Ismileandslipmyhandsunderneathhershirt,thefabricbunchingatmywrists.Idon’tmovethem,Ijustfeelthewarmthofherskinagainstmypalms.Itrytomemorizethismoment,whenshe’slookingatmelikeI’msomeoneshecouldwant.
“Goodones,”Ianswer.
“Hm,feelfreetoelaborate.”
“Well.”IpullusawayfromthewallandmoveinthedirectionofwhatIassumeisherbedroom.“Therewerethumbprintcookies.”
ShelaughsasIopenthefirstdoorontheleftsideofthehallandalmostdumpherintoacollectionofwintercoats.ShedragsherteethacrossmycollarboneandIcanfeelhersmileagainstmyskin.“That’soddlyspecific.Anythingelsehappeninginthatdreamofyours?”
“Marmalade,”Itellher.Shelaughsagain,huskyandrich.“Shortbread.”
ItryanotherdoorandI’mgreetedbyapalepinkshowercurtain—atidyrowofplantsonalowshelfbelowafrostedwindow.Mygazesnagsonaninterestingpieceoflacedanglingfromthecurtainrod.SomethingwithstrapsandthesmallestbowI’veeverseen,rightinthemiddle.
Istareatitforonesecond,two,asLaylasucksatmyneck.Hercleverhandssneakintothewaistbandofmyjeansandmypatienceevaporates.
“Layla.”Ireadjustherinmygripandcuffherwristswithoneofmyhands.Ineedhertostoptouchingmeorthisisgoingtoendtheexactsamewayitdidlasttime.Horrificallyquickandembarrassing,ifnotalsowildlysatisfying.
AheavyglintofinterestshinesinhereyesandIarchaneyebrow,squeezingherwristsjusttheslightestbittighter.Herbackarcheswiththeangleandhercheeksflushcrimson.
Ibrushakissoverthecurveofherjaw.
“Ineedyoutotellmewhereyourbedroomis.”
“Lastdoorontheright,”shepants.
IreleaseLayla’shandsandchargeinthatdirection,bothofherarmswrappedtightaroundmyshoulders.We’rekissingagain,herhungrysoundscaughtonthetipofmytongue,pressedagainstmyteeth.Isliponeofmyhandsupthebackofhershorts,nothingbutsmoothskinandthethinneststrapI’veeverfeltinmylifegreetingmytouch.
DesireburnslikeawildfirethroughmeandIpracticallykickinthedoortoherbedroom.Itbouncesoffthewallwhereshehasanothercollectionofmismatchedframes.ApictureofherandStellaandBeckettthatIbarelyglanceat.Whileherlivingroomwasacollectionofcolor,herbedroomissimpleandwelcoming.Abigbedwithafluffycomforter,asmallmountainofpillowsstackedneatlyagainsttheheadboard.Whiteandcreamandtaupeandoatmeal.Wetumbleintothebedtogetherandit’slikefallingintoacloud.Liketwistingaroundandaroundinoneofthosecottoncandyspinners,stickysweetnessclingingtomyskin.
Ibracemyselfwithmyarmsplantedbyhershoulders,hersmilewideasshebeamsupatme.SheisthemostlovelythingI’veeverseen.Ifingeralockofherhairandtuckitbehindherear
“Whatdoyouwant,Layla?”
Itellmyselfthatbyaskingher,I’mtryingtoholdontothesafetyvestofourrelationship.Thisissupposedtohelphervocalizewhatshewantsandneedsinbed.ButreallyIjustwanttowatchdesirepaintcolorsoverherskin.Iwanttowatchherlipsformthewordsandhearindetailallthethingsshewantsmetodotoher.
“Well.”Herhandsslipundermyshirt,nailsscratchinglightlyatmytorso.“Ilikedwhatyouaskedmeinthelivingroom,tostart.”
WhenIaskedifIcouldmakehercome.MywholebodyflusheshotandIgiveintoherpullingonmyclothesandletherdragmyshirtupandovermyhead.Shethrowsitsomewhereinthecornerofherroom,palmstracingupanddownmytorso.Hertonguelicksatthecornerofhermouthandhereyesshineliketwingemstones.
“Howdoyouwanttocome?”Iurgeherchinupandpressakisstoherbottomlip.IsuckitintomymouthandIdragmythumbdownherthroatandhookitintothetopofheroversizedt-shirt.“Myhands?”Islipmywholehandinsidethecollarofhershirtandpalmherbarebreast.“Mymouth?”
AdeepbreathrattlesoutofherandsheshiftsherlegswiderbeneathmeuntilI’mcradledbetweenheropenthighs,myerectionthickandheavywhereshe’ssoftandwarm.
“Timeforanotherconfession,”shegaspsasIpinchathernipple,legsshiftingagainstmyhips.“Noonehasever—I’veneverhadsomeonegodownonmebefore.”
Idropmyforeheadagainsthercollarbonewithagroan.ThethoughtthatIcouldbethefirsttoknowherlikethat—theonlyonetoevermakehercomewithmyheadbetweenherlegs,I’m—
I’mbreathless.Mindless.Overwhelmedwiththeneedtotouchandtaste.
Myhandsflex.“Isthatsomethingyouwant?”
“I’mnotsure,”shewhispers.“IthinkIdo.”
IpushupuntilI’monmykneesinfrontofher,handsatherhipsandmythumbsdippingbelowthewaistbandofhertiny,distractingshorts.
“Wecouldtry,”Ioffer.“Justlikebefore.Wecanfigureoutwhatyouliketogether.”
ShegivesmeanodandIpullhershortsdownanotherincrementalinch.HershirtisruckeduparoundherbellybuttonandallIcanseeissmooth,paleskin.Thedipbetweenherwaistandherhip.Theveryedgeofherlilacunderwearandapeekofink,rightbelowherhipbone.MymouthgoesdryandIpullhershortsdowntogetabetterlook.
Atattoo,nobiggerthanahalf-dollar.Awhiskandakitchenknifecrossedtogetherandsurroundedbyawreathofflowers.Thesmalltattooisplacedrightbelowherhipbone,onthegentleslopealongtheinsideofherthigh.Itraceoveritwithmythumb,thedelicatelinesraisedbeneathmytouch,andherwholebodyrelaxesbeneathmytouch.
“Novadidit,”sheexplains.“Iwantedtogetsomethingjustforme.”
IleandownbetweenheropenlegsuntilIcanpressmymouthtoit.Ikissitonce.Twice.Onmythirdkiss,Igiveintotemptationandlavemytongueagainsttheink.Isealmyteetharounditandbite.
“Nooneelsehasseenit?”
Sheshrugsandtiltsherheadagainstthepillow.Irestmychinagainsttheinsideofherthigh.Iwantustohaveeveryconversationexactlylikethis.Herfingersinmyhair,thescratchofhernailssoothingalongmyscalp.“Nooneelsehascommentedonit.ButIguessnoonehaseverlookedatmethewayyoudo.”
“Good.”Iscrapemyteethalongtheedgeofitagainandsheliftsherhipsintome.“Thenit’ssomethingjustforyou—andalittleforme,too.”
Shemakesasound—pleased,Ithink—asIdraghershortstherestofthewaydownherlegs.Ileaveherprettypurpleunderwearrightwhereitis,laceandsatinandanotherimpossiblysmallbowrightontop.Icanseethejutofhernipplesthroughthethinmaterialofhert-shirt,herchestheaving.Ittakeseveryounceofmyrestraintnottoripeverythingoffofherandfollowherdownintoherpillows.
Iinhalethroughmynoseandtrytoslowmyselfdown.Layladeservespatience,notmeruttingherdownintothemattresslikeamaniac.Iwanttoknowher.Learnher.Understandallthethingsthatmakeherpantandshiverandshake.
“Thesearenice.”Idragmythumbacrossthethinbandatherhipandfollowthelineofherunderwearacrossthetoptothesmallbowinthemiddle.Istopthereandtwistmyhand.Idragmythumbstraightdownthemiddleofher.Icanalreadyfeelhowwetsheisthroughthethinmaterial.Howwarm.Idoitagainandreachformyjeanswithmyfreehand,undoingthetopbutton.
“Ilikenicethings,”shesays,staringhardatwheremybriefspeekoutfrombeneathmywaistband.
“Youdeservenicethings,”Itellherwithalaughinmyvoice.Ifshewantsthatnicething,shecanhaveit,too.ButIwanttomakehercomefirst,justlikesheasked.Iholdsteadywithmyhandonher,gentleswipesofmythumbbetweenherlegs.Itraceeveryinchofheruntilherarmisflungoverherfaceandshe’schasingmytouchwithsmoothrollsofherhips.
Pretty.She’ssofuckingpretty.
“Caleb.”
Ibrushakissagainsttheinsideofherknee.“Hm?”
“Areyougoingto—”Sheletsherquestiontrailoffintoasoftmoan.
“What?”
“Youknow.”
“Idon’tknowifyoudon’taskme.”Imovemykisseshighertothesmoothstretchofherthigh.“Didn’tyoutellmeyouliketobeteased?”
“Isthatwhatyou’redoing?”
Sortof.MainlyI’mtryingnottogotoofast.IwantthismomentwithLaylatolast.Iwanttorememberwhatshelookslikeexactlylikethis—long,lazylimbsandbareskin.Pinkcheeksandhereyesonme.Allofthesenewandsecretpiecesofherselfthatshe’sentrustingtome.
Ipressatherhipandsheliftsherknee,tiltingherlegsopenwider.Aninvitation.“You’resupposedtotellmewhatyouwant,remember?”
Herarmshiftsandshepeeksonehazeleyedownatme.Herlipsarecurledattheedges.Irewardherwithakissrightwhereherthighmeetsherhipandshemakesanothersoft,sweetsound.
“YoucantellmewhatyouneedandI’llgiveittoyou.”Iaddanotherkisshigher,lightandeasy,rightoverherunderwear.Shetiltsherhipsupwithasigh.“I’llbehappytogiveittoyou.”
Herarmslipsbackoverherhead,twistingwithherhairagainstthepillows.Shestaresdownatme,faceopen.
“Iwantyourmouthonme,”shewhispers.
Ibrushakissagainstherthigh,arewardforherhonesty.“Where?”
Myvoiceisallgrit,acommandfromsomewheredeepinmychest.Iwanttoknowexactlywhatshewants.Iwanthertoask.Iwanttohearthewords.
“Caleb,please.”
Islipmythumbsunderthewaistbandofherunderwearandsnapitagainstherskin.ShehuffsafrustratedsoundandIgrin.Iliketeasingherthisway,too.Hearingherbegjustalittle.
“Where,Layla?”
Sheleansuponherelbowsandhuffsafrustratedbreath.“Youknow,ifyou’regoingtobedifficult,Icanjustdoitmyself.”
Heatlicksdownmyspineandsettlesheavybetweenmylegs.ThethoughtofLaylatouchingherselfwhileIwatch—Iswallowagainsttheheadyrushofwanting.Herferociousscowldimsandabrushofpinklightsuphercheeks.
“Maybethat’snotthethreatIthoughtitwas,”shesaysfaintly.
“No,”Imanagethroughathroatthatsuddenlyfeelsbonedry.“No,it’sreallynot.”Acascadeofpossibilitiesslipthroughmymind.Butone—onehasmybreathcomingshort,herskinatemptationhalf-an-inchawayfrommylips.Itearmyselfawayandcrawlupherbodyuntilmyhandsareplantedbyhershoulders.Ihovertherewithmynoseagainsthercheekandmymouthagainstthecornerofhers.Idragakissagainsttheswellofherbottomlipandthencatchitwithmyteeth.ItuguntilshemoansandleveragemyselfupsoIcanseethelengthofherspreadoutagainstthesheets.Bareskin,legstippedopen.Eyesheavyandastrandofhair,stucktoherneck.
God,she’sbeautiful.
“Couldyoushowme,Layla?Couldyoushowmewhatyoulike?”TWENTY-TWOLAYLA
IstaredownmybodyatCaleb,shirtlessandkneelingbetweenmythighs.Waitingformyanswer.Helookspositivelyindecentlikethis.Tan,broadchest.Thebuttonofhisjeansundone.Thestrongcutofhishipwhereitdisappearsbelowthehem.Darkeyesandswollenlips.
Ihadadreamlikethisfourdaysago.Inmydream,hecameupbehindmewhileIwasmixingcookiedoughandslidhishandinthecollarofmydress.Hecuppedmybreastwithhismouthatmyneck,fingerspinchingandplucking.Hewaswearinganapronandnothingelse,I’mprettysure.Therewaschocolatesauceinvolved.
Thisisbetter.Histonguelicksathisbottomlipashiseyesblazeapathfrommyforeheadtomyexposedbellybuttonandthetwistedlineofmyunderwearbeneath.Hiseyescatchandsparklikeembersinacampfire.
Thisissomuchbetter.
Isquirmagainsthim.“What?”
“YouheardwhatIsaid.”Hisfirmtonemakesmybloodrunabithotter.Hishandsglideovermythighs,fingersspreadoutwidelikehe’stryingtocoverasmuchskinaspossible.I’mnotevensureherealizeshe’sdoingit.Hisgazeisfixedfirmlyonmine.“Canyoushowmehowyoutouchyourself?”
Ishiftmybarelegsagainsttheblankets.It’sonethingtowhisperthingsintheheatofthemoment,anothertoshowhimintheafternoonsundriftingthroughmycurtainshowIliketobetouched.Hiseyessoftenthelongerhelooksatme,heatandneedreplacedwithgentleaffection.
Asmiletipsthecornerofhismouthasheducksdownandnudgesmynosewithhis.“You’resafewithme,remember?Wecandoanythingyouwantornothingatall.Wecanstoprightnow.”
Inod,barelybrushinghismouthwithmine.Itesthimwithmyfingersagainsttheskinofmybellyandhisgazesticksthere,watching.Iclearmythroatandhedragshisgazebacktominewithsignificantreluctance.Ilikeit,Irealize.Ilikethewayhe’slookingatme,likeI’meverythinghecouldpossiblywant.Likehewouldbehappywithjustthis,sittingontheedgeofmybedandlearningwhatsortoftouchIlikethebest.
It’senoughformetoshakeofftherestofmyhesitation.
Myhanddriftslower.
“Weneverhavetodoanythingyoudon’twanttodo,”hetellsme.It’slikethatwithCaleb,anebbandflowbetweencontrolandrelease.Demandanddesire.Thebestsortofdance.
“Iknow.”
“Wecangobacktothekitchen.Havesomeofthatpie.”
Ibitemycheekagainstasmile.“Let’sstayhere.”
Iwantthis.Iwanttoexploreallthewayshemakesmefeeldifferent—makesmefeelbetter—thananyoneelseeverhasbefore.Iwanttowatchthewayhisjawclenchesasmyhandmovesagainstmybody.Iwanttowatchhiseyesflashashadedarkerandthemusclesinhisarmsjump.Iwanttounravelhim,bitbybit.Testthatmeticulouscontrolofhis.
IwanthimtobejustasoverwhelmedasIfeel,abuzzingbeneathmyskinandanachelowinmybelly.Likewe’reteeteringontheprecipice.
“Alright,”hewhispers.Histhumbtraceslightlyagainstmythighandthenhepullshishandsawayfrommecompletely.Hekneelsonmybedandsqueezeshishandaroundthebackofhisneck.Amanwrestlingwithhiscontrol.
Oh,Ilikeitsomuch.
Ipullattheedgeofmyshirtandthendragitupagain.Idon’tknowifIshouldtakeitoff,orkeepiton.Forallmyenthusiasm,Iactuallyhavenoideawheretostart.“ShouldIjust—”
Calebisfixatedonthethreeinchesofskinbetweenmybellybuttonandthehemofmyunderwear,butheblinksbacktowardsmyfacewhenhehearsthehesitationinmyvoice.Asmilestartsinthelinesbyhiseyesandhereleaseshisneck.
“Closeyoureyes,”hetellsme.Iarchaneyebrowandhegivesmeahalf-smile,hisdimpleblinkingtolifeinhischeek.Hedragstwoknucklesovermykneeandupmythigh.Backdownagain.“Closeyoureyes,Layla.”
Ihuff,thatdamnfirmtonemakingmyinsidesflutteragain.“You’rebossierthanyouleton.”
Hislaughisadark,wickedthing—warmairagainstmyneckasheleansbackoverme.“Youhavenoidea.”
Hedoesn’tgivemetimetothinkaboutthatinterestinglittlestatement.Hejustleansforwardandcatchesmymouthwithhis.HelicksintomelikeI’mthatblueberrypieIleftonmycoffeetable.Deep.Devouring.Consuming.MyeyesslipshutandIkisshimbackjustashungrily.
It’seasiertofollowhisdirectionslikethis.Toturnoffthepartofmybrainthatisstillriddledwithanxietyfromthismorning.ThepartthatisturningovertheconsequencesofthisthingI’mdoingwithCaleb,examiningeveryangle,overandoveragain.HekissesmeandIdon’tcareaboutasinglethingexcepthismouthonmine,hispalmatthebackofmyneckandhiswarm,bareskinpressingmedownintothebed.
“Ithought—”CalebmoveshismouthtomyneckandIarchbeneathhim,myfingersfindingthebeltloopsathiships.Itugonthemandtrytopullhimcloser.“IthoughtIwassupposedtobetouchingmyself.”
“You’rewelcometostartwheneveryou’dlike.”Caleblaughs,softandwarm.Itfeelslikethefirstblastofheatfromtheoven,whenI’mtooimpatientandIcrackopenthedoortogetapeekatwhat’sinside.
“Youcan,too,”Ibreathe.“Touchme,Imean.”
Henudgesbelowmyearwithhisnose,hisexhalelongandslow.Hesoundslikehe’sgatheringhimself.Likehe’sbarelyholdingthepiecesofhimselftogether,actually.“Noted.Butyougoaheadandstartforme,yeah?”
Ireachbetweenusanddragthepalmofmyhandovermybreast,justbarelygrazingmynipplethroughthesoftmaterialofmyshirt.ThealmostinnocenttouchfeelselectricwithCaleb’seyesonme,apulseofslow-rollingheatthatsettlesbetweenmylegswithahollowache.
Idoitagain,lingeringwithagentlepinch,andCalebgruntslikeI’vepunchedhiminthechest.
“More,”hetellsme.
“Greedy.”Ismileandkeepmyeyesclosed.“I’llbegoingatmyownpace,thankyouverymuch.”
Hehuffs.“IfeellikeI’mtheonebeingteasednow.”Hiswordsareclipped,short.
