Page 14 of Mixed Signals
“In case you get sick,” I say.
His mouth settles into a grim line. “Not a bad idea.”
It’s a silent drive as Alex does his best to keep himself together in his seat and I do my best not to catastrophize in mine. Was Layla waiting for me this morning? Did she already make a decision? Is she going to laugh in my face? Or worse, will she pretend like we never had the conversation in the first place? I won’t be able to walk into her bakery ever again.
Christ, that would mean I have to give up croissants.
I can feel Alex staring at the side of my face. I meet his stare as soon as we hit a stop sign. He used to get the same look on his face when we were kids and he was about to con me out of the last concha.
“What?” I ask.
He slumps down further in his seat. “Did I see Layla at the bar on Saturday, or was that the influence of seven daiquiris and a platter of crab dip?”
“She was there.”
“Did I also see you leave with her?”
“We talked about this with you before we left. We both said goodbye.”
“Do I need to remind you how much alcohol I consumed on Saturday?”
Fair point. “I drove her home. Her date ditched her and she needed a ride.”
Alex makes a grumbling, disapproving noise. “What an asshole.”
“Yup.” I haven’t been so kind when thinking of the man she had dinner with. I’ll never understand how anyone could sit across from Layla and be anything other than mesmerized. Her smile. Her wry humor. The absolute joy she radiates when she talks about … anything. Did he even realize how lucky he was to have all of her attention? I’ve seen her three days a week for the past five years and I don’t think she’s noticed me once.
Although, maybe she has. I don’t know. I didn’t realize she had a rule about not dating people in town. That makes me feel slightly better.
“So you … drove her home.”
“I did.”
Alex hums, somehow managing to infuse those three syllables with enough smug satisfaction to make my teeth clench.
We roll to a stop at a red light. The only red light, really, in this tiny town. I usually like living in a small town, close to all of my family. But on days like today, I’d really love to be a little anonymous.
Alex’s face is fully against the passenger side window, his hands clenched tight around the straps of his bag. And yet he’s still smiling like he knows something I don’t.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
I regret not leaving him on the kitchen floor. “What, Alex?”
“Did you place an order for a custom cake on your drive back?”
I punch him in the arm as hard as I can while maintaining a grip on the steering wheel. He cackles in delight and rubs at his bicep.
I went through a … phase … not too long ago. A phase where I ordered a custom cake from Layla’s bakery every two weeks.
I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. Not really. I just liked seeing her, spending time with her. Ten pounds later, I decided I needed to let that little buttercream addiction go.
I shift in my seat. “She makes a really good cake.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“The icing,” I mumble, and stop myself halfway through the thought. It’s not worth it. “Shut your mouth.”
