Page 102 of Mixed Signals
I just—I panicked.
I don’t think I’m ready to give Caleb everything he deserves. I meant it when I said I think something might be broken.
“Then who are they for?”
“Not you, Gus.”
“I don’t understand.”
A zing of awareness zips up my spine. Caleb’s voice, the painedI don’t understand. I flinch and shake my head. I sat on my couch last night and ate Caleb’s ugly strawberry shortcake straight out of the container while I stared unseeingly at the television screen.
I don’t understand.
Talk to me.
Layla—
There’s a sliver of it still sitting on my countertop, next to a crumpled up paper bag that used to have a bagel sandwich in it and a half-dried bundle of lavender.
“You can have a blueberry muffin.”
Gus frowns at me. “I don’t want a blueberry muffin.”
He’s about to get the damn blueberry muffin whether he wants it or not via creative method of entry when the bells above the door announce someone’s arrival. I check the clock. 7:43am on the dot. Just enough time to grab his usual and then make it over to the school.
I have to work up the nerve to look up from the counter. His footsteps seem to echo in the small space. Casual. Controlled as usual. My gaze cements somewhere around his waist as he strolls to a stop. Brown leather belt. Pale blue button down shirt. His favorite sunglasses tucked against the collar. I swallow hard and drag my eyes to his.
“Hi.”
He braces his hand against the counter. His brown eyes burn umber, streaks of gold.
“Hey.”
We stand there, staring at each other. It feels like the whole world has crawled to a stop. I drink him in like I haven’t seen him in twelve years, not twelve hours. His shirt is wrinkled at the bottom, like he pulled it from the depths of his dresser drawer. Probably the second one down, where he keeps his nice shirts for work on one side, and old, faded comfy t-shirts on the other. I watched him open that drawer three days ago while I was naked in his bed, the sheets up to my chin. He only had his jeans on, slung low around his hips. He had pulled out an old band shirt and tossed it in my direction with a wicked gleam in his eyes. A suggestion in the lift of his brow. I don’t think I even tugged the sheets all the way off before he was urging me back into them.
I yank myself out of that memory and watch as this version of Caleb drags his fingers through his hair. His hand trembles, the only indication that maybe he’s just as nervous as I am.
I reach for something to say. “What can I get you?”
He opens his mouth and then closes it. Averts his eyes and squints at the menu above my head. Something in my chest fractures and I try not to look at the glass case full of butter croissants.
It doesn’t matter,I tell myself.He doesn’t need to eat a butter croissant.
“I think I’ll have some avocado toast.” His usually deep voice is hoarse. He clears his throat and drags his thumb over his left eyebrow, still squinting. “And a green tea to go.”
I don’t move an inch to get any of the things he just asked for. For some inexplicable reason, I want to cry. “That’s not your order.”
He drops his hand. “What?”
“That’s not—You get a butter croissant. A coffee with cream.”
Caleb searches my eyes, looking for something. His lips twist down in a look that’s far too serious for his handsome face, dimples nowhere in sight. Solemn doesn’t suit him.
He looked solemn last night, too. Solemn and sad.
My chest squeezes.
He doesn’t blink away from me when he says, “I’m going to try something different this time.”
