Page 111 of Mixed Signals
I pick up my fork again with a frown and poke at some of my eggs. “It doesn’t feel like such a good thing.”
It feels like the worst thing. It feels like the thing that keeps hurting me, over and over again. I have no idea if Layla will change her mind or not. If she’ll ever want me the same way I want her. Right now my big heart feels like a big curse.
My grandmother’s hand reaches out and curls over mine. She squeezes. “It is the best thing,” she says fiercely. “I know our family worries about you, about your unguarded heart. But it makes you kind and generous.” She sucks in a deep, wavering breath. “Your grandfather would be so proud of the man you are. You must promise me that you will never stop trusting your heart.”
I think of Layla’s face behind the counter when I walked in earlier. The tears she was desperately trying to hide, the tremor in her hands. I think of my lips against her forehead, my body tucked tight against hers. How it felt to have to walk away from her.
“What if it’s wrong this time?”
“It’s not,” she says, quick and sharp. “Don’t you think that girl deserves someone who offers their full heart? Don’t you think, after all of these men she has wasted her time with, that she deserves someone who will return her affection without thinking twice?”
Something in my chest eases. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what she deserves.” I blow out a deep breath and look at the table top. Layla’s worth waiting for. I know that. It’s just hard to see her and feel all the distance between us. Phantom pains, almost. Right in the center of my chest. I glance up at my grandmother. “I’ll keep trusting my heart.”
My grandmother nods. “Bueno.” She scoops a spoonful of food out of her bowl and pops it into her mouth. I can feel her considering me, her warm eyes narrowed in concentration.
“What is it?”
“Perhaps this is the reason you’ve had such trouble with women in the past.”
“What is?”
She smiles, the lines by her eyes deepening. “Because it has never been the right woman.”
I’m halfwaythrough my morning run through the park when my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID, see Charlie’s name, and promptly ignore it.
I need time to decompress, not discuss something ridiculous. The last time he called, he tried explaining the benefits of finger guns as a pick-up tool. Another time it was a video call from the inside of a J.Crew dressing room and he wanted to know which cable knit sweater matched his eyes better.
I shove my phone back in the waistband of my shorts, turning around the bend without losing my stride. With every slap of my shoes against the pavement, I think of Layla. Her laugh. Her smile. Her god damned butter croissants that I’m craving like my next fix. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to abstain from them while we’re apart. I think some part of me wanted to show her that I can try different things. I don’t know. It felt like a good idea at the time.
But fuck, I miss those croissants.
My phone rings again, vibrating against the small of my back. I ignore it.
It vibrates again. And again.
I resist the urge to fling it into the woods, but it’s a close thing. I answer on a frustrated panting breath, my sweat-soaked hair falling into my eyes. I push it back.
“What?”
“Inglewild phone tree calling,” Charlie sing-songs. “Here to pass along a message.”
“Since when?”
“Since when, what?”
“You don’t usually call me. Darlene does.”
“Ah.” There’s a muffled sound on the other end of the phone. Like he’s just fallen down a flight of stairs or he’s single-handedly putting up a last stand against a family of raccoons. “Well. There’s been some restructuring.”
“Restructuring?”
“You heard me, bear cub. Don’t ask questions. Do you want the message or not?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I swear I have a constant headache these days. “What’s the message, Charlie?”
“Word on the street is Layla locked herself in the freezer at the bakery.”
My stomach plummets. Panic pulls every inch of my body tight. I imagine the absolute worst, her small body huddled up in the corner of her industrial freezer.