“Mmhmm.”MylefthandleavestheloopathiswaistandIslipitbeneathmyshirt,cuppingmybarebreast.Idragmythumbbackandforth—forgetting,almost—aboutmyverycaptiveaudience.ThisishowItouchmyselfwhenI’maloneatnight.WhenthewantingandthewaitingandthelonelinessgettobetoomuchandIpretendmyhandbelongstosomeoneelse.MybreathhitchesandCalebshiftsaboveme,thesheetsrustlingwithhismovement.Ifeelhispalmatmyside,hisfingertipsglancingalongmyribsasheinchesmyshirtup.
“CanIsee?”Inodandhedragsmyshirthigher.“CanIwatchwhatyoudotoyourself,Layla?”
“Yes.”
IliebeneathCalebwithmyeyesclosedandlistentothepatternofhisbreathingasItouchmyself.IgripmybreastsjustthewayIlike,teasingtouchesandlightcircles.Ipinchatmynippleandmybackarches,mykneesspreadingandpressingintoCaleb,balancedaboveme.Hecatchesmylegandholdsitthere,histhumbtracingalinedownthebackofmykneethatfeelslikeit’srightagainstmyclit.Iblinkmyeyesopenand—oh.Oh.Watchinghimwatchingmeissomuchbetter.
Helooksabsolutelywrecked.Hisjeansaretuggeddownlow,lowerthantheywerebefore,likeimpatienthandswerenudgingthemdown.Hisbodyisallleanlines,smoothmuscleandwarm,tanskin.HiszipperisundoneandIcanseetheedgeofhisblackboxerbriefs,thecrispwhitebandaroundhiships.Adustingofdarkhairjustbelowhisbellybutton.Mygazedipslowertowhereheishardandstrainingandafiercetugofneedgripsatme.
“Touchbetweenyourlegs,”hetellsme,hisvoicelow.“Showmethere,too.”
IslipmyhandbeneathmyunderwearandIlastonestroke,two,beforeI’mreachingforCalebwithmyotherhand.Icurlmyhandinthehemofhisjeansandpull.
“Yourmouth,”Ipant.Hiseyessnaptomineandhold.“Iwantyourmouthonme.Please.”
“Ah,Layla.”Hepracticallycollapsesontopofmeanddragshisteethovermytinytattoo—brusheshislipsfromhiptohipanduseshisshoulderstoedgemylegsfurtherapart.Mybodyburnsliquid,velvethot.“Youneverneedtosaypleasetome.Butfuck.Iloveitwhenyoudo.”
Thefirsttouchofhismouthovermehasmylegsscramblingagainstthesheets,heelsdiggingintothemattressasItrytogroundmyself.Hismouthfeelsincredible.LikenothingI’veeverfeltbefore.Hecatchesmyhipsinhishandsandholdsmeagainstmybedashelicksmethroughmyunderwear,slowandthoroughandfuckingdivine.
Hedropshisforeheadagainstmybellybuttonandpantsanunevenbreath.“Layla,”hesays,andstopsthere.Hishandsonmyhipssqueeze,fingerstanglinginsatin.“CanItaketheseoff?”
“Yes.Yes,Iwantthat.”
It’saflurryoflimbsandmotionasCalebtugsmyunderweardownmylegsandtwiststhemthroughhisfingers.Iwatchasheshovestheminhisbackpocket—likeIwon’tnoticelaterthathe’spocketedsomeofmymostexpensiveunderwear.ButIdon’tcare.Idon’tcare,Idon’tcare,Idon’tcarebecausehewrapshishandaroundmyankleandurgesmylegswide,hisbigbodysinkingbetweenthem.Iwatchashisdarkheadbowsoverme,theblushalongthetipsofhisears.Howhishandsflexandretractagainstmyskin.
Hemakesalowgruntofappreciationashismouthfindsmeagainandeveryparticleinmybodylightsup.Pleasure—hotandwetandsilkysmooth.Iclenchmyhandsinhishairandgrindmyselfagainsthisgreedymouth,tinylittlerockingmovementsthatmakeeverythingfeelmoreincredible.
Mymoanchokesoutofme.“Ohmygod,Caleb.”
I’veneverfeltanythinglikethis.Notever.Wet,suckingkissesagainstme,everystrokeofhistonguedeliberateandrough.JustthewayIlikeit.JustthewayIshowedhim.
“That’sit,”hemumblesagainsttheinsideofmythigh,handpalmingattheswellofmyass,thumbreachingtothecreaseofmyhipwheremytattoois.Hetracesitwithhisthumbrightashebitesdownagainstmylegwithhisteeth.“Showmelikethis,too.Takewhatyouneed.”
Ido.CalebgivesandItakeandItakeandItakeuntilmywholebodyisshiveringbeneathhismouth,mythighspressedtighttohisears.IrollmyhipsandchasethatstardustfeelinguntilI’mstrungtightwithit—vibrating,reaching,climbingcloserandclosertothatedgeIsorarelygettofind—
AndthenCalebpullsaway.Chestheaving,hedropshisforeheadagainstmyhipandreachesbetweenhislegs.HishanddipsintheopenmaterialofhisjeansandIwatchashestrokeshimselfonceandgroans.
“Wh—what?”Myvoicesoundssevenoctaveshigherthanusual,breathyandthin.“Caleb,whatareyou—”
“Shh.”Hepullshishandoutofhisjeansandsmoothshisthumbovermyribs,risinghigherandbrushingovermybreast.“I’mgoingtogetyouthere,sweetheart.Ipromise.”
“Whydidyoustop?”
Hecrawlsupmybody,droppingkisseslikesecretsalongtheway.Theticklishspotonmylefthip,thesmatteringoffrecklesthatclusterbetweenmybreasts,thecurveofmyshoulder,andthedipinmychin.Eachonefeelsliketouchingtheedgeofanexposedwire,alickofelectricheatfrommyfingertipstomyelbow.Mypleasuresharpens.
“Caleb.”
“It’sbetterthisway,sometimes.”Hismouthishotonmyneck.“Whenyou’rebroughttotheedgeandkeptwaiting.”
“Idon’twannawait,”Iwhine.I’mtryingtopullthemoststubbornmanalivedownontopofme.“I’vewaitedenough.”
Hechucklessomewhereagainstmycollarbone.“Alright.”HebrusheshislipstothecornerofmymouthandImoanwhenItastemyselfonhim.Hemakesasound,too.Somethinglowanddeepandwarm.I’mgoingtobehearingthatsoundeverytimeheordersacroissantontheoppositesideofmycounterfortherestofforever.“You’reright.I’mbeingrude.”
Heslipshishandbackbetweenmythighsandmybackarchesupoffthemattressagain,heatrushingthroughmychestandtuggingmeunder.Histhumbstrokesmyclitashismouthhoversovermine,onefingerandthentwoslippinginside.
“Ican’tbelieve—”Hebitesatmybottomlipandsucksitintohismouth.Igrabfranticallyathisshoulders.“Ican’tbelieveIgettobeherewithyou,”hebreathes,atouchofwonderinhisvoice.“Ican’tbelieveIgettotouchyoulikethis.”
Ican’tbelievewe’vebeendoinganythingotherthanthis.It’ssogoodbetweenus—betterthanIevercouldhaveimagined.BetterthanIhaveimaginedeverynightforthepasttwoweeks,aloneinthedarkofmybedroom—hislaughandhissmileandthatdamnedHawaiianshirtflickeringthroughmymind.
Theedgerisesfasterthistime,mybodyshudderingbeneatheverydeliberatestroke.Ibreathehisname,ourbodiesrockingtogether.
Andthenhestops.Again.
MynailssinkintohisshoulderandImakeagarbledsound.Myeyesclenchshutasthethrobbingbetweenmylegsintensifies.CalebtriestopullawaybutIclingtohimtighter,tryingtorollmyhipsagainsthishand.
“Caleb.”Myvoiceisabrokenwhisper.“Idon’twanttobeteasedanymore.”
“Thatwasn’tforyou,”hetellsmequietly,abashfulsmileinhisvoice.Icanpicturethelookonhisface,alittlebemusedandalittleshy.Atwisttohislipsandpinkonhischeeks.“Thatwasforme.I—Ineedasecond.”
Ipushmyhipsup.“Makeitaquicksecond.”
Alaughrumblesoutofhimandhisthumbswipesagainstmeonce.Groanscatchinbothofourthroats.“Yousureyoudon’twanttobeteasedanymore?”
Ishakemyhead.
“Whatdoyouwant,then?”Histhumbrollsovermeandmylegstipopen.Hehuffsasatisfiedsound,rightintheshellofmyear,andthencatchesitbetweenhisteeth.Hishandmovesslower,harder,andIfeelmyselfstarttoclimbagain.
“Iwanttocome,”Iwhisperintothehotskinofhisneck.Idragmyteethoverthecolumnofhisthroatandclingtohim.
Hesighs,satisfied,andbeginstoworkmeharder.HedrivesmerightbackuptowhereIwasbeforehestoppedandthenhigherstill.Somewherewiththesunandthecloudsandallofthestars.Amillionwishesdancinglikecometsinthesky.
“Sogood,Layla.”HepinchesmynippleintheexactwayIshowedhimandIbegintocrumble.Deep,heavingbreathslikeIcan’tquitegetenoughairintomylungs.“You’redoingso,sogood.Suchagoodgirlforme,sweetheart.”
Twowords—goodgirl—andmyorgasmrushesupandoverme.Itumblebeneaththewaveofit,mynailsdiggingintothesmallofCaleb’sback,myentirebodydrenchedinwarm,goldenlight.IcanfeeleveryplaceCalebistouchingmeasmyorgasmstealsmybreath.Hismouth,justabovemine.Hishipstuckedagainstmythighandhisfingersbetweenmylegs,stillmovingslowly,pullingeverylastbitofpleasureoutofme.Imovewithhimastheheatandthetenderpulseofitechoesandspreads.
“Caleb,”Igasp.Icurlmyhandaroundhisjawandguidehismouthtomine.Hekissesmewithawarmlaugh,theedgesofhissmilebitingagainstmine.
“Yeah?”
Ihum,satedandalittlelimp.“Thatwasnice.”
Hishipsnudgeagainstmythighashesettlesatmyside.Hecurlshisarmunderapillowandhe’ssobeautifulIcanhardlystandit.Rosycheeks.Hairallovertheplace.AnimpressionofmyteethagainsthiscollarboneIdon’trememberleaving.
“Icertainlyhopeitwasbetterthannice.”
“Itwasverynice,”Iamend.“Cream-cheese-frostingnice.Brownie-in-the-middle-of-the-pannice.”
Henuzzleshisnoseinmyshoulderandslipshishandovermybelly.“Butter-croissantnice?”
Buttercroissants.Thenot-so-specialthingImakeeverysingledaythatCaleborderswithoutfailthreedaysaweek.Thethinghe’salwayswanted.Ascaletipsinmychestandsomethingpluckstight.Iblinktwiceatthescratchyfeelingbehindmyeyes.
“Butter-croissantnice,”Iagree,myvoicealittlebitrough.Hemovesagainstmeagain,gettingcomfortableinallofmypillowsandblankets.HishipstwitchforwardandIfeelhim,stillheavyandhardagainstmyleg.Myhandslipsdownhissideandtoyswiththebandofhisunderwear.Hesucksinasharpbreath.“Caleb?”
Hiseyesareclosed,alittlefurrowbetweenhisbrows.“Hm?”
“WhatcanIdo?”
Hiseyesopen—abrilliant,shimmeringgold.Pupilsblownwidewithwant.“Aboutwhat?”
Irollontomysideandtraceasinglefingerdownthethicklineofhiserectionthroughhisjeans,mymouthathisneck.“Aboutthis.”
Hegroans,hipsflexingintomytouch.Heplaceshishandovermineandsqueezes,guidingmytouch.Roughandslow,mypalmgrazesthehairbelowhisbellybuttononeveryupwardstroke.
“Howaboutthistime,”Iwhisperagainsthisskin.Itugatthewaistofhisjeans,pullingthemlower.“Howaboutthistimeyoushowmewhatyoulike.”
It’sexactlywhatI’vebeenthinkingaboutsincehepushedmedownintomysofaandheldmyhandsabovemyhead.Sincehemademecomewithallmyclothesstillon.Ipushathisshoulderandwerolltogether,mykneesoneithersideofhiships.Hegazesupatmefrommytangledbedsheets.
“Layla.”Heswallowsaroundthesoundofmyname,histhroatbobbing.HishandssqueezeatmyhipsasIfightwiththezipperofhisjeans.“Wedon’tneedtodoanythingelse.Ican—I’llprobablycomeinthreeseconds,ifyoukeepdoingexactlywhatyou’redoing.”
Iguesshemeansmyknucklesdraggingagainsthiserectioninstilted,unevenmovementsasIurgehisjeanslower.Ireachmyhandintohisboxersandwrapmyfingersaroundhim—hotandhardanddeliciouslybig.Hegroansanddropshisheadbackagainstmypillow,eyessqueezedshut.
“Idon’twantyoutocomeinthreeseconds,”Iwhisper.Istrokeup,themovementfrustratinglyrestrictedbyhisdamnedjeansstillaroundhisdamnedhips.“Iwantmorewithyou.Didn’tyousayyoulikedtohearwhatIwant?”
Hiseyesopentotwinnarrowslits.“Idid.”
“Thentrustme.”Ifinallywrenchhispantsdowntohisthighsandhekicksthemtherestofthewayoff.I’mprettysuretheylandonthelampbymycloset.Idonotcare.“ThisiswhatIwant.”
Jawclenched,handsclenched,everymuscleinhisbodyclenched—Calebstaresatmewithdarkeyes.“Isitthearrangement?”
Irollmyhipsagainsthisandwebothgroan.“What?”
“IfI’mgoingtofuckyou,Layla,”thewordsgrindoutofhim,roughandtight.“Itwon’tbebecauseofanylessonsorarrangements.It’llbebecauseyouwantme,andIwantyou.”
Ibreatheout,fingersinchingbelowtheelasticofhisbriefs.That’saneasyenoughsolution.“Well,Iwantyou.Doyouwantme?”
HeflipsmebeforeIevenrealizehisintention,hisbodyheavyovermineandhishandcuppedgentlyagainstmyface.Hetraceshisthumbfromthecornerofmyeyedowntomyjaw.Hepressesonegentlekissagainstmylipsandleansback.Bothofus,balancedontheedgeofmore.
Myfavoritehalf-smilehitchesatthecornerofhismouth.Hisdimplesappearonbothsides.“Don’taskquestionsyoualreadyknowtheanswerto.”
Idon’tthinkI’veeverhadsexlikethisbefore.
Honestandunencumberedandbeautifullyearnest.
Calebclimbsoffthebedandshuckshisunderwear,delightfullybashfulwithhisbriefsaroundhisankles.Icatalogallthelinesanddipsofhisbodywithinterest,mypalmflatagainstmystomach.Tannedskin.Stackedmuscle.Thecutofhishipsandascar,rightwherehisribscurvein.HeduckshisheadthelongerIlook,handonthebackofhisneck.
“Comehere,”Imurmur.
Heclimbsbackontothebedonekneeatatime,hisbigbodyeclipsingmineuntilallIcanseeisbrownandgoldandmidnightblack.Hethumbsatmybottomlipashekissesme,mythighsspreadwidetowelcomehim,myanklehookingbehindhisknee.Everythinglinesupexactlywhereit’ssupposedtoandwemaketwinsoundsofpleasuredanguish.Agaspexchangedforagroan,mouthsopenagainstsweatslickedskin.
“Condom?”heasks.
IflingmyarmtowardsmynightstandandtheboxofcondomsIstockedthemorningafterhemademecomeonmycouch,hopingwemight—hopingsomethinglikethismighthappen.Idrovefourtownsovertoa24-hourpharmacyinthedeadofnight,desperatelyworriedI’dbethesubjectofthenextphonetreemessage.Idon’tknowwhatI’ddoifSheriffJonesgotavoicemailaboutmycondompurchases.
Calebtearsthewrapperwithhisteethandslipshishandbackbetweenmythighs,thumbnudging.HegroanswhenhefeelshowwetIstillam,everythingwe’vealreadydonetogethernotnearlyenoughtoeasetheache.
“Youfeelsogood,Layla.”Helicksahotlineupmyneckandnipsonceatmyjaw.“You’regoingtomakemelosemyfuckingmind.”
“Finally,”Imumble.MaybethenIwon’tfeelliketheonlyone.
“Finally,”heagrees,voicesomberandserious.Iwatchasherollsthecondomdownhislengthandsettlesbetweenmythighs.Hehelpsmeguidemyt-shirtovermyheadandthenit’sjustus.Bareskininthehazylightofasummerafternoon.
“Tellmeyouwantme,”hewhispers
It’stheeasiestthingI’veevertoldanyone.Truthineverysyllable.“Iwantyousomuch.”
Hepushesinsideofmewithadecadentnoiseburiedinmyneck—athickslideofheatthathasmeclutchingtheblanketoneithersideofmyhead.Heslideshishandsupmybodyandclutchesatmywrists,thenthreadsourfingerstogetherandsqueezes.Iholdontohimandarchintothepillows,welcominghimagainstme—insideme—ashemoveswithtiny,carefulthrusts.Hefeelsincredible,evenlikethis,ashesearchesfortherightposition.Therightpace.Therightanglethathasmeclenchingandcurlingmybodyaroundhis.
“Fuck,”heslursinmyear,hisvoicelovedrunkandlow.Hishipsthrustagainstmine,alittlebitharder,andIlosemybreath.“Fuck,youfeel—”
“—sogood,”Ifinish.Ihitchmylegathishipandhemovesfaster,leveraginguponhisknees,onehandplantedonmyheadboard.LikethisIcanwatchthewayhemovesbetweenmyspreadlegs.Theclenchandreleaseofallthosemuscles.Howthedipsanddivotsofhisabsstrainandpullashesinksintomeoverandoverandoveragain.Ikickoutmyfootandthelamponmynightstandgoes…somewhere.Ileanupandnipmyteethagainsthischest.
“You’regonna—”Hiseyesshuttightinconcentration,faceflushed.Istareatthefanofhiseyelashesagainstthecurveofhischeekashechaseshispleasure.“You’regonnamakemecome,”hefinallymanages.
“That’sokay,”Ismoothmyhandsthroughhishairandbitemywayuphisnecktothelobeofhisear.Isuckitintomymouthandhemakesahelplesssound.“That’sgood.Iwanttowatchyou,Caleb.I’vethoughtaboutitsomuch,whatyoulooklike.”
Hiseyessweepopen,hazyandhot.Theylockonmineandhethrustsharder.Thewholebedrattles.Idropmyheadbackashehitsaspotthatmakessparksdancebehindmyeyelids.
“Youhave?”hepants.
