Page 107 of Mixed Signals
Beatrice smiles and hands me the cookie she’s been working on. A gladiolus in bloom, purple petals reaching up, up, up to an unseen sky. Beckett has lectured me enough about flowers that I know this one blooms with the summer months. A stubborn flower than can blossom again and again if it survives the cold winter months.
“That’s the trouble with falling in love. It’s a messy, ungraceful stumble into a whirlwind of chaos. It doesn’t always feel good. It’s a fall.” She pulls out another shortbread cookie, a smile hooking at the side of her mouth. Her eyes are far away, glassy with remembering. I wonder who she’s thinking about with that look on her face.
Who she fell with. Who she fell for.
“You just have to trust that the person you’re falling with is smart enough to catch you before you hurt anything important.”
He’s late on Monday.
By thirteen minutes.
I try not to spend the entire time staring at the clock, but I’m a bundle of nervous energy. I keep fisting my hands in the material of my apron, tying and retying the scarf in my hair. The third time I slip it out and run it through my fingers, Gus makes atskingsound from the booth in the far corner. He’s taken to sitting there every morning like some grumpy gargoyle, eating all the butter croissants Caleb has abandoned and providing a running commentary that I’m sure he thinks is amusing but really just adds to my agitation.
“He won’t care what you’re wearing,” Gus sing-songs. My cheeks burn hot and I toss a glare in his direction. He shrugs and holds up his hands. “Just sharing my thoughts.”
“Yeah, you’re always sharing your thoughts. No one wants your thoughts.”
“Plenty of people want my thoughts.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Caleb appears seven minutes and two hair scarves later. I see the top of his head as he moves through the thick cluster of trees that surrounds every side of the bakehouse. Messy hair like he’s been running his fingers through it again. My heart automatically speeds to double-time in my chest and I dig the heel of my hand against my sternum. It’s probably not healthy to feel this way every time I see his face.
But here we are.
He rounds the corner where a beautiful Blue Spruce spreads her branches out like open arms—the one Luka has named Spruce Springsteen—while I pretend to restock the red striped paper straws right by the register. He adjusts his bag against his chest and tips his head down, smiling at something—someone, I realize—and that’s when I notice her.
Emma Waterson. The eighth grade English teacher at Inglewild High. Caleb’s co-worker. Caleb’s very pretty, probably very well-adjusted, and emotionally superior co-worker.
They walk through the trees side by side and stroll to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Like the glutton for punishment I am, I keep looking, a handful of straws frozen halfway in mid-air. I watch as Emma steps forward into his space, as she angles her head back and gestures at something with her hands. I watch Caleb’s face twist in amusement, the slight tilt of his head to the right that tells me he’s really listening. Eager and earnest and all the lovely things that make Caleb who he is.
Meanwhile, my stomach feels like it’s filled with glass marbles. A headache threatens at the base of my neck. I’m torn between wanting to hide beneath my countertop and catapulting myself down the front steps. I guess this is what I need to get used to—this iron-hot spike of feeling right in the center of my chest. Jealousy, probably. A touch of regret.
I barely manage to put the straws down before a laugh bursts out of Caleb. I can hear the sound of it through the thick glass of my windows. Warm and low. Smooth, rolling amusement. I can count the times I’ve heard Caleb laugh on a single hand, and all of them were with me. I keep each of those memories tucked close in the secret, sacred place close to my heart—for me and me alone.
And now he’s laughing. With someone else.
All of my fiery resolve tomove ontumbles headfirst into heartbreak.
I look down at the counter as the bell above the door jingles. Heavy footsteps and the bang of his elbow against one of my clear glass jars that’s holding biscotti. He always hits it, no matter how many times I move it just slightly out of his way.
“Hey, Layla.”
His voice is warm. Friendly.
I keep my eyes firmly on the countertop and poke at some of the straws I let tumble out of the glass.
“Hi,” I say back, a storm cloud of feelings. “What can I get you two?”
There’s no reason to be upset by this. I told Caleb our arrangement was over. He’s free to do exactly as he pleases. Emma is beautiful, kind, and an excellent choice for everything Caleb has to offer. She is exactly what he deserves. Probably exactly what he’s looking for.
I bet her croissants taste like garbage though.
“Two?” Caleb sounds confused.
I manage to look up about as high as his chin. I hold my eyes firmly there, unwilling to look anywhere else. “Yes. What can I get you two?”
“Oh, ah—” I watch his hand creep over his shoulder to the back of his neck, his big palm massaging the muscles there. A nervous tic, when he’s not sure what to say. “It’s just me. But I could order two of something, if you wanted?”
