Page 106 of Mixed Signals
“I think you like dating idiots,” she says with a bark. She snatches the piping bag out of my hands and nudges me out of her way.
My spine snaps straight. I can feel both of my eyebrows climbing up my forehead. Another lick of irritation adds to the inferno building in my chest. I haven’t slept soundly in days and Beatrice thinks it’s a good idea to come into my kitchen and insult me? “Pardon me?”
Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head to the side, fixing the horrible icing job I was doing at the border of the tart. I was trying to line them with hearts, but they all look like sad little ghosts instead. It feels appropriate.
Beatrice doesn’t look up. “You heard me.”
“I did.”
“Then what’s the question?”
“Uh, my first question is: what the hell are you talking about?” I bump her out of the way with my hip, but she just circles around to the other side and yanks my tray over with her. “Second question is: why the hell are you talking about it?”
“The whole phone tree is talking about it,” she mumbles. “And you shouldn’t try to do any skill work when you’re in shambles,” she adds, louder.
“The phone tree?” No point in addressing the shambles piece. She’s right about that.
Beatrice looks up with a sigh. “Yes. The phone tree. You’ve heard of it?”
“I’m familiar. But I haven’t gotten any messages since—”
I think back. The last message I got was something about a new chicken pesto pizza at Matty’s. Luka called Jesse at the bar who called Dane—who, I’m sure, was shocked at the news considering he sleeps in the same bed as Matty every single night—who then called Susie who then called me. That must have been—
I freeze as realization strikes, quick and sharp. I haven’t received a single message since Caleb and I started our arrangement. Caleb mentioned a couple of weeks ago that he wasn’t getting anything either, and I know how Darlene likes to inundate him with mundane things. Beatrice snickers again, low and amused. “Did you figure it out?”
“Does the entire town really have nothing better to do than to pass along gossip about people who may or may not be dating?”
“I can’t believe you even need to ask yourself that question,” Beatrice says. “And you were the only two who insisted that you weren’t dating. It looked a lot like regular dating to the rest of us.”
“Alright, I’m—” Still trying to come to terms with everything, but my brain skips back to the rocky start of this uneven conversation. “Hold on a second. Let’s go backwards.”
“Thought you might.”
“I don’t like dating idiots.”
“Sure you do.”
“No, I don’t. It’s why I agreed to the dating thing with Caleb to begin with. I wanted to try something different. I wanted to feel good, for once.”
Beatrice sets down the piping bag on the counter and moves the finished tart to the tray I’ve been lining them up on. She grabs another, but doesn’t move to fix the wobbly lines. She just looks at it for a long time, twists it to the left, and then to the right. Then she gently picks it up and puts it right next to the perfect one.
“And are you still dating Caleb?”
My heartbeat thunders in my chest. It feels like I’m out in that field all over again, watching his face crumple in confusion, then transform into stark, disappointed understanding. Like he could see this coming from a mile away. Like the terms of our arrangement were all we’d ever get.
“No.” My voice cracks at the start and at the end of that very simple word.
“Then my point remains.” Beatrice nudges the tray back in my direction and reaches for one of her discarded boxes. She opens it and pulls out one pristine, perfect shortbread square. Sets it down in front of her and reaches for another piping bag that I never bothered to fill. “You like to date these silly, stupid boys because it’s easier. It’s easier to have a stupid man disappoint you, then a good man break your heart. One of those things is significantly kinder to recover from than the other.”
I blink once, and then twice. I curl my fingers around the edge of the baking tray. “You think I’m afraid?”
“Yes.”
Something in my chest rattles and then falls silent. An acknowledgement, I think. Silence weaves between us as I stand stock still at the counter and Beatrice continues to work diligently on the cookies she brought with her. I think she came to give me some company—in her own stubborn, aggressive, curmudgeon way.
I watch her work and the words slip out.
“I want to stop being afraid,” I whisper. “When will I stop being afraid?”