Inod.“Ihave.”Itiltmyheadagainstthepillowthat’smovedhalfwaydownthemattressandwatchhim,movingaboveme.Hisbodyisbeautiful,hisfacetwistedinapictureofdelightedanguish.Ismoothmyhandsdownhischestandwrapmyfingersaroundhiships.Mynailssinkinandhemakesaferocioussound.
“Willyoushowme?”Iechohiswordsfromearlier.“CanIwatch?”
Hecomeswithagasp,hiswholebodybowingforwarduntilhisforeheadisagainstmycollarbone.Hishipsjumpinuncoordinated,messythrusts.It’salmostenoughtomakemecomeagain,theroughwayhepushesmedowninthebedandgrindsintome.ButIcan’tquitegetthere.Notashismovementsslowjustasmypleasurethreatenstobecomesomethingmore.Thetightnessinmybellyeases,mybodyteeteringontheedge.
Calebcollapseshisbigbodydownagainstmeandexhales,noseatmycheek.
Iwrapmyarmsaroundhisshoulders.Hepressesakisstomystillhammeringpulsepoint.
Iwigglebeneathhim.Thisisenough.Myarmssqueeze.Thisismorethanenough.
“Didyoucome?”Hemumblesthequestionsomewhereinmyneck.HisvoicesoundsscratchyandrawandIlikeitvery,verymuch.Ishakemyheadanddragmypalmdownhisback.Hisskiniswarm,hischeststillheavingagainstmine
“No,butthat’sokay.Istill—”
Idon’tfinishmysentencebeforeCalebispushingupandawayfromme.Ifrownatthelossofhisweightandheat,myarmbandedovermybarebreasts.Ishe—ishemadIdidn’tfinish?AflushofembarrassmentrushesupmycheeksandItiltmyfacetotheside,intomypillow.
“Hey,no,”hewhispers.“No,no.Don’tdothat.”
Hetiltsmyfacebacktohiswithhispalm,aslowandlingeringkisstothepoutonmylips.HisnosebumpsmineandIseethetiltofhissmile.Hebrushesanotherkisstothecurveofmycheek,theedgeofmybottomlip.Histeethnipandhepropshimselfuponhisarms,hisbodymovingdown,down,downmine.
Ifrownandtrytosnapmylegsshut
“Whatareyoudoing?”
Heholdsthemopen,akisspressedtomyleftkneeandthenmyright.Helooksupatmefrombeneathhislashes,framedbymyopenthighsandwashedinwarm,goldenlight.Icanseetheshineofsweatonhisskin,hisdamphaircurlingbehindhisears.Thestrengthinhisarmsandthecutofmuscledownhisabdomen.Hisdarkeyesarelockedonmine
“Thisisn’tgoingtoworklikethat.”
Iswallow,myvoiceawhisper.“Likewhat?”
“I’mnotgoingtoleaveyouneedinganything.So.”Henipsonceattheinsideofmyknee,dragshismouthdownmythigh.Hegrinsatme,darkeyesshining.“Showmewhatyoulike,Layla.”
Andthenheputshismouthbackonme,andIfallintomypillows.TWENTY-THREECALEB
Forsomeinexplicablereason,CharlieandAlexarewaitinginmyclassroomwhenIgetbackfrombusduty.Ilookovermyshoulderattheemptyhallway,andthenbacktothetwoofthem,sittingatdesksthatarefartoosmallinthefrontrow.Alexfoldshishandsneatlyandlooksatmefromovertophisglasses.Charliedoesn’tbotherwithasingleglanceasheworkshiswaythroughwhatlookslikehalfofmygrandmother’sTupperwarecollection.
“Shekeepsgivingyoufood?”Ipullmydoorshutandwalkovertomydesk.Ihavenoideawhatthisisabout,butImightaswellgetcomfortable.Alexisn’tknownforhisbrevity.IpeeratCharlie’sbountyonmyway.Mygrandmothergavehimtresleches…again.
IreachforaswipeofcreamoffthetopbutCharliesmacksmyhandaway.“Shemadeitforme.”
Ifrownandcollapseinmydeskchair.“Youdorealizeyou’resittinginmyclassroom,right?”
“AndthatmeansIneedtogiveyoumydessert?”Charlieshakeshisheadwithamenacinglaugh.“Idon’tthinkso.”
Alexignoresusboth.
“Wewouldn’tbehere,”hesaysfromhisseatrightnexttoCharlie.“Ifyouhadn’tbeendoingyourbesttoavoidmeforthelastthreedays.”
Ihaven’tbeenavoidinghim.I’vejustbeen…busy.Summerschooliswrappingup,Jeremyisalmostdonehislovenoteproject,andLaylais—
Laylaisincredible.I’vespenteveryfreemomentI’vehadsittinginherbackkitchen,eatingbuttercroissantsandwatchingherwork.Orproppedupagainstthefrontcounter,mychininmyhandandmyheartinmythroat.
Oratmyhousewithherlegswrappedhigharoundmyhips,herbackagainstthewall,myneatlyarrangedpictureframestippingsidewayswithourenthusiasm.Bentoverthesideofherbedwithmyhandatherneck,edginghertoanorgasmthatmadehercryoutmynameinthesweetestsoundinggaspI’veeverheardinmylife.Wakingupwiththesuntoheralarmandslippingmyhandoverthecurveofherwaisttotheplacebetweenherlegs,listeningtoherwhispermynameastheearlygraylightcrawledthroughhercurtains.
Fallingasleepwithherinmyarms,oneofhercoldfeetpressedbetweenmycalves,hernoseinthemiddleofmychest.
Ifeellikewe’vecompletelyabandonedthetermsofourarrangementandit—itfeelsgood.
Itfeelsreallygood.
“I’vehadalotofstuffgoingon,”Imumble.IturnFernandoaroundonthecornerofmydesk.Idon’tneedhisjudgmentrightnow.
Charliepointsaforkatme.“You’vebeenwrappedupinLaylaDupreeandignoringtherealworld,myfriend.”
Isnort.Idonotneedtohearthisfromhim,ofallpeople.
“Haven’tyoubeendoingthesamethingwithNovaPorter?”Ifireback.Hethinkshe’sbeingsmoothaboutit,butIknowthat’stherealreasonwhyhe’sdownhereeveryotherweekendfromNewYork.IalmostalwaysseehiscarparkedoutsideofthespaceBeckett’syoungestsisterhasbeeneyeingforhernewtattooshop.
“NovaPorterwon’tgivemethetimeofday,butthat’salright.”Charliecheerfullyfoldsatortillaintoaneatsquareandshovesthewholethingintohismouth.“It’saboutthelonggame,bruv,”hetellsmearoundamouthfuloffood.“Anddon’tchangethesubject.”
“I’mworriedaboutyou,”Alexsays,faceearnestandhandsstillclaspedontopofthedesk.Helookslikemyfather,everysingletimeheeverhadtohaveaseriousconversationwithusaskids.Downtotheglassesperchedontheveryedgeofhisnoseandthetwistofhismouth.“ThisthingwithLayla—”
Iscrubmyhandacrossmyforehead.“Thisagain.”
“Yes,thisagain.”Alexleansbackinhischair,kneesbumpingtheundersideofthedesk.“Youneedtohearit.WhenisyourarrangementwithLayladone?”
I’vebeentryingnottothinkaboutit.“Sundayistheonemonthmark,”Ianswerreluctantly.
“AndwhatareyoudoingonSunday?”
Ibusymyselfwithapackofstickynotesontheedgeofmydesk,flippingthemonewayandthentheother.“We’rehavingapicnic,”Imumble.
“Thatsoundsnice,”Charlieoffers
“Itsoundslikeyou’rehopingsheforgetsit’stheendofyourarrangementandthetwoofyoucancontinuewhateverthehellyou’redoingwithouttalkingaboutitlikeadults,”Alexexplodes.Thedeskgoesscreechingtwoinchesforward.
Charliescoopsanotherbiteoffoodintohismouth.“Italsosoundsnice.Areyoutakinghertothatlittlefieldofflowersonthefarm?”
“We’regoingtothepond,actually.”
“Cool.”
“Caleb,”Alex’svoicesoftensandhetakesoffhisglasses,twofingersagainstthebridgeofhisnose.“Whatareyoudoing?”
Iknowwhatitlookslike.Iknowmytrackrecordisn’tthebestwiththesesortsofthings.ButLaylaisdifferent.WhatIhavewithher—whatIfeelforher—it’sdifferent.I’mnotprojectinganything.Ithinkit’sbecauseofthearrangementthatI’mbeingmorerealisticandhonestthanusualaboutmyfeelings.LaylaandI—we’venevertriedtobeanythingexceptexactlyourselves.
“Idon’tknow.Ifthingsareworkingbetweenus,what’sthepointofendingit?”
It’smysecretthought.TheoneI’vebeenholdingclosetomychesttheselastcoupleofdays.Whydoesanythinghavetochange?Whycan’twekeepgoingoutandgettingicecream?Whycan’tIsitinthebackofthebakehouseandwatchhersingthewronglyricstoeightiesballads?
AlexlooksatmelikeI’manidiot.Charliemirrorsthelookwithatouchofpity.EvenFernandohasjudgmentinhistinylittleceramiceyes.
Ihavenoideahowthedamnturtlegotturnedaroundagain.
“Youhavetoendthearrangement,”Alexsays.
Charlienods.“Yeah,man.Youcan’tbuildsomethingonashakyfoundation.”
Butourfoundationdoesn’tfeelshaky.Ithinkaboutherhandinmine,hermouthbelowmyear.ThesmileshegetswhenIwalkthroughthefrontdoorofthebakehouse.I’vesharedmoreofmyselfwithLaylathanI’veeversharedwithanotherperson.Thoughtsandsecretsanddreams.
Ifeellikeourpiecesfittogetherperfectly.
“Idon’tknow,”Imumbleagain,findingthelacesofmyshoesinfinitelymoreinterestingthanthelooksI’mgettingfromthefrontrowofmyclassroom.
“Haveyoutalkedaboutitwithher?”Alexslipshisglassesbackoverhisface.“Whathappensattheendofyourmonth?”
Vaguely,Iguess.Half-heartedjokesaboutnothavingtoputupwitheachotheranymore.Butwehaven’tdiscussedthespecificsinawhile.MyfacemustanswerthequestionbecauseAlexletsoutanotherdisappointedsigh.
Itrytodefendmyself.“Iwasgoingtobringitup.”
“Yeah?When?”
Sunday.Probably.Ifshebroughtitupfirst.
CharlieshootsAlexavaguelyirritatedlookoutofthecornerofhiseye.He’swearingathreepiecesuittoday,abutton-upvestovertopadressshirtthatlooksmoreexpensivethanthecombinationofmyentirewardrobe.Hiscuffsrolledandhisjacketslungoverthebackofoneofmyclassroomchairs.Ihopeit’snottheoneTylerwrotePENISonseventy-fivetimes.Itdoesn’tlooklikethetypeofsuitthathandlesinktransferwell.
“WhatAlexistryingtosay—”Charlieclearshisthroatmeaningfully.“—isthatit’sobviousyouhaverealfeelingsforLayla.Andifyouwantsomethingrealwithher,youneedtohaveaconversationaboutyourarrangementfirst.Youcan’tjustkeepondoingwhatyou’redoing—thiswholepracticenonsense.Youneedtobehonestwithherthatyouwantmore.Endthearrangement,andstartsomethingnew.Noqualifiers.”
Idon’tknowwhythatfeelssodifficulttome.Fearthatshe’lllaughinmyface,maybe.Orthatshe’llsayI’mnotwhatshewants.It’seasiertohavethehope.“Ican’tjustkeepgoingwithmymouthshutandhopeforthebest?”
Alexcracksahalf-smile.“Andhowhasthatworkedoutforyouinthepast?”WhenInarrowmyeyesathim,hethrowsuphishandsandsighs.“No,Caleb.Youcan’tdothat.Tellherhowyoufeel.Howyoureallyfeel.Lookatyou.You’vebeenfloatingaroundthesepastcoupleofweeks.Youlooklikea—likea—”
“Likesomeoneintroducedyoutomasturbationforthefirsttime,”Charliesuppliesaroundamouthfulofrice.“You’vealwaysbeenahappyguy,mydude.Butyou’vereachednewlevels.”
IrollmyeyesandturnbacktoAlex.“Whatif—”Iswallowandrearrangethepensinmycup.“Whatifshedoesn’tfeelthesame?”
IwashopingIcouldjustignorethisfinishline.IfIneverbroughtitup,maybeIwouldn’thavetobedisappointed.
Alexsighs.“Behonestwithher.Tellherwhatyouwant,butmanageyourexpectationsalittlebit,okay?Rememberthiswholethingwasanarrangementforthebothofyou.It’snormaliffeelingsarealittleexaggerated.Youbothwerelookingforsomesortofsolution.”
Ifrown,pickinguponhissubtext.“Youdon’tthinkshefeelsthesame?”
CharlieandAlexexchangeanotherseriesoflooksIcan’tinterpret.Charliemouthssomethingandmakesacomplicatedgesturewithhishands.Alexwidenshiseyesandthentheybothdissolveintofuriouswhispers.NotunlikethetwogirlsfromthesoftballteamthatsitinthoseveryseatsduringmythirdperiodSpanishclass.
Itdoesn’tgivememuchhope.
“Whatthehellisgoingonwithyoutwo?”
Theystopabruptly.Alexmeetsmygaze,butCharlielooksupattheceiling,hislipsinathinline.
“TalktoLayla.”
Ialmostlosemynerve.
ShecomesskippingdownherfrontstepsSundayafternooninacottoncandypinkdress,sleevesslippingoffhershouldersandsunlightdancingdownherskin.Brightredribboninherhair.Picnicbasketonherarm.ShelookslikeoneofthosecandyheartsyougetinaboxonValentine’sDayandsiftthroughuntilyoufindyourfavoritemessage.SWEETERTHANPIE,herswouldsay.BEMINE.
AlaughtripsoutofherwhensheopensthefrontdooroftheJeepandseesmyfailedattemptatastrawberryshortcakeonthepassengerseat.Iwantedtosweetenherup,maybe,forthisconversation.Ithoughtbakedgoodsmightdothat.
Ijustunderestimatedmyabilitytobakeacake.
“Whatthehellisthis?”
Ifrownatit.“It’sastrawberryshortcake.”
“It’sastrawberrysomething,”shesayswithaslysmileIwanttobitetheedgeof.Still,she’scarefulassheslipsitfromtheseatandplacesitinthebackseatnexttoherpicnicbasket,hoppinginandplantingasmackingkissagainstmycheek.ItoldmyselfonthedriveoverherethatIwasn’tgoingtokissheruntilwehadourconversation.Iwasn’tgoingtotouchheruntilIknowwherewestand.Nouseinmakingthingsmoredifficultformyself.
ButmycandyheartprobablyreadsCRAZY4YOU.Itiltmyfacedowntohersandcatchherlipswithmine,myhandsiftingunderherhairtotoywiththeedgeofhercherryredbow.Icurlitaroundmypalmandtug,smilingwhenIhearthecatchinherbreath.
We’reendingthearrangementtoday.Wedon’thavetoendanythingelse.CharlieandAlexwereright,eveniftheirapproachwaslessthansubtle.IfIwantarealshotofsomethinglastingwithLayla,weneedtohaveanhonestconversation.
Butit’shardformetovoicethosethoughtswhenitfeelslikeeverythingisgoingexactlyrightbetweenus.ThecloserwegettoLovelight,thehighermyanxietyspins.Bythetimewemakeittothefieldsandshe’stowingmeacrosstothepondattheveryedgeoftheproperty,mylungsaretightandmyheartisdoingdouble-time.Iwatchherpinkskirtflutteraroundherthighs,thebounceinherstepasshehopsaroundtheneatrowsofproduceBeckettplantedearlierintheseason.Isqueezethehandleofthebasketandtrytoremembermyself.
SheknowswhoIam.ShelikeswhoIam,Irepeatlikeamantra.Ourpiecesbelongtogether.Thisisn’tgoingtobelikeeveryothertime.
“Layla,”Istart,andletthewindcarryawaytherestofmythought.ShelooksatmeoverhershoulderandIalmostlosemybreath.Slowlysinkingsunlightandgoldcatchinginthenecklaceloopedaroundherneck.Aneasybreezethatmeandersthroughthetallgrassandliftstheedgesofherhair.Firefliesthatblinktolifeinthefieldaroundus,risingfromthewillowsliketiny,fallenstars.
“Whatisit?”sheasks.
Ishakemyheadandswallowthewords.Ijustneedacouplemoreminutes.“Nothing.”Iclearmythroat.“Youwanttosetuphere?”
“Hereisgood.”Shespinsinacircle,skirtflaring,headtiltedbacktolookatthesky.She’ssobeautifulmyheartgivesasinglepainfulthudrightinthecenterofmychest.
Ilookdownatthegroundandtossouttheblanket.“Yougonnamakefunofmycakesomemore?”
“Dependsonwhatittasteslike.”ShedropsrightnexttowhereI’mkneeling,herelbowbalancedonmyshoulderandhermouthatmyear.Shesmellslikesummernightsandwarmpastries.Asmilequirkstheedgesofherlips.“Sometimesthebesttastingthingsaren’ttheprettiest.”
I’mprettysureshe’sfullofit,butIappreciatetheconcessionnonetheless.Igatherherarmfrommyshoulderandpressaquick,unthinkingkisstotheinsideofherwrist.MylipslingerandthenIflinchawaylikeshe’sburnedme.
Shestaresatme,herfacecollapsedinconfusion.Shecradlesherarmclosetoherchest,fingertipsrubbingovertheplacemymouthbrushed.
I’mdoingallofthiswrong.Ican’tfigureoutwhatIwanttosayorhowIwanttosayit.MaybeIshouldhavemadenotecardsandslippedthemintothebackofthebasket.
“Hey.”Layla’sfingersarehesitantasshereachesformeandtracesanaimlessdesignagainstmyforearm.“What’sgoingonwithyou?You’rebeingweird.”
“IknowIam,”Imumble.Idragmypalmdownmyfaceandkeepitcuppedovermyjaw,eyestiredasIgazeoverather.Sheholdssteady,herhazeleyessearching.Idropmyhandandreachforhonesty.“Ineedtotalktoyou.”
“Okay.”Iwatchherbraceherself,settlingbackontheblanketwithaneatpocketofspacebetweenus.Shecurlsherhandsaroundherelbows,bodyfoldingin.“Whatisit?”
“I—”
Idon’twantittobeanarrangementanymore.Iwanttobeeverythingtoyou,mymindsupplies.Justlikeyou’reeverythingtome.
“Iwanttoendourarrangement.”
