Page 100 of Mixed Signals
“I want you.”
She makes a small sound under her breath. “I know you feel that way now, I just—“ She shakes her head. “I think we need to take a few steps backwards from this. See how we really feel.”
How we really feel. I know how I feel. Now more than ever, I know how she feels, too. I see it every time she looks at me. Every time she reaches for my hand with hers. Iknowit. “Layla.”
“Please,” she whispers. “Please stop saying my name like that.”
“What can I do?”
I want her to tell me how to fix this. I want to know how we can go back to the place where she was rushing to meet me, smile beaming out of her. I want to take all of her fears and crumple them in a ball. Launch it into space. Set it on fire. I want to punch every piece of shit who ever treated her like garbage to begin with. Launch them into space, too.
“I want you to—” She sucks in a sharp breath. “I want you to come into the bakehouse every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I want you to stand across the counter and order one coffee, just cream. I want you to get a butter croissant and not take your first bite until you’re halfway down the front steps. I want you and I to still be okay.”
I stand up until I’m curved around her, shoulders hunched. My hand cups her face, my thumb at her chin. Another two tears drop from her eyelashes and land against the back of my hand. “I don’t know if I can do that, Layla. I don’t know if I can do that and not want you.”
The look on her face cleaves my heart in two. “It’ll fade with time. I promise. It always does.”
I don’t think it will. I’m going to be on the other side of that counter thinking about the patch of freckles on the inside of her elbow. The way her laugh sounds when it’s muffled by a kiss. The tiny tattoo on her hip and roller skates with miniature skulls and crossbones. Vanilla custard on the beach. A pack of frozen produce over my eye and her fingertips gentle against my skin.
Falling in love.
Slowly and carefully and then all at once.
I feel it like a nudge, right between my shoulder blades. Something that twists and pulls until it settles in the center of my chest. Layla is too used to people letting her down. She’s conditioned to brace herself against disappointment.
Has anyone ever fought for her the way she deserves?
Layla clasps her fingers around my wrist and I drop my forehead to hers. Our noses brush together and she lets out a shuddering sigh. I don’t know if she’s holding me against her or pushing me away. It feels a bit like both.
“I’ll still see you?” Her bottom lip brushes mine and my whole body jolts. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday?”
If that’s what she needs. If this is all she’s ready for, if this is how I prove to her that I’m exactly what she deserves to have, then I’ll be the best damn customer the bakehouse has ever had.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
We stand there under the shade of a tree and sway back and forth, clinging to each other. Birds call to each other from the branches. The grasses twist at our ankles. Her lips stay a millimeter away from mine, her hands clutching my wrists.
“Can I ask for something?” I barely manage to get the words out, rocky and rough. “Before we go?”
She tries to smile, but it wobbles at the edges. A pained sound catches in the back of my throat.
“Just the one,” she says.
I clear my throat. “I guess if I only get one, I should pick something good.”
She stares up at me—remembering. Our very first night together. “I guess you should.”
I drag my thumb over the swell of her cheek. The last time she said that, she had been smiling. Now she lets her eyes slip shut, a ragged exhale chasing her words.
“Can I kiss you?” I ask.
She keeps her eyes closed as she nods.
I hold myself still in front of her and wonder how I should kiss Layla Dupree for the very last time. What’s the best way to get someone to remember you? To want you back?
I press my mouth to hers and cup my palm around the back of her neck. We linger there in the space between breaths, standing perfectly, painfully still. I’m afraid to move. I’m afraid of letting this moment end. But it only takes her shuffling another half an inch closer to break me of my careful restraint. I can’t help it with Layla. I’ve never been able to.
I tilt my head and she makes a sound—something low and uneven that hooks in my heart and tugs. Sad, I think. Unsure. I exhale sharply through my nose and kiss her slower. Begging.
