Page 75 of Mixed Signals
“Or maybe you’re too tall,” she argues, somewhere below my collarbone.
“Yeah, maybe that. But there was someone giving you crap about a cake at the counter. They said you got the icing wrong and they didn’t want it if it was wrong and you just—you looked so flustered and a little bit sad and I wanted to—” I remember the anger burning in my chest, the quick roll of it down my shoulders. A burn in the palms of my hands. “I was still Deputy and I figured punching the guy in the face wouldn’t be appropriate, so. I waited. He left, and he left his cake too, and when I asked you what you were going to do with it, you sort of did this little shrug and looked at the pretty flowers on top like they were the worst thing you’d ever seen, and—” And it had broken my heart, a little bit, to watch her stand behind the counter and try not to cry. “So I bought the cake. And Layla, it was the best cake I’d ever had in my whole life.”
Her hands rise from her sides and press against my ribs. Her fingers fan out.
“And I liked—” I halt. This is the hard part. The part I’m not so sure about. This is where I feel every failed conversation with a woman like a brand against my skin. I don’t want to be too much right now, not for Layla.
I want to be just enough.
“I liked opening the fridge in the middle of the night for a glass of water and seeing your cake box there. I liked having a slice in the morning with my coffee and staring at the little flowers on top. Sometimes you bite the tip of your tongue when you’re piping designs on the top of your cakes. Did you know that?”
I would sometimes come early to pick up my cake, just so I could watch her face transform in concentration. The careful and quiet joy that blossomed in her smile, like her tiny daisies piped in icing.
I keep that part to myself, though. “I kept it to one slice a day. When there was just a little bit of cake left, I started making the slices smaller. And then, when I had the last sliver with my coffee because I couldn’t entertain the idea of waiting until after work, I stared at the empty box of crumbs and thought,why don’t I just order another?I was—” I laugh, feeling self-conscious and stupid and a million other jumbled up things that sit heavy in my head and heart. “I was so nervous to call and order another one.”
I called twice and hung up, stomped a lap around my kitchen, braced my hands on my hips and glared at my phone on the kitchen table. By the time I finally called, Layla wasn’t even the one to take my order. I remember thinking how stupid I was being, over acake.
“I thought you had a string of Alvarez birthday parties and you were responsible for the cake,” she mumbles into the shoulder of my shirt, rubbing her nose back and forth against the material. Her voice sounds suspiciously thick.
“No. I was not responsible for the cake.” I huff a laugh. I took sole ownership over those cakes, and I got a new waistline measurement to prove it. “I never knew why I kept ordering cakes. I just liked seeing you, I think. I liked being around you. I still like all of that, Layla.”
She sniffles and clings to me tighter. Every pound of my heart feels like it’s trying to fight its way through muscle and tendon and bone to get to her. I’m standing on a ledge here, hoping—
I don’t know what I’m hoping for.
I guess I’m just hoping.
I drag my hand up the length of her back and sift my hand under her hair, cup my palm against the back of her neck. “So, yeah. I don’t think all of this is because of our arrangement. I think some of this is me, and some of this is you, and some of this is us. All of this is good though, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“I think we can figure this next part out together. Just—just keep telling me what you need.”
She finally pulls away from my chest and tips her chin up, her eyes surprisingly clear and bright. She has a slight crease under her right eye to the apple of her cheek from where her face rested against my shirt, a delicate little line of where she bumped up against me. I like it too much, probably.
Her eyes search mine, back and forth. Her nose scrunches and I trace my thumb over the muted line.
“You tell me what you need, too,” she finally says. “That’s how we do this. We have to keep talking to each other.”
“I like talking to you.”
It feels like a stupid thing to say until her cheeks turn pink and a timid smile starts to bloom. I cup her face in my palm so I can watch as it blossoms into a grin. She turns her head and presses a kiss right in the middle of my hand. I wish I could curl my fingers around that, too.
“I like talking to you, too.”
I sigh, feeling lighter than I have in ages, and take a step closer. “I do have a request, actually, now that you mention it.”
“You do, huh?”
“I do.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
I nudge under her ear with my nose and press a single, lingering kiss on the soft skin beneath. I grin when her hands clench in the front of my shirt and she tries to pull me closer. Layla might have trouble verbalizing what she needs, but she never has any problem showing me.
“More hand holding,” I whisper. One of my hands reaches for hers and I tangle our fingers together. “More butter croissants.”
More running through the rain. More beach picnics with our feet in the sand, strawberry shortcake in containers. Less escape rooms and roller rinks, probably, but I’m flexible on that if it’s something she wants.