Shenods,asinglecurlslippingfreefromthescarfinherhairtoflutteracrossherface.Shepushesitbackwithherhand.“Okay.Thatwasourplan,right?We’realmostattheonemonthmark,Ithink.”
“Todayistheonemonthmark,”Iblurt.Sheblinksquickly,eyelashesfluttering.Ineedtogetcontrolofmyselfandnotjustyellthingslikealunatic.Itakeinadeepbreaththroughmynoseandletitoutslowly.Itryagain.“TodayistheonemonthmarkandIwanttoendourarrangement.”
“Oh,”shesays.IfIweren’twatchinghersoclosely,I’dmisstheminutewayherexpressionchanges.Thetwistinherbottomlipandthequickflareofpainbehindhereyes.Sherollshershouldersback,bracingherself.“Oh,”shesaysagain.
“Iwasthinkingmaybewecould—”
“Ofcourse,”shecutsmeoffquickly,handsagainsttheskirtofherdress.Shecurlsthemintofistsandthenflattensthemagain.ForthefirsttimeInoticethetinystrawberriespaintedonhernails.Pale,palepink.“Ofcourse,you’reright.Weshouldendourarrangement.”
Shedoesn’tquitelookatme,hereyessomewherearoundmyknees.
It’stheexactsamethingIjustsaid,buthervoiceisallwrong.Hersmile,too,somethingbrittleandbroken.“Alright.I—”
“Ididn’trealizeithadbeenamonthalready.Ithoughtwewereclose,but—”Sheshakesherhead,teethclampingagainstherbottomlipbriefly.“I’msorry.Wereyouwaitinglongtohavethisconversationwithme?Ididn’tmeantodragthisoutforyou.”
“What?”
“You’reprobablyeagertogetbackoutthere.”
Iglanceovermyshoulder.AllIseeisrollingfieldsofgold,abigredbarnoffinthedistancebytheroad.“Getbackout…where?”
Finally,shemeetsmyeyes.Shewatchesmecarefully,hergazedistant.Idon’tthinkLaylahaseverlookedatmelikethisbefore.
“Dating,”shesayswithaslightflinch.“Forrealthistime.”
SomethingsharpanduglywedgesinmygutandIhavetoswallowthreetimesinarowbeforeImanagetogetasinglewordout.“Forreal,”Isayfaintly.EverysinglethingI’veeverfeltwithLaylahasbeenthetruestsenseofrealI’veeverknown.“Thistime.”
Shenodsandtoyswiththeedgeofherscarfagainstthecurveofhercollarbone.Restless,absentmovements.“I’msorryyouhadtobringitupwithme.Itlookslikeit’sbeenweighingonyou.”
Ithasbeenweighingonme.EverytimeIclosemyeyes,IseeLayla.EverytimeIrolloverinmybed,Ifeelherbareskinagainstmyfingertips.EverytimeIsawthisdamneddateonmycalendar,mychestseizedandmybreathcameshort.Ithasbeenweighingonme,butonlybecauseIwantmore.Iwantallofthepiecesshe’sgivenmeandtherest,too.Iwanteverysmile,everycroissant,everybrushofherhandagainstmine.Iwantrollerskatingandicecreammeltingovermyknuckles.Nachosinafield.
Laylainthemiddleofmykitchen,bigsmileandflouronthepalmsofherhands.
“Yeah,”Imanage.“Ithas.”
“Oh,”shesaysagain,softerthistime.“That’s,um—”HereyesslipawayfrommetotheneatstackofTupperwareatourside.Hershoulderscurlbackandshestartstocollecttheitemsshe’sjustpulledoutofherbasket—cupsandplatesandwhatlookslikethesamebottleofchampagnesheboughtallthoseweeksagoattheliquorstore.Orangewithagoldfoiltop.Whenshereachesforthepastryboxattheedge,Iwrapmyfingersaroundherwristtopausehermovement.
“Layla.Listentomeforasecond.I’mnervousandI’mnot—I’mnotdoingaverygoodjobofexplainingthis.”
Shepullsherhandfrommygripandgathersthepastryboxclose.Sheholdsitagainstherchestlikeapieceofarmor.Likeshewantstodisappearinsideofit.
“Youdon’tneedtoexplainanything.”
“Layla—”
“Please,Caleb.Don’texplainanything.”
“Why?”
“Becauseit’sokay.Igetit.Youdon’thaveto—youdon’thavetotellmeI’mnottherightfitforyou.”Shetwistsherarminmygrip,pullingawayfrommeandpushingofftheblanket.Iwatchherskirtforamomentasitcatchesthebreeze,mybrainstuckonthephraserightfitforyou.It’sscratchinglikearecord,overandoveruntilthewordslosemeaning.
“Idon’tthinkIwasreadyforthis,”shefinishesonawhisper.Ihavenoideaifthatwasmeantformetohearornot.
“I’mnot—holdon.”Ireachforherandmyfingertipsglanceagainsttheveryedgeofherdress.Icurlmyhandintoafist.“I’mnotbreakingupwithyou.”
“Okay.Endingourarrangement.”
“Yes,Iwanttoendthearrangement,but—”Iblowoutafrustratedbreath.Thisconversationisgoingincircles.MaybeCharliewasontosomethingwhenhesaidIshouldpracticeinfrontofthemirror.“Iwashopingmaybewecouldstartsomethingnew.”
Herhandsfreezeforhalfasecond,hoveringoverthecontainers.Ican’tseeherface,curtainedbyherhair.ButIcanfeeleverysinglesilentsecondlikeathumbtackagainstmyskin.Anticipation.Theworstsortofit.
“Idon’tknow,”shesaysslowly.“Wesaidwe’dgiveitamonth.Andit’sbeenamonth.”
“Can’tweaddanothermonth?”Idragmyknucklesdownherarm.Ihatethenoteofpleadinginmyvoice.Iswallowaroundit.“Iwanttotrythiswithyou.”
Shelooksupatmewithwide,hazeleyes.Herbottomliptrembles,andIalmostriptheblanketcleanintwo.Idon’twanttoseehercry.Idon’twanttoseehercrybecauseofme.“Idon’tknowifIcan,”shefinallysays.
“Whynot?”
“Because—”Shelooksaway,overmyshoulder,herhandscurlingoverherelbowsandtuggingherarmsclose.“Becausethisisturningintosomethingwedidn’tagreeto.I’mnotevenevaluatingyouanymore,Caleb.Itwassupposedtobefunandeasyandnowit’s—”
Shestopsmid-sentenceandclenchesherjaw.Thehandsonherarmshaveawhite-knuckledgrip.
“What?”Iask.“Nowit’s…what?”
Ihoverthereontheedgeofuncertainty,holdingmybreath.Ifeellikewe’rebackinthatEscapeRoomandherelbowhasmadedirectcontactwithmyeye,mythroat—thesoft,squishyplaceinsidemychestthatfeelslikeit’sbeingrippedapart.Ican’tmanagetosayanythingelse,mythroatcloggedaroundasinkingfeelingofunease.
IknowIhaveahabitofprojectingmyfeelings—imaginingthingsthataren’tthere.Butthisdoesn’tfeellikethat.Thisfeelslikesomethingelseentirely.
LaylawasupsetwhenshethoughtIwascallingoffthearrangement.Ithoughtitmeantshemightsharesomeofmyfeelings.Butmaybeitwasbecauseshewantedtobetheonetoendthingsfirst?Idon’tunderstand.
“Idon’tunderstand,”Irepeat,outloudthistime.
Shetakesadeepbreath.Releasesitonashakysigh.Hereyesflituptomeetmineandthenbackdownagaintoherfingerstwistinginherlap.IhaveneverseenLaylaDupreeshrinkherselfdowntosize.Itdoesn’tsuither.
“Everythingwithyouhasfelttooeasy.IthinkI’malwaysgoingtobewaitingfortheothershoetodrop.I’vewantedsomethinglikethisforeverandI’mnot—I’mnotsureIcantrustmyself,”shefinishesonawhisper.“I’mjust—”Shelooksupandblinksrapidly.“Idon’tknowhowtodothis.”
“Layla.”Hernamegustsoutofme.“Ofcourseyoudo.You’realreadydoingit.”
“I’mnotsosure.”Sherunsashakyhandunderhernoseandblowsoutashudderingbreath.“It’seasierforustoenditnow,beforewegetanyfurther.BeforeI—beforeI—”Shestopswithahigh-pitchedsoundthatisfartoofuckingclosetoasobformetohandle.Somethingterriblydarkanddeeplypossessivecurlsrightinthecenterofmychest.Myhandsachewiththeeffortnottoreachouttoher.
“Beforeyouwhat?Talktome.”
Itfeelsmonumentallyimportantthatshefinishesthatsentence.
Butshedoesn’tanswer.Shejustshakesherheadandtucksherhandsunderherknees,bottomlipcaughtbetweenherteeth.
“Whatareyouafraidof?”Iask.Ittumblesoutofme,guidedbyfranticfrustration.
Layladoesn’thesitate.Shefinallyanglesherchinup,meetsmygazeandwhispers,“Myself.”
“Helpmeunderstand.”
Sheliftsherselfontoherknees,backtocollectingallthepiecesofourpicnic.Asingletearglancesdownhercheekandmychestseizes.
“I’vealwayshadtheworsttasteinmen.IknowIjokeaboutit,butmytrackrecordreallyistheworst.I—”Sheshakesherhead,lipspinchedlikeshe’stryingtokeepherselffromcrying.“Ican’ttrustmyselfwhenitcomestothiskindofdecision.AndIwon’thurtyouintheprocess,Caleb.”
Iamhangingontothisblanketfordearlife,tryingnottotouchher.Shedropstheneatlywrappedplasticsilverwarebundlesbackintothebasket,thenapkinstiedwitharedstring.Anothertearlandsontop.
You’rehurtingmerightnow,Iwanttosay.
“Nothinghastochange,”Isayfaintly.“Notreally.Justwhatwecallit.Everythingwe’vebeendoingtogether—Layla.Youcantrustme.”
“IknowIcan.”Shewipesunderhereyeswiththebackofherhandandstandsonunsteadylegs.“It’smethat’stheproblem.TherearepartsofmethatarebrokenandIdon’t—Idon’tknowhowtofixthemforyou,Caleb.”
“Youdon’thavetofixanythingforme,”Itellher.I’lltakeallofher,exactlyhowsheis.We’llfitourpiecestogetheruntilwe’resomethingwhole,together,ourbrokenedgessmoothedintosomethingbeautiful.
Shesmilessadlyatme,headtiltedtotheside,eyessoft.“Ijustdon’tthinkweshouldgoanyfurtherifI’m—ifI’mfiguringthingsout.Youdeservesomeonewhocangiveyoueverything,Caleb.”
“Iwantyou.”
Shemakesasmallsoundunderherbreath.“Iknowyoufeelthatwaynow,Ijust—“Sheshakesherhead.“Ithinkweneedtotakeafewstepsbackwardsfromthis.Seehowwereallyfeel.”
Howwereallyfeel.IknowhowIfeel.Nowmorethanever,Iknowhowshefeels,too.Iseeiteverytimeshelooksatme.Everytimeshereachesformyhandwithhers.Iknowit.“Layla.”
“Please,”shewhispers.“Pleasestopsayingmynamelikethat.”
“WhatcanIdo?”
Iwanthertotellmehowtofixthis.Iwanttoknowhowwecangobacktotheplacewhereshewasrushingtomeetme,smilebeamingoutofher.Iwanttotakeallofherfearsandcrumpletheminaball.Launchitintospace.Setitonfire.Iwanttopuncheverypieceofshitwhoevertreatedherlikegarbagetobeginwith.Launchthemintospace,too.
“Iwantyouto—”Shesucksinasharpbreath.“IwantyoutocomeintothebakehouseeveryMonday,Wednesday,andFriday.Iwantyoutostandacrossthecounterandorderonecoffee,justcream.Iwantyoutogetabuttercroissantandnottakeyourfirstbiteuntilyou’rehalfwaydownthefrontsteps.IwantyouandItostillbeokay.”
IstandupuntilI’mcurvedaroundher,shouldershunched.Myhandcupsherface,mythumbatherchin.Anothertwotearsdropfromhereyelashesandlandagainstthebackofmyhand.“Idon’tknowifIcandothat,Layla.Idon’tknowifIcandothatandnotwantyou.”
Thelookonherfacecleavesmyheartintwo.“It’llfadewithtime.Ipromise.Italwaysdoes.”
Idon’tthinkitwill.I’mgoingtobeontheothersideofthatcounterthinkingaboutthepatchoffrecklesontheinsideofherelbow.Thewayherlaughsoundswhenit’smuffledbyakiss.Thetinytattooonherhipandrollerskateswithminiatureskullsandcrossbones.Vanillacustardonthebeach.Apackoffrozenproduceovermyeyeandherfingertipsgentleagainstmyskin.
Fallinginlove.
Slowlyandcarefullyandthenallatonce.
Ifeelitlikeanudge,rightbetweenmyshoulderblades.Somethingthattwistsandpullsuntilitsettlesinthecenterofmychest.Laylaistoousedtopeoplelettingherdown.She’sconditionedtobraceherselfagainstdisappointment.
Hasanyoneeverfoughtforherthewayshedeserves?
LaylaclaspsherfingersaroundmywristandIdropmyforeheadtohers.Ournosesbrushtogetherandsheletsoutashudderingsigh.Idon’tknowifshe’sholdingmeagainstherorpushingmeaway.Itfeelsabitlikeboth.
“I’llstillseeyou?”Herbottomlipbrushesmineandmywholebodyjolts.“Monday,Wednesday,andFriday?”
Ifthat’swhatsheneeds.Ifthisisallshe’sreadyfor,ifthisishowIprovetoherthatI’mexactlywhatshedeservestohave,thenI’llbethebestdamncustomerthebakehousehaseverhad.
“Yeah,sweetheart.EveryMonday,Wednesday,andFriday.”
Westandthereundertheshadeofatreeandswaybackandforth,clingingtoeachother.Birdscalltoeachotherfromthebranches.Thegrassestwistatourankles.Herlipsstayamillimeterawayfrommine,herhandsclutchingmywrists.
“CanIaskforsomething?”Ibarelymanagetogetthewordsout,rockyandrough.“Beforewego?”
Shetriestosmile,butitwobblesattheedges.Apainedsoundcatchesinthebackofmythroat.
“Justtheone,”shesays.
Iclearmythroat.“IguessifIonlygetone,Ishouldpicksomethinggood.”
Shestaresupatme—remembering.Ourveryfirstnighttogether.“Iguessyoushould.”
Idragmythumbovertheswellofhercheek.Thelasttimeshesaidthat,shehadbeensmiling.Nowsheletshereyesslipshut,araggedexhalechasingherwords.
“CanIkissyou?”Iask.
Shekeepshereyesclosedasshenods.
IholdmyselfstillinfrontofherandwonderhowIshouldkissLaylaDupreefortheverylasttime.What’sthebestwaytogetsomeonetorememberyou?Towantyouback?
Ipressmymouthtohersandcupmypalmaroundthebackofherneck.Welingerthereinthespacebetweenbreaths,standingperfectly,painfullystill.I’mafraidtomove.I’mafraidoflettingthismomentend.Butitonlytakeshershufflinganotherhalfaninchclosertobreakmeofmycarefulrestraint.Ican’thelpitwithLayla.I’veneverbeenableto.
Itiltmyheadandshemakesasound—somethinglowanduneventhathooksinmyheartandtugs.Sad,Ithink.Unsure.Iexhalesharplythroughmynoseandkissherslower.Begging.
Don’tgo,Itrytotellher.Staywithme.
Trustme.
Shetearshermouthfromminewithagaspandpressesthebackofherhandtoherlips.Shetakesonestepbackandthentwo,stumblingoveratreeroot.Ireachforher,butsheshakesherhead.Shepicksupthepileofcontainersatherfeet.
“I’m—”Shehitchesherthumboverhershoulder.“I’mgoingtogotothebakehouse.There’sa—Ishouldcheckonsomethings.”
Ishovemyhandsdeepinmypockets.“That’salright.”Itipmychinupattheblanketandtrynottorubmyfingertipsovermylips.Iwanttobrandthefeelofherintomybones.Inkitontomyskin.“I’llcleaneverythingup.”
Sheblinksquicklyandherlowerliptrembles.Shefeelssoveryfarawaywhenshesays,“Ireallyamsorry.IwishIdidn’tfeellikethis.”
Ishakemyhead.“Youhavenothingtoapologizefor.”
Notreally.I’mtheidiotthatbrokemyownheartonthisone.Weenteredthisarrangementtohelpcuremeofthisproblemandlook.Thesameexactthinghappened.
Ilookatmybootsinthedirt.Theedgeoftheblanket.
“Okay,”Ihearhersay.“I’llseeyoutomorrow,right?”
She’llseemetomorrow.She’llkeepseeingme.ThelasttimeIkissLaylawon’tbeinthemiddleofafieldwithtearsonhercheeks.
Inodandglancebackupather,mypalmagainstthebackofmyneck.IsqueezesoIdon’treachforherhandinstead.Shestaresatmewithherbottomlipcaughtbetweenherteeth,likeshe’sgotsomethingelseshewantstosay
Butshedoesn’tsayit.Shejustgivesmeanothersmall,sadsmileandturns.Shewalksawayfromme,herprettypinkdressadeepredinthemeltinglight.
Istandthereandwatchhergo.
Iwatchhergountilit’sjustmeandthetrees.TWENTY-FOURLAYLA
“I’dlikeabuttercroissant.”
Idon’tbotherlookingupfrommynotepad,listingouttheingredientsIneedtostockuponduringmynexttriptoAnnapolis.We’regoingtoneedmoresugaronthisrun.Probablythewholesaleoranges,too.
Anewsoul,maybe,forthebakeshopownerwhocrushestheheartsofsweet,adoringmeninherfreetime.
“Wedon’thaveanybuttercroissants.”
Gusmakesagruntingnoise.He’sneverbeenmuchofamorningperson.“ThenwhyamIlookingatanentirecasefullofbuttercroissants?”
“Thosearen’tforyou.”
Icameinearlierthanusualandmadethreetraysofbuttercroissants.Ikeptmyhandsbusytoignoretherollinginmychest,thetighteninginmythroateverytimeIthoughtofhisfaceinthedwindlingsunlight,handsreachingforme.ThehurtinhiseyeswhenIflinchedaway.
Anditworked,foralittlebit.Thecroissants.ItwasenoughofadistractiontokeepmefromoveranalyzingallthethingsIsaidlastnight—allthethingshesaidlastnight.Ifinishedonebatchandslidthemintheoven.Iwatchedthemthroughthelittlewindowandimmediatelyfeltthepressofthepre-dawnsilence.Toodamnquiet.
