Page 105 of Mixed Signals
I want to grab my best friend by her arms and shake.
“Stella.”
“If you think you only have a couple left, I understand. I really do. You know I do. It can be hard to be brave when you feel like the next disappointment will break you to pieces.”
When Luka confessed his love, Stella quite literally ran for the hills. She didn’t believe she could be loved by the same person she had been loving. She thought her feelings went exactly one way and was terrified to face the consequences of something going wrong and—
Realization slams into me.
“Oh.”
She nods. Takes another aggressive bite of cookie. “There it is.”
“Why does it sound like you have a second part to that statement?”
“Because there is a second part to my statement.” She slips off the shelf and stands in front of me, palms brushing against the seat of her denim shorts. Her lips curve in a gentle smile and she snags another piece of candy out of my bag. “I was going to say, if you have some slivers you’re protecting, that's fine. But I think you need to consider how many slivers actually belong to you, and how many you’ve already given to Caleb. And trust that maybe your heart has finally found the right person to bet on.”
TWENTY-FIVE
LAYLA
“Your tarts look like shit.”
I sigh and resist the urge to slam my forehead into the metal table right next to my tarts that look like shit. It’s shiny and would probably leave a very satisfying dent. But Stella paid extra for the glossy shine and I’d hate for her to waste her money because of damage from my forehead.
“Beatrice.” I lean up from my crouched over position and stretch my neck. It’s a miracle I can even stand straight at all with how many hours I’ve been putting in at the bakehouse. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She gives me a look from just inside the doorway, a stack of shortbread cookies tucked under her arm. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Correct.” I rub my palm over the ache. “But not the third Wednesday of the month. Unless I slipped into a medically-induced coma and somehow woke up without the knowledge.”
Wouldn’t that be nice. I’d love to sleep my way through the next three to six months. Bury my head in the sand until this pressure on my chest disappears.
Caleb has returned every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at exactly the same time, just like he said he would. Just like I asked. He stands on the other side of my counter and squints at the menu like he doesn’t know the damned thing by heart. And when he reaches for whatever nonsense I’ve stress-baked the night before, he shifts his hand just slightly and traces his fingers over the inside of my wrist. The back of my hand. The pad of my thumb. An innocent touch, by any measure, but combined with his heavy looks and his endless patience, I’m just—
I’m balancing on the very edge of losing all of my marbles. Every time he comes in, I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or burst into tears. I’m caught between desperately wanting to move on from our experiments in dating and asking him to start all over again. I’m confused. And upset. And not sleeping very well without my nose pressed into the strong column of his spine, my arm around his waist. All of it is manifesting into a very short temper, and my—my tarts look like shit.
Beatrice snickers and closes the door behind her with a flick of her wrist. She tosses her boxes on the counter in an undignified heap, the corners pressing in on the sides. I flinch. I swear she does it on purpose, knowing how meticulous I am with twine and cardboard.
And how much I value a shortbread cookie.
“Don’t do that,” I snap.
“Do what?” She blinks her eyes innocently and opens my fridge, bending to inspect my bottom shelf. She makes a face and swings it shut again.
“You know what.”
She props her hands on her hips. “I don’t appreciate the tone you’re taking.” She levels a look at me that would have anyone else shaking in their boots. As it is, I know she has a secret knitting habit and she’s been the one making tiny sweaters for Beckett’s cats. She couldn’t be less terrifying if she tried. “What’s gotten into you?”
Stupidity. Fear. A complete and total inability to figure my shit out. A pinch of frustration and a significant amount of wallowing.
“Nothing, I’m—” I drag the palm of my hand across my forehead and feel the swipe of something cool. Great. I’m fairly confident I just swiped lime custard across my forehead.
Maybe I should dip my whole face in it. Then I’ll look like the clown I am.
“I’m fine,” I finish.
Beatrice circles the big island in my tiny kitchen and stands right in front of me. She’s a little bit shorter than I am, but what she lacks in inches she makes up for in presence. She tilts her chin up, a wisp of gray hair brushing against her cheek. She looks like an oil painting of an ancient warrior. I feel like she should be holding a flag and a sword.
