Page 86 of Mixed Signals
TWENTY-ONE
CALEB
I didn’t realizewe only had a week left.
I think I stopped keeping track after the escape room incident. Maybe our picnic on the beach. It’s easy enough to get swept away by Layla, so I don’t exactly blame myself for not marking the days with a bright red “X” on the dog eared calendar taped to the side of my fridge.
I don’t know how I feel about it. The deep swell of hesitation in the pit of my stomach feels a bit too dramatic, and the anxiety clawing at the back of my throat feels like too much, too. At the start of this we said that things would go back to normal between us. We agreed that there wouldn’t be any bad blood, but … will I be able to stand on the other side of her counter three days a week and pretend everything is normal? How do I stop … wanting her so much? Will I be able to watch her smile and laugh and spin around the bakehouse and not want to press my lips to the edge of her smile? Feel the joy thrumming through her? Fan my fingers out between her shoulder blades and tuck her closer to me?
Layla had joked about it earlier—our last date together. Maybe I need to take a step back. Get some perspective. Isn’t that what I am trying to get better at doing?
An end to our arrangement doesn’t have to be a bad thing. In fact, it could be a very good thing. Maybe—maybe this could be the start of a new thing. A more serious, intentional thing.
I’d love to stop thinking about the wordthing.
I fall back on Layla’s couch with a huff, my palms digging into my eyes until I see spots.
I just have to convince her that I’m worth the chance.
“What’re you thinking about?” she yells from her kitchen.
“My croissant tattoo,” I yell back. But really I’m sitting on her couch with my feet propped up on her coffee table trying to figure out what sort of date might tip the balance on the Layla scale in my favor. What sort of thing might leave her wanting to reconsider the terms of our arrangement.
I’m also trying not to fall asleep. And wondering why no one told me my t-shirt is on backwards and inside out. My heavy eyes slip further shut and I reach for one of her throw pillows, cradling it close to my chest.
This couch is soft. Comfortable. Warm.
It’s possible the day is catching up with me.
I’m exhausted and nestled into a couch that smells like whipped cream and sugar, hints of fresh baked bread and warm pie crust. It’s like being in a cloud or a … dream. It might be a dream, actually. It might be my favorite sort of dream.
Especially when Layla pads in from the kitchen with a plate in each hand. I perk up a bit and glance at the slices of pie she’s holding. Questions slip through my mind like wisps of smoke or bubbles in a champagne glass. As soon as I catch the edge of one, another replaces it. When does she make all of this stuff? Where is she hiding it? Is she tired at all?
Luckily, I’m able to voice the most important one.
“Is that blueberry?”
I practically slur the words. I sound drunk. Sixteen bottles deep.
“It is.” She sets the plates down on the table out of reach. If I had even an ounce of energy, I’d be reaching for that pie. As it is, I sprinted the length of the farm twice over gathering wildflowers for the bakehouse and my legs feel like they have decided to call it a day ahead of the rest of my body. Layla collapses on the couch next to me and all I can manage is a subtle tilt of my body. My eyes slip shut and I rest my chin on top of her head. She curls into me.
“You look like you need a nap more than you need some pie.”
“I always need pie,” I mumble.
She sifts her fingers through my hair, nails scratching at my scalp. I make an embarrassing noise that’s part whimper, part growl. She huffs a laugh.
“Take a nap. The pie will be here when you wake up.”
“Will you stay with me for a little bit?” I like the way she feels with her body next to mine, her fingertips working down my neck in smooth, easy glides.
“Yeah.” She presses a kiss against the hollow of my throat and I slip both arms around her waist. “The pie will keep.”
I wakeup face-down on the couch, one of my legs hanging off the edge and a chunky cable knit blanket thrown over half of my body. I can hear Layla in the kitchen humming along to a song on the radio, a mumbled string of lyrics every now and again that are definitely wrong. Socked feet shuffle across the floor, an uneven step that tells me she’s dancing. Or trying to, I think, as she thunks her knee on a cabinet with a muffled curse. I smile into a throw pillow.
My dreams come back to me in flashes of color and sensation. There’s a heaviness in my chest, a warm curl of wanting that coils tighter the longer I listen to Layla in the kitchen. A lick of comfort, too, in all the sounds and smells that fill her home—in the place she’s carved out for me in it. The simple joy of listening to another person inhabit the space around me.
Layla hums a little louder—just slightly off key—and some of the loneliness that feels like a constant companion eases. A knot unravels around my heart.