Istoodthereandfeltallofmyaches.Myshoulder.Myneck.Myheart.Everythingfeltsore.Ithinktheworstsortofthingyoucandoaftermakingaquestionablypoordecisionistogiveyourselfspacetothink.
SoIstartedanotherbatch.
Andthenanother.
Itriedtotimethelastoneperfectlywithhisscheduledarrivalsotheymightstillbewarm.Apoorconsolation,probably,forthewayIhandledthingsyesterday,butanapologyallthesame
IgotscaredlastnightwithCaleb.IknowIdid.Whenhesatdownontheblanketandsaidhehadsomethingtotellme,Iimmediatelythoughttheworst.Hesaidhewantedtoendthearrangementanditfeltlikeeverybadbreak-upI’veeverhadandthensome.Afteramonth.Ididn’trealizehowdeepIhadfallenintoCalebuntilexactlythatmoment.Itwasn’tjoythataccompaniedthatparticularrevelation,butbone-deeppanic.
Ijust—Ipanicked.
Idon’tthinkI’mreadytogiveCalebeverythinghedeserves.ImeantitwhenIsaidIthinksomethingmightbebroken.
“Thenwhoaretheyfor?”
“Notyou,Gus.”
“Idon’tunderstand.”
Azingofawarenesszipsupmyspine.Caleb’svoice,thepainedIdon’tunderstand.Iflinchandshakemyhead.IsatonmycouchlastnightandateCaleb’suglystrawberryshortcakestraightoutofthecontainerwhileIstaredunseeinglyatthetelevisionscreen.
Idon’tunderstand.
Talktome.
Layla—
There’sasliverofitstillsittingonmycountertop,nexttoacrumpleduppaperbagthatusedtohaveabagelsandwichinitandahalf-driedbundleoflavender.
“Youcanhaveablueberrymuffin.”
Gusfrownsatme.“Idon’twantablueberrymuffin.”
He’sabouttogetthedamnblueberrymuffinwhetherhewantsitornotviacreativemethodofentrywhenthebellsabovethedoorannouncesomeone’sarrival.Ichecktheclock.7:43amonthedot.Justenoughtimetograbhisusualandthenmakeitovertotheschool.
Ihavetoworkupthenervetolookupfromthecounter.Hisfootstepsseemtoechointhesmallspace.Casual.Controlledasusual.Mygazecementssomewherearoundhiswaistashestrollstoastop.Brownleatherbelt.Palebluebuttondownshirt.Hisfavoritesunglassestuckedagainstthecollar.Iswallowhardanddragmyeyestohis.
“Hi.”
Hebraceshishandagainstthecounter.Hisbrowneyesburnumber,streaksofgold.
“Hey.”
Westandthere,staringateachother.Itfeelslikethewholeworldhascrawledtoastop.IdrinkhiminlikeIhaven’tseenhimintwelveyears,nottwelvehours.Hisshirtiswrinkledatthebottom,likehepulleditfromthedepthsofhisdresserdrawer.Probablythesecondonedown,wherehekeepshisniceshirtsforworkononeside,andold,fadedcomfyt-shirtsontheother.IwatchedhimopenthatdrawerthreedaysagowhileIwasnakedinhisbed,thesheetsuptomychin.Heonlyhadhisjeanson,slunglowaroundhiships.Hehadpulledoutanoldbandshirtandtosseditinmydirectionwithawickedgleaminhiseyes.Asuggestionintheliftofhisbrow.Idon’tthinkIeventuggedthesheetsallthewayoffbeforehewasurgingmebackintothem.
IyankmyselfoutofthatmemoryandwatchasthisversionofCalebdragshisfingersthroughhishair.Hishandtrembles,theonlyindicationthatmaybehe’sjustasnervousasIam.
Ireachforsomethingtosay.“WhatcanIgetyou?”
Heopenshismouthandthenclosesit.Avertshiseyesandsquintsatthemenuabovemyhead.SomethinginmychestfracturesandItrynottolookattheglasscasefullofbuttercroissants.
Itdoesn’tmatter,Itellmyself.Hedoesn’tneedtoeatabuttercroissant.
“IthinkI’llhavesomeavocadotoast.”Hisusuallydeepvoiceishoarse.Heclearshisthroatanddragshisthumboverhislefteyebrow,stillsquinting.“Andagreenteatogo.”
Idon’tmoveaninchtogetanyofthethingshejustaskedfor.Forsomeinexplicablereason,Iwanttocry.“That’snotyourorder.”
Hedropshishand.“What?”
“That’snot—Yougetabuttercroissant.Acoffeewithcream.”
Calebsearchesmyeyes,lookingforsomething.Hislipstwistdowninalookthat’sfartooseriousforhishandsomeface,dimplesnowhereinsight.Solemndoesn’tsuithim.
Helookedsolemnlastnight,too.Solemnandsad.
Mychestsqueezes.
Hedoesn’tblinkawayfrommewhenhesays,“I’mgoingtotrysomethingdifferentthistime.”
“Why?”
Thequestionslipsthroughmylipswithoutpermission.Hishandflexesonthecountertop.
“Becausedifferentisgoodsometimes,”hesayswithonesternbrowslightlyarched,thefaintestbrushofpinklightingonhischeeks.Thisman.Alwaysacontradiction.
Igivehimanotherlingeringlookandfishatakeoutcupoutfrombeneaththecounter.Imakehimhistoast,fetchhistea,andplacebothneatlyinfrontofhim.Ievenstraightentheedgeofthetoastsothey’recompletelyparallel,justthewayhelikes.Buthedoesn’tglancedownathisorder.Hekeepsstaringatme.Idon’tthinkhe’slookedawayfrommeoncesincehewalkedinhere.
Idon’tthinkI’vetakenafullbreath,either.
Hereachesforhisfoodonthecounter,buthishandfindsmineinstead.Mywholebodyjoltsinsurprise.Hisbighandcirclesmywristandhebrusheshisthumbacrossmypulsepoint,slowanddeliberate.Histouchdriftsandhetraceseachofmyknuckles,thevalleysinbetween.Goosebumpseruptallthewayuptomyshoulders,eventhoughit’sclosetotwelvehundreddegreesoutsideandI’vehadmybodyhalfwayinanovenallmorning.
“DoyourememberwhatItoldyou?”heasksme,hisvoicelow.Histhumbpressesintothemiddleofmyhand.“Thatdayyouweremakingallofthosebakedgoods?”
Ishakemyhead.Tobefair,he’stoldmealotofthings,mostofthemwhileI’mmakingsomeformofbakedgood.SmilelinesappearbyhiseyeslikeheknowsjustwhatI’mthinking,eventhoughthatsmiledoesn’tquitereachhismouth.
I’lltakeit—astepintherightdirection.
“Itoldyouthatyoudeservegoodthings,”hesaysquietly.“AndIthinkIcouldbeoneofthosegoodthingsforyou.I’mprettysureofit,actually.Youdeservetohavesomeonetryandyoudeservetohavesomeonecare.I—”Hesighs,slowanddeep,thelookinhiseyessotenderIhavetocurlmyhandaroundtherattyoldwashclothloopedthroughmyapronstrings.Iwanttopressmyfaceintothehollowofhisthroatandbreathehimin.Iwanthisfingerstangledthroughmyhair.Imisshimsomuch—andisn’tthatterrifying,inallofitsbreathtakingagony?Tomissthepersonstandingrightinfrontofyou.
“IknowIcanbetoomuch,butIthinkI’mjustenoughforyou.Ihavenointerestinforcingyouintoanything,”hecontinues.“ButIwantyoutoknowthatthispastmonthwithyouhasbeentheverybestI’veeverhad.Ishouldhavetoldyouthatlastnight,butIwasoverwhelmedandnervousandeverythingcameoutwrong.Arrangementorno,everythingI’vefeltwithyou,everythingI’vesaidtoyou—”Heshakeshisheadslightly,thatsmilefinallytrippingfromhiseyestothecurveofhischeeks.Igetthebaresthintofadimplebeforeit’sgoneagain.“It’sbeenthemosthonest—themostrealthingI’veeverfelt.”Heglancesoverhisshoulderatthehalf-fullbakehouseandthenbacktome,tippinghisheadforwardandloweringhisvoice.ProbablybecauseCindyCroswellisstandingimmobileatthecondimentscounterwithherdeviouslittleearspointedrightinourdirection.
Ileanintohim,hisnosegrazingmyear.Itradeinmygoosebumpsforafullbodyshiver.Ifhenotices,hehasthedecencytonotcommentonit.
“Iknowyou’renotreadyrightnow,andthat’sokay.I’llbe—I’llkeepcominghere.EveryMonday,Wednesday,andFriday.Youletmeknowwhen.”
Hereleasesmyhandwithoutanotherwordandsnatchesuphisbag.Heturnsandstridesacrossthesmalldiningspaceandstraightoutthefrontdoorwithoutasingleglanceback.Mywreathofpeoniesswingslightlybackandforthwithhisexit.Istareatitforalongtime,theflutterofthepetalsandthescratchoftheribbonagainstthewindow.IstareandIstareandIstare,mythroattight.
Guscoughs.Iguesshedidn’tmovethatentiretime.
“CanIhaveabuttercroissantnow?”
Iblinkawayfromthedoorandturnbacktomylist.“Theanswerisstillno.”
Stellafindsmeinthebackstoragecloset,sittingcrossleggedontopofasackofflour.IfIhadasmokinghabit,I’dprobablyhaveacigarettehangingoutofmymouthrightnow.Asitis,IcouldonlyfindapackofstalelicoriceandI’mhooveringthemintothemouthlikethehotmessexpressthatIam.
Stellastandsinthedoorway,ahalooflightbehindallhercurlyhair.Shelookslikethepatronsaintofjudgment.“Oh,wow.Thisis—Layla.Thisissomething.”
Icanonlyassumesheistalkingaboutthebakingtraylitteredwithcrumbsatmyfeet.TheonethatwasdefinitelylinedwithshortbreadcookieswhenIcameinhere.I’vedecidedthebestwayforwardistoeatmyfeelings,andIstartedwithwhateverwasinsight.
Cookies.Candy.Whoknowswhat’snext.
Theworldismyoyster.
“Calebvisited,”Iofferwithoutanycontextwhatsoever.Stellaclosesthedoorcarefullybehindher,cloakingusindarknessandtheglowofthestringlightsIwrappedaroundtheedgesoftheshelvesaboutsixmonthsago.It’smyfavoriteplaceforamid-afternoonnap.
Oremotionalbreakdown.
Takeyourpick.
“He…oftenvisitsthebakehouse.”
Inod.
Stellawaitswithhershoulderproppedupagainstashelffulloffloursacks.Thegirlpinedafterthesamemanforclosetoadecade.NoonedoespatiencelikeStellaBloom.
“Ourarrangementendedyesterday.”
“Sosoon?”
Ishrug.“It’sbeenamonth.That’swhatweagreedto.”
Stellashufflesforwardandmakesherselfcozyontheshelfatmyside.Shetriestofluffabagofsugarlikeapillowandallshegetsisaslowleakofitontothefloor.Itfeelsverysymbolicofthecurrentstateofthings.Shehuffsandtriestofixthehole,butonlymakesitworse.Idragabowloverwithmyfootanddropitundertheleak.I’llfixitlater.
“Isthatwhyyou’reinhereeatingcontrabandcookiesandcandy?”
“They’renotcontraband,”Imutter.“They’remine.Fairlyobtainedwithinlegalmeasures.”
“Okay.Goodtoknow.But…Caleb?”
Isighandpickatsomecrumbsleftonthesleeveofmyshirt.“AmIahypocrite?”
Stella,blessher,doesn’tsomuchastripontheabruptshiftinconversation.“Layla,youareoneoftherarefewthatleadswithanopenheart.No,youarenotahypocrite.”
Exceptitdoesn’tfeellikemyheartisveryopen.AssoonasIgotahintofsomethingrealwithCaleb,myopenheartfeltmorelikealockedsafeatthebottomoftheocean.
Surroundedbylandmines.
Andman-eatingsharks.
“IfeellikeI’vebeenwaitingforeverforlovetofindme.I’veputmyselfoutthere—overandoverandover.Iwentoutwithaguyoncethatguessedmyweighttheentirewaytotherestaurant.Ievensaidyestoaseconddatewithhim.”Iyankanotherpieceoflicoriceoutofthebag.“I’musedtowatchingthehandsoftheclockmoveandIdidn’tevenrealizemymonthwithCalebwasup.Ithink—IthinkIforgotitwasanarrangement.”
Stellafishesaroundinmybagforapieceoflicoriceforherself.“AndCalebwantedtokeepitwithinthepredeterminedlimits?”
Ishakemyhead.
It’sbeenthemosthonest—themostrealthing—I’veeverfelt.
“No,hedidn’t.That’sthehypocritepart.Ifeelsostupid,”Isay.Stellahandsmeasmallthrowpillowshedigsoutof…somewhere.Iclutchitclosetomychest.“AllI’veeverwantedisagoodrelationship,andthesecondIfindone,Isabotageit.”
“Awarenessishalfthebattle,”Stellamurmurs,fingerspushingsomeofmyhairbehindmyear.
“WhydidIsabotageit?”
“Becauseyouareafraid,”shesaysquietly,blueeyeswarm.Inthewarmglowofthetwinklelightsstrungovermetalbeams,shelookslikeasnowangel.Somethingyou’dfindinasnowglobe.“Andbecauseyou’vedatedastringofterriblementhathaveleftyoubatteredandbruised.It’sokaytobeafraidwhenyourheartgetsinvolved.”
“IthinkIlikehimtoomuch,”Iwhisper.
Stellahums.
“HowcanItrustmyheartonthis?EverytimeIthinkI’mmakingagoodchoice,itendsinflames.Flamesdousedingasoline.Myhearthasneveroncepointedmeintherightdirection.Alloftheserelationshipsthathavefailed,allofthesefalsestarts,Ifeellikethey’vebeenchippingawayatme.I’veonlygotsliversleft,Stella.AndI’mafraidifIgivethemtoCaleb—”Myvoicesnapsoffatthethoughtofit.Idon’tthinkthere’dbeanythingleftofme.
Betterjusttobedisappointednowthanlater.It’ssaferthisway.Easier
Stellakeepsquiet,munchingthoughtfullyonashortbreadcookieImusthavemissed.
“Howmanysliversdoyouhaveleft?”
“What?”
“Yourslivers.”Shegesturesatmychest,rightwheremyheartis.“Howmanydoyouthinkyouhaveleft?”
Iblinkather.“Idon’tknowifIcanquantifyhowmanyareleft.”
“Thinkaboutit.”
“Iam.”
“Well,thinkharder.”
Iwanttograbmybestfriendbyherarmsandshake.
“Stella.”
“Ifyouthinkyouonlyhaveacoupleleft,Iunderstand.Ireallydo.YouknowIdo.Itcanbehardtobebravewhenyoufeellikethenextdisappointmentwillbreakyoutopieces.”
WhenLukaconfessedhislove,Stellaquiteliterallyranforthehills.Shedidn’tbelieveshecouldbelovedbythesamepersonshehadbeenloving.Shethoughtherfeelingswentexactlyonewayandwasterrifiedtofacetheconsequencesofsomethinggoingwrongand—
Realizationslamsintome.
“Oh.”
Shenods.Takesanotheraggressivebiteofcookie.“Thereitis.”
“Whydoesitsoundlikeyouhaveasecondparttothatstatement?”
“Becausethereisasecondparttomystatement.”Sheslipsofftheshelfandstandsinfrontofme,palmsbrushingagainsttheseatofherdenimshorts.Herlipscurveinagentlesmileandshesnagsanotherpieceofcandyoutofmybag.“Iwasgoingtosay,ifyouhavesomesliversyou’reprotecting,that’sfine.ButIthinkyouneedtoconsiderhowmanysliversactuallybelongtoyou,andhowmanyyou’vealreadygiventoCaleb.Andtrustthatmaybeyourhearthasfinallyfoundtherightpersontobeton.”TWENTY-FIVELAYLA
“Yourtartslooklikeshit.”
Isighandresisttheurgetoslammyforeheadintothemetaltablerightnexttomytartsthatlooklikeshit.It’sshinyandwouldprobablyleaveaverysatisfyingdent.ButStellapaidextrafortheglossyshineandI’dhateforhertowastehermoneybecauseofdamagefrommyforehead.
“Beatrice.”Ileanupfrommycrouchedoverpositionandstretchmyneck.It’samiracleIcanevenstandstraightatallwithhowmanyhoursI’vebeenputtinginatthebakehouse.“TowhatdoIowethepleasure?”
Shegivesmealookfromjustinsidethedoorway,astackofshortbreadcookiestuckedunderherarm.“It’sWednesday.”
“Correct.”Irubmypalmovertheache.“ButnotthethirdWednesdayofthemonth.UnlessIslippedintoamedically-inducedcomaandsomehowwokeupwithouttheknowledge.”
Wouldn’tthatbenice.I’dlovetosleepmywaythroughthenextthreetosixmonths.Burymyheadinthesanduntilthispressureonmychestdisappears.
CalebhasreturnedeveryMonday,Wednesday,andFridayatexactlythesametime,justlikehesaidhewould.JustlikeIasked.Hestandsontheothersideofmycounterandsquintsatthemenulikehedoesn’tknowthedamnedthingbyheart.AndwhenhereachesforwhatevernonsenseI’vestress-bakedthenightbefore,heshiftshishandjustslightlyandtraceshisfingersovertheinsideofmywrist.Thebackofmyhand.Thepadofmythumb.Aninnocenttouch,byanymeasure,butcombinedwithhisheavylooksandhisendlesspatience,I’mjust—
I’mbalancingontheveryedgeoflosingallofmymarbles.Everytimehecomesin,Idon’tknowwhethertobreatheasighofrelieforburstintotears.I’mcaughtbetweendesperatelywantingtomoveonfromourexperimentsindatingandaskinghimtostartalloveragain.I’mconfused.Andupset.Andnotsleepingverywellwithoutmynosepressedintothestrongcolumnofhisspine,myarmaroundhiswaist.Allofitismanifestingintoaveryshorttemper,andmy—mytartslooklikeshit.
Beatricesnickersandclosesthedoorbehindherwithaflickofherwrist.Shetossesherboxesonthecounterinanundignifiedheap,thecornerspressinginonthesides.Iflinch.Iswearshedoesitonpurpose,knowinghowmeticulousIamwithtwineandcardboard.
AndhowmuchIvalueashortbreadcookie.
“Don’tdothat,”Isnap.
“Dowhat?”Sheblinkshereyesinnocentlyandopensmyfridge,bendingtoinspectmybottomshelf.Shemakesafaceandswingsitshutagain.
