Page 112 of Mixed Signals
“What?” I breathe.
There’s more commotion on the other end of the line, and then I hear the very clear voice of Stella whisper-yelling, “Charlie, what in the actual hell?”
“What?” he whispers back, phone angled slightly away from his mouth. His voice sounds tinny and far away. “She said get him to the bakehouse.”
“She didn’t say give him a heart attack.”
“Fine.” His exhale is loud in my ear. “Hey, Caleb? Sorry about that, man. You need to get to the bakehouse. There’s a fire.”
“Charlie!”
There’s a scuffle on the other end of the phone. I hear muffled cursing, a sound like someone’s just dunked their head underwater and a thud. Then Stella’s voice is on the line, apologetic and soft.
“Caleb?”
I have no idea what’s going on.
“Is Layla okay?”
“She’s fine. Don’t—don’t listen to Charlie.” She sighs and mumbles something on the other end of the phone that I don’t quite catch. “Do you think you could swing by the bakehouse? Layla wants to see you.”
My heart pounds in my chest. It’s a combination of strain from my run, adrenaline from Charlie scaring the shit out of me, and apprehension that Layla actually wants to see me. A thought occurs.
“Are you guys meddling?”
Stella hums. “This is probably about twenty-five percent meddling, but it’s well-intentioned.” She pauses and lowers her voice. “She just needs a nudge. I promise she wants to see you, Caleb.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
It’sthe longest half-hour of my life.
I abandon all traces of apprehension on the second half of my run. I set a new personal best on my way back home and practically fall up my porch steps, knocking over a vase and an umbrella as soon as I’m in the entryway of my house. I take a quick shower and pull a random t-shirt over my head and trip out to my Jeep like the bakehouse really is on fire. Like my house is on fire, too.
By the time I pull into the little gravel parking lot behind the bakehouse, my heart is thundering in my chest. I try to manage my expectations, hands flexing on the steering wheel. It’s possible this isn’t anything at all. Maybe I left something here earlier in the week. Maybe she needs me to try a new recipe.
Or maybe she wants to tell me she made a mistake, asking me to come three days a week. Maybe she wants to tell me to stay away.
I blow out a deep breath.
Best just to get it over with.
I pass my hands over the branches as I walk along the path. It’s one of my favorite parts of this place, the massive flat stones laid carefully among the trees. It feels like you’re the best sort of lost, wandering a path that’s familiar and treasured. Footprints dot either side of the path from those who have already come and gone this morning. Sunlight is muted, hidden by thick branches. It’s like being somewhere else entirely. Inside a snow globe, maybe. Or a postcard.
I turn the last corner and it’s my second favorite part of walking up to Layla’s. I can see right through the big windows in the front to Layla, standing behind the counter, a scarf in her hair and her head ducked down in concentration. Even all the way back here, I can see the way she’s got her tongue caught between her teeth. Her body angled slightly to the left as she works.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The most beautiful thing I ever will see.
She glances up from the counter and spots me, standing just outside the edge of the trees. A smile starts slowly as she places her icing bag to the side, spreading wider the longer she looks at me. I move towards her.
I feel like I’ve always been moving towards her.
She comes out from behind the counter and pokes her head out the front door.
“Hey,” she says, that smile still on her face like she’s glad to see me. Hope beats a wild war drum in my chest. “What are you doing here?”
“You were trapped in a freezer,” I offer. Her face crumples in confusion. “Nevermind. Charlie was being … Charlie.” I scratch at the back of my head and try to shake off all my nervous energy. It’s just Layla. “Did you want to see me?”