“Youknowwhat.”
Shepropsherhandsonherhips.“Idon’tappreciatethetoneyou’retaking.”Shelevelsalookatmethatwouldhaveanyoneelseshakingintheirboots.Asitis,Iknowshehasasecretknittinghabitandshe’sbeentheonemakingtinysweatersforBeckett’scats.Shecouldn’tbelessterrifyingifshetried.“What’sgottenintoyou?”
Stupidity.Fear.Acompleteandtotalinabilitytofiguremyshitout.Apinchoffrustrationandasignificantamountofwallowing.
“Nothing,I’m—”Idragthepalmofmyhandacrossmyforeheadandfeeltheswipeofsomethingcool.Great.I’mfairlyconfidentIjustswipedlimecustardacrossmyforehead.
MaybeIshoulddipmywholefaceinit.ThenI’lllookliketheclownIam
“I’mfine,”Ifinish.
Beatricecirclesthebigislandinmytinykitchenandstandsrightinfrontofme.She’salittlebitshorterthanIam,butwhatshelacksininchesshemakesupforinpresence.Shetiltsherchinup,awispofgrayhairbrushingagainsthercheek.Shelookslikeanoilpaintingofanancientwarrior.Ifeellikesheshouldbeholdingaflagandasword.
“Ithinkyoulikedatingidiots,”shesayswithabark.Shesnatchesthepipingbagoutofmyhandsandnudgesmeoutofherway.
Myspinesnapsstraight.Icanfeelbothofmyeyebrowsclimbingupmyforehead.Anotherlickofirritationaddstotheinfernobuildinginmychest.Ihaven’tsleptsoundlyindaysandBeatricethinksit’sagoodideatocomeintomykitchenandinsultme?“Pardonme?”
Hereyesnarrowandshetiltsherheadtotheside,fixingthehorribleicingjobIwasdoingattheborderofthetart.Iwastryingtolinethemwithhearts,buttheyalllooklikesadlittleghostsinstead.Itfeelsappropriate.
Beatricedoesn’tlookup.“Youheardme.”
“Idid.”
“Thenwhat’sthequestion?”
“Uh,myfirstquestionis:whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?”Ibumpheroutofthewaywithmyhip,butshejustcirclesaroundtotheothersideandyanksmytrayoverwithher.“Secondquestionis:whythehellareyoutalkingaboutit?”
“Thewholephonetreeistalkingaboutit,”shemumbles.“Andyoushouldn’ttrytodoanyskillworkwhenyou’reinshambles,”sheadds,louder.
“Thephonetree?”Nopointinaddressingtheshamblespiece.She’srightaboutthat.
Beatricelooksupwithasigh.“Yes.Thephonetree.You’veheardofit?”
“I’mfamiliar.ButIhaven’tgottenanymessagessince—”
Ithinkback.ThelastmessageIgotwassomethingaboutanewchickenpestopizzaatMatty’s.LukacalledJesseatthebarwhocalledDane—who,I’msure,wasshockedatthenewsconsideringhesleepsinthesamebedasMattyeverysinglenight—whothencalledSusiewhothencalledme.Thatmusthavebeen—
Ifreezeasrealizationstrikes,quickandsharp.Ihaven’treceivedasinglemessagesinceCalebandIstartedourarrangement.Calebmentionedacoupleofweeksagothathewasn’tgettinganythingeither,andIknowhowDarlenelikestoinundatehimwithmundanethings.Beatricesnickersagain,lowandamused.“Didyoufigureitout?”
“Doestheentiretownreallyhavenothingbettertodothantopassalonggossipaboutpeoplewhomayormaynotbedating?”
“Ican’tbelieveyouevenneedtoaskyourselfthatquestion,”Beatricesays.“Andyouweretheonlytwowhoinsistedthatyouweren’tdating.Itlookedalotlikeregulardatingtotherestofus.”
“Alright,I’m—”Stilltryingtocometotermswitheverything,butmybrainskipsbacktotherockystartofthisunevenconversation.“Holdonasecond.Let’sgobackwards.”
“Thoughtyoumight.”
“Idon’tlikedatingidiots.”
“Sureyoudo.”
“No,Idon’t.It’swhyIagreedtothedatingthingwithCalebtobeginwith.Iwantedtotrysomethingdifferent.Iwantedtofeelgood,foronce.”
BeatricesetsdownthepipingbagonthecounterandmovesthefinishedtarttothetrayI’vebeenliningthemupon.Shegrabsanother,butdoesn’tmovetofixthewobblylines.Shejustlooksatitforalongtime,twistsittotheleft,andthentotheright.Thenshegentlypicksitupandputsitrightnexttotheperfectone.
“AndareyoustilldatingCaleb?”
Myheartbeatthundersinmychest.ItfeelslikeI’moutinthatfieldalloveragain,watchinghisfacecrumpleinconfusion,thentransformintostark,disappointedunderstanding.Likehecouldseethiscomingfromamileaway.Likethetermsofourarrangementwereallwe’deverget.
“No.”Myvoicecracksatthestartandattheendofthatverysimpleword.
“Thenmypointremains.”Beatricenudgesthetraybackinmydirectionandreachesforoneofherdiscardedboxes.Sheopensitandpullsoutonepristine,perfectshortbreadsquare.SetsitdowninfrontofherandreachesforanotherpipingbagthatIneverbotheredtofill.“Youliketodatethesesilly,stupidboysbecauseit’seasier.It’seasiertohaveastupidmandisappointyou,thenagoodmanbreakyourheart.Oneofthosethingsissignificantlykindertorecoverfromthantheother.”
Iblinkonce,andthentwice.Icurlmyfingersaroundtheedgeofthebakingtray.“YouthinkI’mafraid?”
“Yes.”
Somethinginmychestrattlesandthenfallssilent.Anacknowledgement,Ithink.SilenceweavesbetweenusasIstandstockstillatthecounterandBeatricecontinuestoworkdiligentlyonthecookiesshebroughtwithher.Ithinkshecametogivemesomecompany—inherownstubborn,aggressive,curmudgeonway.
Iwatchherworkandthewordsslipout.
“Iwanttostopbeingafraid,”Iwhisper.“WhenwillIstopbeingafraid?”
Beatricesmilesandhandsmethecookieshe’sbeenworkingon.Agladiolusinbloom,purplepetalsreachingup,up,uptoanunseensky.BecketthaslecturedmeenoughaboutflowersthatIknowthisonebloomswiththesummermonths.Astubbornflowerthancanblossomagainandagainifitsurvivesthecoldwintermonths.
“That’sthetroublewithfallinginlove.It’samessy,ungracefulstumbleintoawhirlwindofchaos.Itdoesn’talwaysfeelgood.It’safall.”Shepullsoutanothershortbreadcookie,asmilehookingatthesideofhermouth.Hereyesarefaraway,glassywithremembering.Iwonderwhoshe’sthinkingaboutwiththatlookonherface.
Whoshefellwith.Whoshefellfor.
“Youjusthavetotrustthatthepersonyou’refallingwithissmartenoughtocatchyoubeforeyouhurtanythingimportant.”
He’slateonMonday.
Bythirteenminutes.
Itrynottospendtheentiretimestaringattheclock,butI’mabundleofnervousenergy.Ikeepfistingmyhandsinthematerialofmyapron,tyingandretyingthescarfinmyhair.ThethirdtimeIslipitoutandrunitthroughmyfingers,Gusmakesatskingsoundfromtheboothinthefarcorner.He’stakentosittingthereeverymorninglikesomegrumpygargoyle,eatingallthebuttercroissantsCalebhasabandonedandprovidingarunningcommentarythatI’msurehethinksisamusingbutreallyjustaddstomyagitation.
“Hewon’tcarewhatyou’rewearing,”Gussing-songs.MycheeksburnhotandItossaglareinhisdirection.Heshrugsandholdsuphishands.“Justsharingmythoughts.”
“Yeah,you’realwayssharingyourthoughts.Noonewantsyourthoughts.”
“Plentyofpeoplewantmythoughts.”
“Keeptellingyourselfthat.”
Calebappearssevenminutesandtwohairscarveslater.Iseethetopofhisheadashemovesthroughthethickclusteroftreesthatsurroundseverysideofthebakehouse.Messyhairlikehe’sbeenrunninghisfingersthroughitagain.Myheartautomaticallyspeedstodouble-timeinmychestandIdigtheheelofmyhandagainstmysternum.It’sprobablynothealthytofeelthiswayeverytimeIseehisface.
Buthereweare.
HeroundsthecornerwhereabeautifulBlueSprucespreadsherbranchesoutlikeopenarms—theoneLukahasnamedSpruceSpringsteen—whileIpretendtorestocktheredstripedpaperstrawsrightbytheregister.Headjustshisbagagainsthischestandtipshisheaddown,smilingatsomething—someone,Irealize—andthat’swhenInoticeher.
EmmaWaterson.TheeighthgradeEnglishteacheratInglewildHigh.Caleb’sco-worker.Caleb’sverypretty,probablyverywell-adjusted,andemotionallysuperiorco-worker.
Theywalkthroughthetreessidebysideandstrolltoastopatthebottomofthesteps.LikethegluttonforpunishmentIam,Ikeeplooking,ahandfulofstrawsfrozenhalfwayinmid-air.IwatchasEmmastepsforwardintohisspace,assheanglesherheadbackandgesturesatsomethingwithherhands.IwatchCaleb’sfacetwistinamusement,theslighttiltofhisheadtotherightthattellsmehe’sreallylistening.EagerandearnestandallthelovelythingsthatmakeCalebwhoheis.
Meanwhile,mystomachfeelslikeit’sfilledwithglassmarbles.Aheadachethreatensatthebaseofmyneck.I’mtornbetweenwantingtohidebeneathmycountertopandcatapultingmyselfdownthefrontsteps.IguessthisiswhatIneedtogetusedto—thisiron-hotspikeoffeelingrightinthecenterofmychest.Jealousy,probably.Atouchofregret.
IbarelymanagetoputthestrawsdownbeforealaughburstsoutofCaleb.Icanhearthesoundofitthroughthethickglassofmywindows.Warmandlow.Smooth,rollingamusement.IcancountthetimesI’veheardCaleblaughonasinglehand,andallofthemwerewithme.Ikeepeachofthosememoriestuckedcloseinthesecret,sacredplaceclosetomyheart—formeandmealone.
Andnowhe’slaughing.Withsomeoneelse.
Allofmyfieryresolvetomoveontumblesheadfirstintoheartbreak.
Ilookdownatthecounterasthebellabovethedoorjingles.Heavyfootstepsandthebangofhiselbowagainstoneofmyclearglassjarsthat’sholdingbiscotti.Healwayshitsit,nomatterhowmanytimesImoveitjustslightlyoutofhisway.
“Hey,Layla.”
Hisvoiceiswarm.Friendly.
IkeepmyeyesfirmlyonthecountertopandpokeatsomeofthestrawsIlettumbleoutoftheglass.
“Hi,”Isayback,astormcloudoffeelings.“WhatcanIgetyoutwo?”
There’snoreasontobeupsetbythis.ItoldCalebourarrangementwasover.He’sfreetodoexactlyashepleases.Emmaisbeautiful,kind,andanexcellentchoiceforeverythingCalebhastooffer.Sheisexactlywhathedeserves.Probablyexactlywhathe’slookingfor.
Ibethercroissantstastelikegarbagethough.
“Two?”Calebsoundsconfused.
Imanagetolookupaboutashighashischin.Iholdmyeyesfirmlythere,unwillingtolookanywhereelse.“Yes.WhatcanIgetyoutwo?”
“Oh,ah—”Iwatchhishandcreepoverhisshouldertothebackofhisneck,hisbigpalmmassagingthemusclesthere.Anervoustic,whenhe’snotsurewhattosay.“It’sjustme.ButIcouldordertwoofsomething,ifyouwanted?”
Myeyessnapuptohis.“Where’sEmma?”
CaleblooksatmelikeI’vejustaskedwhathishoroscopeofthedayis.“What?”
“Emma,”Iexplainslowly.Idon’tthinkIimaginedherwithhim,butIhaven’tbeensleepingverywelllately.“Thewomanyouwerelaughingwithjustoutside.”
“Oh.”Helooksoverhisshoulder.“Oh,yeah.Iranintoheronthewayin.”
“Hm.”
Heturnsbacktomeandtakesinthelookonmyface.Idon’thaveamirror,butit’sprobablyacrossofIjustateanoatmealraisincookieandIthoughtithadchocolatechipsinitwiththerearenocookiesleftinthejar.
Hiseyesnarrow.“What’sthatsoundabout?”
“Whatsound?”
“Thehm.”
IshrugandtrytopushagainsttheachethatswellsthelongerIlookathim.“Nothing.ItwasjustasoundImade.”Igrabapapercupfrombeneaththecounterwithtoomuchforce.WhenIsetitdown,it’scrushedononeside.Itossitintothetrashcanandgrabanother.“Doyouwantteaorcoffee?”
“Iwanttotalkaboutwhyyou’resoupset.”
“I’mnotupset.”Myvoiceshakesattheendlikethetraitoritis.
“Layla.”
“Great,I’llgetyouacoffee.”
“Layla,”hesaysagain,softerthistime.HereachesformywristbeforeIcanspinmywaytotheespressomachine.HishandsqueezesandIanglemychinup,intentonamaskofabsoluteindifference.Butthehot,embarrassed,uglyfeelinginmychestspreadsthelongerIlookathim,andIfeelmybottomliptremble.Hiseyesglancedownandhold.Hisentirebodycollapsesinward,curlingtowardsme.
“Layla,”herepeats,withanoteofpleadingthistime.
“No.”Ipullmyhandoutofhisgrasp.Idon’tknowwhatI’msayingnoto.Thisday,maybe.Thisentiresituation.ThisjealousyandsadnessandtheinescapablefeelingthatI’mconstantlyturninginthewrongdirection.Iwanttostopbeingafraid,butIdon’tknowhow.IwanttobelieveBeatriceabouttrust,butIdon’tknowhow.IwanttoacceptthatmaybeI’vefinallymadetherightchoiceinaman,butIdon’tknowhow.
Iclearmythroat.“There’scoffeecakeintheback,”Isayundermybreath.“I’llberightback.”
Idisappearthroughthedoorbeforehecansayanythingelse.It’seasier,backhere,topressmypalmsagainstmyforeheadandtrytocollectthescatteredbitsofmyself.Ibreatheindeepthroughmynoseandtrytocounttotwelve.IattempttochannelsomeofthoseoldyogavideosIsenttoStellaalifetimeago.
Thiswillfade,right?Thisfeeling?Ithasto.
“Layla,waitasecond.Iwantto—”
Calebcrashesthroughmybackdoorandstumblesrightintome,thebothofuscollapsingagainstmyisland.Thelasttimewewerebackheretogether,hehadmehitchedupagainstthewallbythefridge,hisarmbandedundermyassandhismouthatmyneck.Wet,suckingkissesthatIworethemarkoffordays
Ithinkhe’srememberingtoo,becauseIfeelhisshakybreathagainstthebackofmyneckasheholdsmesteady,hishandssqueezinggentlyatmyupperarms.We’repressedtogethershoulderstohips,hischestagainstmyback.
Westandtheretogetherandbreathe.It’sbeenalmostaweeksincehe’stouchedmeinanywayandIcan’tbelievehowmuchI’vealreadyforgotten.Thewayitfeelswhenhedropshisheadagainstmyneck.Howwarmandsolidandgoodhefeels.
“Layla.”Hebreathesmynameagainstthehollowbehindmyear,nosenudging.Bothofhisarmswraparoundmymiddleandhesqueezes.“Whyareyouupset?”
“I’mnot,”Isayimmediately,voicethick,handstrembling.Ishouldpullmyselfoutofhisarms.IshouldactlikeI’mfine.ButIcan’t.Ican’t.
“Youare.Why?”
BecauseIsawyouwithsomeoneelseandIdidn’tlikeit,Ithink.BecauseIdon’tknowhowtostopbeingafraid.
“Idon’tknow,”Isayinstead.Alie.“I’mnot.”Anotherlie.
Hepullsbackwithasighbutkeepshishandsfirmlyonmyarms.HeturnsmeuntilIhavenochoicebuttolookathim.Thesternsetofhisbrowsandthelinesbracketinghismouth.
Iwanttorubmythumbagainstthemuntiltheydisappear.
Iwanthimtoleavemykitchenandpretendlikethismorningneverhappened
Idon’tknowwhatIwant.
“Whycan’tyoubehonestwithme?”
“Iambeinghonestwithyou.”
Iflinchattheendofmysentence.Iamabsolutelynotbeinghonestwithhim.I’mtakingthecoward’swayout,overandoveragain.
Caleb’shandssqueezeandthenrelease.“AreyouupsetthatyousawmewithEmma?”
“No.”Yes.“Iwishyoutheverybestofluckwithher.Ihopeyouemploythedatingtipsandtricksyoulearnedduringourtimetogether.”
Ifeelsickevensayingit.It’srude,andmean,andnothowIfeelatall.ButI’malljumbledup.IfeellikeI’montumbledry,spinningaroundandaround.Calebtakesahalf-stepbackandlooksatmelikeIjustpunchedhimintheface.
“Isthatwhatyouthink?”Hispalmscrubsathisjaw.“Youthinkit’sthateasyformetojustfindsomeoneelse?ThatallIwantedfromyouwastipsandtricks?”
“Wasn’tit?”Imovearoundthecountertopuntilthere’samixingbowlandthreefeetofsolidkitchenislandbetweenus.“Yousaidyouwantedtobebetteratdating.Haveatit.Getoutthereand—”Idosomethingweirdwithmyhand.“Doyourthing.”
Hisjawclenchestight,eyesblazing.Hedoesn’tsayanythingforalongtimebeforehefinallytellsme,voicelowandbarelycontained,“That’snotallIwantedfromyou.”
“What?”
Hewalksaroundthecountertop—chinup,shouldersback.Breathtakinginhiscalm,quietconfidence.“That’snotallIwantedfromyou,”herepeatsquietly,movingforwarduntilIhavetotipmyheadbacktostareathim.“Ididn’taskyoutostartthiswholethingbecauseIwantedtips,Layla.Ilikedyou.Fromtheverystart.”
“I—”
“Emmahasacrushonanotherteacheratschool—Gabe,”Calebinterrupts.“She’sbeentryingforweekstoworkupthecouragetosaysomethingtohim.Hisclassroomistwodoorsdownfrommine.Shewouldstopinmyroomwhenshegotnervousandfindsomethingtotalktomeabout.ShehappenedtobeoutsidewhenIwascomingintothebakehousethismorningandthoughtsheshouldapologizeforallhervisits.ShefinallytalkedtoGabeonFriday.They’regoingouttodinnerthisweek.”
Reliefmakesmykneesweak.Ifindsomethingoverhisshouldertolookatasembarrassmentclimbsovermycheeks.Calebreachesup,cupsmyfacewithhishand,andguidesmyeyesbacktohis.
“StoptreatingmelikeI’mtheguywiththelintrollerortheguyatthetikibar.Stopactinglikeyou’resomeoneIcanmoveonfrom.Idon’twanttobeanywherebutrightherewithyou.”Histhumbdragsacrossmyblushandhiseyessoften.“Don’tunderestimatehowlongI’llwaitforyou.”
“Idon’t—”
“Pleasedon’tlietomeeither.”
Mymouthsnapsshut.
Hishandslipstothebackofmyhead.Hewatchesmecarefully—quietly—eyestracingeveryinchofmyface.Hesighsandtugsmeforward,afirmkissinthemiddleofmyforehead.Myarmshangatmysides.Myheartsitssomewhereinmythroat.
“Imissyou.”Hetucksthewordsagainstmyskininaroughwhisper,almostliketheywerenevermeantformetohear.Asighloosensfromhischestandhedropshishand.Hetakestwostepsbackandlookstowardsthedoor.
“Thispartisuptoyou,Layla.Whathappensnext.”Hedragshisknucklesagainstthecenterofhischestandthenpatsonceoverhisheart.Likehe’stryingtorubsomethingaway.Helooksbacktomeandgivesmeasad,half-smile.“It’suptoyou,”hesaysagain
AndthenIgetexactlywhatIwashopingforwhenIfirstsawhimonthatpathwithsomeoneelse.ThethingIthoughtIwanted,butIdon’treallywantatall.
Calebwalksaway,andI’malone.TWENTY-SIXCALEB
Iwakeuptothesoundofpotsandpansclankinginmykitchen.
Forasingle,heartbreakingmoment,Ithinkit’sLayla,usingthekeyIkeepundertheedgeofmyfrontmat.TheoneIshowedhertwodaysbeforeeverythingwenttohellinahand-basket,tellingherinstumbling,stutteredwordsthatshecoulduseitwheneversheliked.
Irolloverinbedandletmyselfrunawaywiththefantasy.Ipicturemyselfcomingdownthesteps,findingheratthestoveinthesoft,oversizedt-shirtshelikedtostealfrommydrawer.Nothingunderneath.Mychinathershoulderandmyarmaroundherwaist.Somethinglowontheradio.Coffeewarmonthecounter.Sunlightbeaminginthroughthewindowsandhersmileabrandagainstmyskin.
ButthenIhearthemutedsoundsofatelenovela—astringofcursesinfaintSpanishandthesqueakofmygrandmother’shouseslippersagainstfreshlyscrubbedfloors—andIburymyfaceinmypillow.
“Abuela,”IgreetassoonasIgatherthemotivationtoleavemyroom,eyeballingthefourpotsshealreadyhassteamingonthestovetop.Ikissheronbothcheeksandthenheaddirectlyforthecoffeemachine.“Whatareyoudoingheresoearly?”IaskinSpanish.
“Noestemprano,”sheresponds.It’snotearly.Sheturnshalfwayandarchesaneyebrow.“Whereisyourshirt?”
Ihuffalaughandnodtowardsthesweatshirtslungoverthebackofoneofmykitchenchairs.I’msurprisedit’sstillhereandshehasn’ttriedtowasheverytextileinsight.Islipitovermybareshouldersandzipituphalfway.“Better?”
“Sí.”Shehandsmeaheapingplateofeggsandchorizo,tetelasonthesidestillwarmfromthepan.Islipintoachairandtrytosettleintothecomfortofawarmmealcookedbymygrandmother,anoldepisodeofherfavoriteshowplayinginthebackground,theoddnotesofasongsheusedtosingtouswhenwewerekidshummedeverysooften,preoccupiedasshestirs.
“HaveItoldyouthestoryofhowyourgrandfatherandImet?”
Ipausewithmyforkhalfwaytomymouth,eyebrowsraised.“Yes.”
Aboutseventhousandtimes.It’soneofmyfavorites.Iusedtomakeherrepeatittomeagainandagainwhenshe’dputmetobed.Theblanketstuckedhightomychinandherhandgentleinmyhair.
“Itwasatthemarket,”shesays,likeIdidn’tjustanswerherquestion.“He—”
“Boughtalloftheshoesyouwereselling,”Ianswer,knowingthestorybyheart.“Hewalkedyouhomeandcamebackthedayafter.Hekeptcomingback.”
Mygrandmothertapsherwoodenspoonontheedgeofthepotandsetsitdowntotheside.“No,”shesays.“Thatisnothowithappened.”
Ifrown.“Yes,itis.”
“Oh?”Sheturnstofaceme,armscrossedoverherchest.“Andyouwerethere,wereyou?”
Iforkamouthfulofeggsintomymouth,properlychastised.Iswearmygrandmothercreatedthesternlookwhenshehadchildren,andhonedittoperfectionwithhergrandchildren.“No,abuela.Losiento.Pleasecontinue.”
Shemakesaclickingsoundwithhertongue.“Hedidnotbuyallofmyshoesinanattempttowoome.Hestumbledintomystandbecausehewasnotpayingattention.Heknockedanentiresidedown,andhehadtobuyallmyshoesbecauseheruinedthem.Yourabuelodidnotlookatmeinadorationwhenhefirstmetme.Itwasfear.”
Isetmyforkdownonthetableandstareather.“What?”
Sheshrugsandgoesbacktostirringherpot.“Ithoughthewasapeinabombillas.”
Someonewhocombslightbulbs.It’smygrandmother’sfavoriteinsultanditdoesn’tmakealickofsense.
“Why—”Itrytoswallowaroundthirtyyearsoflies.“Whydidyoutellthestorydifferently?”
“Becauseyourgrandfatherwasaromanticman.”Mygrandmothersmiles.It’sasoftandsadone,thekindyoufeeldeepintheechoesofyourheartwhenyou’rerememberingsomeoneyou’velovedandlost.Abittersweetachethatripplesout.“Becausehelikedtobetheheroofthestory.Thattalehetoldyouaboutthesharkwasalie,too.”
“Hedidn’tpunchasharkinthenosewhilesavingaboatfullofchildren?”
Acackleburstsoutofher.“No.Yousawthatman,osezno.”Sherollshereyes.“Hehadalmostnoupperbodystrength.Hewasalover,notafighter.”
“Huh.”
“Ican’tbelieveyoubelieveditaslongasyoudid.”
“NeithercanI,Iguess.”
Goodtoknowmywholelifehasbeenalie.Icrossmyarmsovermychestandleanbackinmychair.Mygrandmotherlooksoverhershoulderandmakesanothertskingsound,turningofftheburnersandjoiningmeatthetable.Shesetsabowldowninfrontofme,andoneinfrontofherself.
“Itellyouthisbecause—”Shescoopsherspoonaroundtheouteredge,eyesfaraway.“Itellyouthisbecauseyouaresolikeyourgrandfather.”
“Iseethingsthataren’treallythere?”Mystomachswoopslow.“Iembellish?”
“No,”shesayswithasteelythreadofdetermination.“Becauseyoulovewithyourwhole,entireheart.Andthatisabeautifulthing.”
Ipickupmyforkagainwithafrownandpokeatsomeofmyeggs.“Itdoesn’tfeellikesuchagoodthing.”
Itfeelsliketheworstthing.Itfeelslikethethingthatkeepshurtingme,overandoveragain.IhavenoideaifLaylawillchangehermindornot.Ifshe’lleverwantmethesamewayIwanther.Rightnowmybigheartfeelslikeabigcurse.
Mygrandmother’shandreachesoutandcurlsovermine.Shesqueezes.“Itisthebestthing,”shesaysfiercely.“Iknowourfamilyworriesaboutyou,aboutyourunguardedheart.Butitmakesyoukindandgenerous.”Shesucksinadeep,waveringbreath.“Yourgrandfatherwouldbesoproudofthemanyouare.Youmustpromisemethatyouwillneverstoptrustingyourheart.”
IthinkofLayla’sfacebehindthecounterwhenIwalkedinearlier.Thetearsshewasdesperatelytryingtohide,thetremorinherhands.Ithinkofmylipsagainstherforehead,mybodytuckedtightagainsthers.Howitfelttohavetowalkawayfromher.
“Whatifit’swrongthistime?”
“It’snot,”shesays,quickandsharp.“Don’tyouthinkthatgirldeservessomeonewhoofferstheirfullheart?Don’tyouthink,afterallofthesemenshehaswastedhertimewith,thatshedeservessomeonewhowillreturnheraffectionwithoutthinkingtwice?”
Somethinginmychesteases.“Yeah.Yeah,that’sexactlywhatshedeserves.”Iblowoutadeepbreathandlookatthetabletop.Layla’sworthwaitingfor.Iknowthat.It’sjusthardtoseeherandfeelallthedistancebetweenus.Phantompains,almost.Rightinthecenterofmychest.Iglanceupatmygrandmother.“I’llkeeptrustingmyheart.”
Mygrandmothernods.“Bueno.”Shescoopsaspoonfuloffoodoutofherbowlandpopsitintohermouth.Icanfeelherconsideringme,herwarmeyesnarrowedinconcentration.
“Whatisit?”
“Perhapsthisisthereasonyou’vehadsuchtroublewithwomeninthepast.”
“Whatis?”
Shesmiles,thelinesbyhereyesdeepening.“Becauseithasneverbeentherightwoman.”
I’mhalfwaythroughmymorningrunthroughtheparkwhenmyphonerings.IglanceatthecallerID,seeCharlie’sname,andpromptlyignoreit.
Ineedtimetodecompress,notdiscusssomethingridiculous.Thelasttimehecalled,hetriedexplainingthebenefitsoffingergunsasapick-uptool.AnothertimeitwasavideocallfromtheinsideofaJ.Crewdressingroomandhewantedtoknowwhichcableknitsweatermatchedhiseyesbetter.
Ishovemyphonebackinthewaistbandofmyshorts,turningaroundthebendwithoutlosingmystride.Witheveryslapofmyshoesagainstthepavement,IthinkofLayla.Herlaugh.Hersmile.HergoddamnedbuttercroissantsthatI’mcravinglikemynextfix.Idon’tknowwhyIthoughtitwasagoodideatoabstainfromthemwhilewe’reapart.IthinksomepartofmewantedtoshowherthatIcantrydifferentthings.Idon’tknow.Itfeltlikeagoodideaatthetime.
Butfuck,Imissthosecroissants.
Myphoneringsagain,vibratingagainstthesmallofmyback.Iignoreit.
Itvibratesagain.Andagain.
Iresisttheurgetoflingitintothewoods,butit’saclosething.Iansweronafrustratedpantingbreath,mysweat-soakedhairfallingintomyeyes.Ipushitback.
“What?”
“Inglewildphonetreecalling,”Charliesing-songs.“Heretopassalongamessage.”
“Sincewhen?”
“Sincewhen,what?”
“Youdon’tusuallycallme.Darlenedoes.”
“Ah.”There’samuffledsoundontheotherendofthephone.Likehe’sjustfallendownaflightofstairsorhe’ssingle-handedlyputtingupalaststandagainstafamilyofraccoons.“Well.There’sbeensomerestructuring.”
“Restructuring?”
“Youheardme,bearcub.Don’taskquestions.Doyouwantthemessageornot?”
Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.IswearIhaveaconstantheadachethesedays.“What’sthemessage,Charlie?”
“WordonthestreetisLaylalockedherselfinthefreezeratthebakery.”
Mystomachplummets.Panicpullseveryinchofmybodytight.Iimaginetheabsoluteworst,hersmallbodyhuddledupinthecornerofherindustrialfreezer.
“What?”Ibreathe.
There’smorecommotionontheotherendoftheline,andthenIheartheveryclearvoiceofStellawhisper-yelling,“Charlie,whatintheactualhell?”
“What?”hewhispersback,phoneangledslightlyawayfromhismouth.Hisvoicesoundstinnyandfaraway.“Shesaidgethimtothebakehouse.”
“Shedidn’tsaygivehimaheartattack.”
“Fine.”Hisexhaleisloudinmyear.“Hey,Caleb?Sorryaboutthat,man.Youneedtogettothebakehouse.There’safire.”
“Charlie!”
There’sascuffleontheotherendofthephone.Ihearmuffledcursing,asoundlikesomeone’sjustdunkedtheirheadunderwaterandathud.ThenStella’svoiceisontheline,apologeticandsoft.
“Caleb?”
Ihavenoideawhat’sgoingon.
“IsLaylaokay?”
“She’sfine.Don’t—don’tlistentoCharlie.”ShesighsandmumblessomethingontheotherendofthephonethatIdon’tquitecatch.“Doyouthinkyoucouldswingbythebakehouse?Laylawantstoseeyou.”
Myheartpoundsinmychest.It’sacombinationofstrainfrommyrun,adrenalinefromCharliescaringtheshitoutofme,andapprehensionthatLaylaactuallywantstoseeme.Athoughtoccurs.
“Areyouguysmeddling?”
Stellahums.“Thisisprobablyabouttwenty-fivepercentmeddling,butit’swell-intentioned.”Shepausesandlowershervoice.“Shejustneedsanudge.Ipromiseshewantstoseeyou,Caleb.”
“You’resure?”
“I’msure.”
It’sthelongesthalf-hourofmylife.
Iabandonalltracesofapprehensiononthesecondhalfofmyrun.Isetanewpersonalbestonmywaybackhomeandpracticallyfallupmyporchsteps,knockingoveravaseandanumbrellaassoonasI’mintheentrywayofmyhouse.Itakeaquickshowerandpullarandomt-shirtovermyheadandtripouttomyJeeplikethebakehousereallyisonfire.Likemyhouseisonfire,too
BythetimeIpullintothelittlegravelparkinglotbehindthebakehouse,myheartisthunderinginmychest.Itrytomanagemyexpectations,handsflexingonthesteeringwheel.It’spossiblethisisn’tanythingatall.MaybeIleftsomethinghereearlierintheweek.Maybesheneedsmetotryanewrecipe.
Ormaybeshewantstotellmeshemadeamistake,askingmetocomethreedaysaweek.Maybeshewantstotellmetostayaway.
Iblowoutadeepbreath.
Bestjusttogetitoverwith.
IpassmyhandsoverthebranchesasIwalkalongthepath.It’soneofmyfavoritepartsofthisplace,themassiveflatstoneslaidcarefullyamongthetrees.Itfeelslikeyou’rethebestsortoflost,wanderingapaththat’sfamiliarandtreasured.Footprintsdoteithersideofthepathfromthosewhohavealreadycomeandgonethismorning.Sunlightismuted,hiddenbythickbranches.It’slikebeingsomewhereelseentirely.Insideasnowglobe,maybe.Orapostcard.
Iturnthelastcornerandit’smysecondfavoritepartofwalkinguptoLayla’s.IcanseerightthroughthebigwindowsinthefronttoLayla,standingbehindthecounter,ascarfinherhairandherheadduckeddowninconcentration.Evenallthewaybackhere,Icanseethewayshe’sgothertonguecaughtbetweenherteeth.Herbodyangledslightlytotheleftassheworks.
She’sthemostbeautifulthingI’veeverseen.ThemostbeautifulthingIeverwillsee.
Sheglancesupfromthecounterandspotsme,standingjustoutsidetheedgeofthetrees.Asmilestartsslowlyassheplaceshericingbagtotheside,spreadingwiderthelongershelooksatme.Imovetowardsher.
IfeellikeI’vealwaysbeenmovingtowardsher.
Shecomesoutfrombehindthecounterandpokesherheadoutthefrontdoor
“Hey,”shesays,thatsmilestillonherfacelikeshe’sgladtoseeme.Hopebeatsawildwardruminmychest.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Youweretrappedinafreezer,”Ioffer.Herfacecrumplesinconfusion.“Nevermind.Charliewasbeing…Charlie.”Iscratchatthebackofmyheadandtrytoshakeoffallmynervousenergy.It’sjustLayla.“Didyouwanttoseeme?”
Shebitesatherbottomlip.Myhopedeflateslikeasadlittleballoon.
“Oh,ah.”Iglanceovermyshoulder.MaybeI’llwanderbackthroughthetreesandkeepgoing.PastmyJeepandintothefields.LetMotherNaturedoasshewill.“I’lljust—”
“No.Caleb.Waitasecond.”IwatchasLaylafusseswiththestringsofherapronintheproppedopendoorway.“Stayrightthere.Ihavesomethingforyou.”
ShedisappearsbeforeIcansayanythingelse.Thedoorswingsshutbehindher,thebellsabovethedooramutedsoundthroughthethickglass.Istandthereandtrynottostareattheplaceshewas,butmyeyesdriftthroughthewindowswithoutmyconsent.Iwatchherslipbehindthecounterandsearchbehindtheregister.Sheliftsupacoffeepotandpeersbeneathit.Rearrangestheoversizedmasonjarsbythedisplaycaseuntilherfacelightsupwithagrin.
“Herewego.”Sheappearsagaininaflurry,skippingdownthestepstolandwithalightjumpinthegravelofthewalkway.Shestridesovertomeandhandsmeafolded-uppieceofthick,whitepaper.Herhandtremblesasshewaits.
Istareatit.“Whatisthis?”
Shethrustsitforward.“Openit.”
“Whatisit?”
Shesnatchesherhandback.“Youhavenoimagination.I’llreadittoyou.”Hereyesblinkuptominebeforetheydartawayandfocusbackonthepaper.“It’sagradingsheet,”shemumbles.
“Forwhat?”
Ablushwarmshercheeks.“Forourexperiment.”
“Oh.”ThatisnotwhatIwasexpecting.“Forme?”
Shenodsandbringsherthumbtohermouth,bitingdownontheedgeofit.Itissomehowenticinglysexyandadorablyendearingintheexactsamebreath.“Thismighthavebeenaterribleidea,”shesays,solowIhavetostraintohearher.
“No,no.”Itrytostandalittlestraighter.MusterallofthecourageIpossess.Ididwanthertotellmehowtobebetteratdating.That’showallofthisbegan.Mightaswellfinishitout.“Iwanttohear.”
“Okay,well.”Sheglancesatthepaperagain,herblushburningdarker.Iwatchwithinterestasitspreadstothetopofhercollarbones.“It’ssortofstupid,but—”
“Layla.It’snotstupid.Tellme.”
“Ibrokeitintocategories,”sheconfessesinarush.“Yourfinalgrade.Enthusiasm.Originality.Kindness.Anda—arandombonuscategory.”Herhandsfumblewiththeedgeofthepaper.
Icockmyheadtotheside.“ArethosetheMissAmericacategories?”
“No.”Sherubsherpalmagainstherforehead.“Maybe.Idon’tknow.Just—gowithit,foraminute?I’mtrying—I’mtryingtodosomething.I’mtryingtoapologize.”
Ifrownatthat.“Ialreadytoldyou.Youhavenothingtoapologizefor.”
“Iknow.Youalsosaidwhathappensnextisuptome.”Hernerveseaseandhersmilecomeseasier.Whensheflickshereyesuptomeagain,she’sabletoholdmygazeforalittlelonger.Gemstonegreen,clearandsure.“Alright.Herewego.Intheenthusiasmcategory,yougeta10outof10.Exceedsexpectations.Thecommentssay—well,thecommentssaythatyoualwaysdisplayedanenjoymentandenthusiasmtobepresent.Thatyouseemedgenuinelyinterestedineveryaspectofthedatingprocess.”
That’sgoodnews.Butthewayshesaidit—commentssay—she’sremovingherselffromtheequation.Itakeahalf-stepforward.“Andwhataboutyou,Layla?Whatdoyousay?”
“Isay—”Sheblowsoutaslowbreath,hereyesstillonthepaper.Shecrumplestheedgeandthentriestofolditstraight.“IsaythatI’veneverfeltsospecialtoanyoneinmyentirelife,”shewhispers.“IsaythatthewayyousmiledinthefrontseatofyourcarthatveryfirstnightmademethinkIcouldloveyou,justalittlebit.”
Alltheaireasesoutofmylungsinaslow,choppybreath.“Justalittlebit,huh?”
“Hawaiianshirtnotwithstanding.”
“Ofcourse.”
Asmilekicksatthecornerofhermouth.Shekeepslookingatthecardstockinherhands.“Okay.Originality.Another10outof10.Thecommentssaydatesneverfeltorchestratedoroverlyplanned.Dates’interestswerethoroughlyconsideredandapplied.”
“Andyou?”
“Andme.”Layla’seyesfinallyflickupandholdmine.“Idon’tthinkI’veeverlaughedsomuch.IthoughtmaybeIcouldloveyousomemore,withfrozencornoveryoureye.”
Myheartpoundsoutastaccatoinmychest,quickandthundering.“What’snext?”
“Kindness,”shebreathes.“8outof10,andthecommentssaythat’sonlybecauseyou’rekindtoafault.Andyoushoulddomoretoprotectyourselfagainstthingsthatmighthurtyou.”
“Hm.”Itakeanotherstepcloserandreachforherlefthand.Igentlyguideherfistopenandtracethetipofmyfingertipoverherknuckles.
Idon’thavetoaskthistime.Shejusttellsme.
“Isaythatyourkindness,youropenheart,yourcapacitytocareandlove—thoseareallthebestthingsaboutyou.I’vebeen—I’vebeenhavingsuchatoughtime,Caleb,tryingtofindthecouragetotrustmyself.Totrustus.Iwantthistoberealsobad.”
Ithreadmyfingersthroughhers.“Itis,sweetheart.It’sreal,Ipromise.”
Shesqueezesmyhand.“Whichbringsmetomylastpoint.Therandombonuscategory.”Sheswallowsanddropsthepapertoherside,lettingitgo.IwatchitdriftontheedgesofawindbeforemygazeisswallowedupbyLaylabeneaththeafternoonsun,paintedingoldsandpinksandbright,summerblues.Atentativesmileandloveshininglikeabeaconinherprettyeyes.Myheartfeelslikeit’sgoingtofalloutofmydamnedchest.
“Thiswholetime—IthinkI’vebeenfallinginlovewithyou,”shetellsme.“Ididn’trecognizeitbecauseI’veneverfeltitbefore.AndwhenIdid,whenIrealized,Ikindoffreakedout.I’mstillkindoffreakingoutaboutit.ItturnsoutthethingIwantedmostisprettyscarywhenitcomesdowntoit.You’regoingtohavetobepatientwithme.”
“Icandothat,”Igritout,voicethick.“IthinkI’vebeenfallinginlovewithyouforawhile,Layla.Onebuttercroissantatatime.”
Onesmile,onesecret,onesofttouchatatime.
Hersmileisasoft,tremulousthing.Iwanttotraceitwithmythumb.Iwanttopaintitinthesky.Iwantiticedontopofacake.
“Good,”shesays.“BecauseI’dliketodiscusstermsforanewarrangement.”
Imovecloserandreachforastrandofhercaramelhair.Irubitcarefullybetweenmythumbandforefingerthentwirlitaroundtwiceandtug.Shesmilesatmeandsomethingcascadesthroughmychest,warmandlovely.
“Anewarrangement,huh?”
Shenodsandgrabstwofistfulsofmyt-shirt,tuggingmeevencloser.“Yeah.”
Mynosebumpshers.“Ithoughtyoudidn’twantanymorearrangementsbetweenus.”
“Thisoneisdifferent.”
“Tellme.”
“Well,tostart—”ShenudgesmewithhernoseuntilItipmychinup,hermouthatthespacejustabovemyheart.Shecurlsherarmsaroundmywaistandpressesasoftkissjustthere.
“Dates,”shesaysintomyt-shirt.“Iwantlotsofthem.”
Ihumandrockusbackandforthlightly.“Ithinkwecandothat.”Ipause.“Aslongasit’snottheescaperoomagain.”
“Nopromisesonthat.Minustheblackeye,Ithinkthatwentverywell.”
“Ohyes,besidesthat.”
Shegrins,andhereyessoften.“Nomoregrading.Nomorepretense.It’sjustgoingtobemeandyoufromhereonout.Honestwithourselvesandwitheachother.”
Ipressmynoseagainsthertemple.Islipmypalmtothesmallofherbackandtuckherevencloser.Westandtogetherinthemiddleofthetrees.“Ilikehowthatsounds.”
Oneofherhandsreleasesmyshirttocurlaroundthebackofmyneck.Herpalmiscoolinthestickysummerheat,fingersdrumming.“Vanillaicecreamonthebeach,”sheadds.“Kissesintherain.Thesoundyoumake,righthere…”Shetrailsonefingerdownthelineofmyneckandtapsatthehollowofmythroat.“WhenImakeyoufeelgood.”
Imakeasmallerversionofthatsoundrightnow,somethingdeepandwanting.Itughertighteragainstme.“Buttercroissants,”Isay,myvoicelow.“Strawberryshortcake.Youtellmewhatyouneed,whenyouneedit.I’llberightherenexttoyou.”
Shenods.Shetipsherheadbackuntilhereyescansearchmine,wideandopenbeneaththeendlesssummersky.Myheartlurches,andeverythingIambelongstoher.
“Onemorething,”shesays.
Inodandtuckherhaircarefullybehindherears.“Whatisit?”
“Fallinginlove,”shesays.“Fallingtogether.”
Islipmyhanddownhernecktothecenterofherchest.Mypinkycatchesinthecollarofherdress.IspreadmyfingersoutwideuntilIcanfeelthegentlepulseofherheartbeneathherskin.“Iagreetoyourterms.”
“Good,”shesays.Sheletshermouthbrushmine,backandforthonce.Shetasteslikestrawberriesandchampagne.Buttercreamicing.Myfavoritekindofforever.“Becausethesetermsarenon-negotiable.”
“Finally.We’reinagreement.”
Shesmilesintoourkissjustasatearslipsdownhercheek.
Relief.Pure,perfecthappiness.
ThebestarrangementI’veeveragreedto.
Igrinandpullherfacetomine.
“Finally.”EPILOGUELAYLATWOYEARSLATER
“Whatishappening?”
I’mfrozenintheentryofthekitchen,Caleb’sshirtskimmingmythighsandalukewarmcupofcoffeeinmylefthand.Hewokeupbeforemethismorninganddeliveredittomynightstandlikehealwaysdoes,thecrosswordleftwaitingandagentlekissjustbelowmyear.It’smyfavoritewaytowakeup.
Well.Second-favoritewaytowakeup.MyfavoritewayinvolvesCalebandhismouthtracingameanderingpathdownthesoftskinofmybelly,hishandspushingmythighswideandhisteethgrazingmytattoo.
Calebturnshalfwayandglancesatmeoverhisshoulder.“What?”
Standinglikethat,Icanseethepicturethathangsoverthestove.AcutoutfromBaltimoreMagazinewithoneofthepicturestheyfeatured.
Myfavoritepicture.
Init,Calebissittingatthatlittletableinthecornerwithafloweryteacupinhishand,legssplatteredwithmudanddirt,faceexhausted.Buthe’slookingatmewithsuchtenderaffectionIfeelitlikeakissagainstthebackofmyneck.Aknuckleundermychin.InthepictureI’mbehindthecounterandhe’satthetable.He’slookingatmelikeI’vehungthedamnmoon.
IthinkIhaveforty-sevencopiesofthatmagazine.
Itaketwoshufflingstepsforwardandslideontoastool.Whenwedecidedtomoveintogether,wedidn’tchoosehisplaceandwedidn’tchoosemine.Wechoseanewhousealtogether,rightbehindthebakehouseinthemiddleofLovelightFarms.Constructiontookawhile,butthekitchenishugeandIgettosleepinalittlebitlaterinthemornings.
AndCalebgetstowalkmetoworkeverysingleday.
Idropmychininmyhandsandrollmylipsagainstasmile.“Areyouwearingaharness?”
HeturnsfullyandIfinallygetagoodlookattheblackstrapsoverhisshoulders.ItisaharnessandrightinthemiddleofhisbarechestisPoppy—thetinylittlegalBeckettrescuedandcoercedCalebintoadopting.Hetoldhimshewassupposedtobeapolicedog,butIcan’tpictureit.
Firstofall,Ithinksheweighstenpoundssoakingwet.Andsecond,Idon’tthinkI’veheardherbarkonce.
Sheisthesweetestlittlething.IwentwithCalebthedayhemether.Hegotdownonhiskneesandheldouthishandforher,palmup.Shetookonelookathim,curledupinhislap,andfellrightasleep.They’vebeeninseparableeversince.
Including,apparently,duringbreakfastpreparation.
Calebturnsbackandforth,Poppysafelystrappedtohischestwithaseriesofbuckles.Shetiltsherheadupandstaresathimadoringly.
“What?”heasks.“Isittoomuch?”
Ishakemyheadandhuffalaugh.“Justenough.”
Hegrinsatme.Myfavoritehalf-grinthatmakeshisdimplesblinkawake.“Good,becausebreakfastisready.”
Heslidesagreasybacon,eggandcheesebagelacrossthecountertomeandmystomachmakesanappreciativegrumble.ApparentlyCalebmadeallthosebagelsandwicheshebroughtmewhenwefirststarteddating.Hemakesthemformeonweekends,now.Andonspecialoccasions.
Todayisneitherofthosethings.
HeremovesPoppyfromtheharnessonhischestandpressesaquickkisstohernose,droppingherinthefluffybedshapedlikeamuffininthecornerofthekitchen.It’sperfectlysituatedinapatchofsunlight,hersmallearsperkedupasshemakesthreetinycirclesandcollapsesinaheap.HereyesfollowCalebashemovesaroundthekitchen,wipingthingsdownandputtingawayingredients.
Minedo,too.
Iwatchtheflexofhisbareshouldersashereachesinthefridge.Thestronglineofhisbicepsashepourshimselfanothermugofcoffee.We’vebeentogetheralmosttwoyearsnow,andIstillcan’tquitegetoverhim.LovingCalebfeelslikestardustandcupcakesandreallygoodwine.AwarmththatstartssomewhereinmychestandrollsoutuntilIfeelitlikesunshineonmyskin.Constant.Effusive.Lovely.
Istillgetunsure.Istillhavedoubtsaboutmyselfandhowwefittogether.Buthehelpsmethroughit.Hislipsatthebackofmyneckandhisstrongarmsaroundmywaist,hehelpsme.
Ispentalongtimelookingfortherightkindoflove,onlyforittowalkrightthroughthefrontdoorofmybakehouseeveryMonday,Wednesday,andFriday.Wetalkaboutitalot.Iliketowhinehowlongittookmetoseehimontheothersideofthatcounter.Caleblikestosmile,rubhisthumbundermyearandtellme,Itallworkedoutintheend.
Hecatchesmestaringandraisesonedarkeyebrow,ablushrisinginresponse.Ilovethathestillblusheswithme.ThatIcanstillmakethatpinkflaretolifeonhischeekswithasinglelook.
Itakeamonstrousbiteofmybagel.
“W’has’ocasjon?”
Caleb’ssmilewidens.“Whatwasthat?”Hereachesforthenewspaperfoldedupontheedgeofthecounterandflipsthroughituntilhefindstherecipesection.Hehandsittomewithoutaword,tuckingitneatlyundertheedgeofmyplate.
Iswallowaroundperfectlycrispbaconandcheesyegg.“Whatistheoccasion?”
“Ican’tjustmakeyouabagelwheneverIwant?”
Suspicionblooms.Inarrowmyeyes.“You’realwaysmorethanwelcometo.It’sjust—youalsohaveyourshirtoff.”
Heglancesdownathisbarechest,eyebrowsraised.Hispalmsmoothesattheskinbetweenhispecs,driftingdownthelineofhisabstohisbellybutton.Iammesmerized.I’mprettysureapieceofbagelfallsoutofmymouthandlandsontheedgeofthecountertop.
“Idohavemyshirtoff.”
IplacemysandwichdownandreachforCaleb’sglassoforangejuice.Mygazeisstillstucksomewherebetweenhisarmsandthehemofhissleeppants.“Itmakesmethinkyouhavearequest.”
BagelsandwichesandashirtlessCalebareaprettymuchguaranteedwaytogetmetoagreetoanything.It’showhegotmetotrimbackmyhoursatthebakeshoplastsummerwhenIkeptfallingasleepstandingupatthebackmixer.It’salsohowhegotmetoagreetoacouple’sfishingtripwithBeckettandEvelyn.
Neveragain.
“Ah.Yeah.Aboutthat.”Hebracesbotharmsagainstthecountertop,faceserious.Myheartflip-flopsinmychest.Alittlebitofapprehension,butmostlyalotofjoy.Happiness,too.It’seasiertotrustmyselfwhenIwakeupnexttothisman.WhenhisfaceisthefirstthingIseewhenIwakeupandthelastthingIseebeforeIgotobed.“Iwantedtoaskyousomething.”
“Ifyouwanttogoonanothercouple’stripwithBeckett,I’mgoingto—”
“No,no.”Hisgrintugsfurtheruntilthelinesbyhiseyesdeepen.“It’snotthat.”
“Oh.Whatisitthen?”
Calebpushesoffthecountertopandreachesinthepocketofhisfadedflannelpajamabottoms.I’mbusymakingeyesatmybagelsandwichsoIalmostmissitwhenhedropswhateveritisonthecounterandslidesitacross.Itbumpsupagainstmyknuckles,andIalmostfumbletheglassoforangejuicewhenIrealizewhatitis.
Asmallblackbox,nobiggerthanmyfavoritetinyspatula.Velvet.Ahingeononeside.
Istareatitandthenstareatitsomemore.Myheartthundersinmychest.Calebclearshisthroat.
Ilookupathim.Pinkcheeks.Messyhair.Myfavoritetwodimples.He’ssmilingatmewithhisheartinhiseyes—thatbig,beautifulheartthatwaitedandwaitedforme.Theonethatchangedmylife.Hehastoclearhisthroattwomoretimesbeforehecanmanagethethinghewantstosay.
“Layla.”Hisvoiceishushedinthequietofourkitchen,asmiletuckedattheedges.“Ithinkweshouldrevisitthedetailsofourarrangement.”
THEENDOTHERBOOKSBYB.K.BORISON
LovelightFarms
Luka&Stella’sStory
InTheWeeds
Beckett&Evelyn’sStoryCOMINGSOON
Charlie’sstorywillarriveinFall2023.
Signupforbookalertstoreceivethelatestnews.THANKYOU
ThankyoufromthebottomofmyheartforlettingLovelightintoyours.Ihopeyouknowitmeanstheveryworldtome
E,Iknowit’shardtolosemetootherworldsduringthemonthsIspendwritingthesebooks,butpleaseknowthelovestoriesIwriteareonlypossiblebecauseofthelovewehaveandthelovewegrowtogether.Ourlittlefamilyismyfavoritelovestory,andmyfavoritetoreadagainandagain.IpromiseI’lltakeabreaknow.
Annie,sharingthiswithyouisthebestsortofgift.Iamespeciallygratefulforitthisyearandhowselflessyoucontinuetobedespiteyourownuniversebeingshakenup.Yourcapacityforloveandgenerosityandkindnessarethethingsthatshinebrightestaroundyou.IhopeyoualwaysknowhowmuchItreasureyouandourfriendship.Iholditveryclosetomyheart.There’sacornerofLovelightwithagardenwaitingandtheflowersarealwaysinbloom.
Sam,yourtalentisonlyoutshinedbyyourkindness.Itreasureeverysinglecoveryoucreateformeandholdthemclosetomyheart.
Britt,whatadelightitwastoworkwithyouonthisproject.Ilovedeverysecondofit,andI’msogratefulforyourwork,yourbigheart,andyourenthusiasmtodothingsveryquickly.Thankyouforbeingflexiblewithawildlychaotictimelineandalwaysgivingmethebestpartsofyourself.
Sarah,thankyouforholdingmyhandandlisteningtomyramblingmessagesandsittingwithmeincitybarsaswetalkaboutfictionalcharacters.Myveryfavoriteplacetobeisintheseatnexttoyou,talkingaboutpeople,places,andthingsthatonlyexistinourheartsandheads.
Adri,therewillalwaysbepizzacrustswaitingforPoppyatMatty’s.ThanksforlendingmeyourbabyandgivinghertoCaleb.
Andlastbutnotleast,anextraspecialthankyoutoKelseyandMarisolforjumpinginandhelpingmakethisstorybetter.Kelsey,inmymindyouareCanada’sfinestexport.YouhavebeensuchalovelypresenceinmylifeandI’mgrateful.Marisol,youreyesonthisbookareextraspecialtomeandIcan’tthankyouenoughfortakingthetime.IneverthoughtI’dfindsuchlovelypeopleonInstagramandIamso,sograteful.
Icouldn’tdoanyofthiswithoutallofyou.Thankyouforlettingmetellstories.ABOUTTHEAUTHOR
B.K.BorisonlivesinBaltimorewithhersweethusband,vivacioustoddler,andgiantdog.Shestartedwritinginthemarginsofbookswhenshewasinmiddleschoolandhasn’tstopped.
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