Page 98 of Mixed Signals
She nods, a single curl slipping free from the scarf in her hair to flutter across her face. She pushes it back with her hand. “Okay. That was our plan, right? We’re almost at the one month mark, I think.”
“Today is the one month mark,” I blurt. She blinks quickly, eyelashes fluttering. I need to get control of myself and not just yell things like a lunatic. I take in a deep breath through my nose and let it out slowly. I try again. “Today is the one month mark and I want to end our arrangement.”
“Oh,” she says. If I weren’t watching her so closely, I’d miss the minute way her expression changes. The twist in her bottom lip and the quick flare of pain behind her eyes. She rolls her shoulders back, bracing herself. “Oh,” she says again.
“I was thinking maybe we could—”
“Of course,” she cuts me off quickly, hands against the skirt of her dress. She curls them into fists and then flattens them again. For the first time I notice the tiny strawberries painted on her nails. Pale, pale pink. “Of course, you’re right. We should end our arrangement.”
She doesn’t quite look at me, her eyes somewhere around my knees.
It’s the exact same thing I just said, but her voice is all wrong. Her smile, too, something brittle and broken. “Alright. I—”
“I didn’t realize it had been a month already. I thought we were close, but—” She shakes her head, teeth clamping against her bottom lip briefly. “I’m sorry. Were you waiting long to have this conversation with me? I didn’t mean to drag this out for you.”
“What?”
“You’re probably eager to get back out there.”
I glance over my shoulder. All I see is rolling fields of gold, a big red barn off in the distance by the road. “Get back out … where?”
Finally, she meets my eyes. She watches me carefully, her gaze distant. I don’t think Layla has ever looked at me like this before.
“Dating,” she says with a slight flinch. “For real this time.”
Something sharp and ugly wedges in my gut and I have to swallow three times in a row before I manage to get a single word out. “For real,” I say faintly. Every single thing I’ve ever felt with Layla has been the truest sense of real I’ve ever known. “This time.”
She nods and toys with the edge of her scarf against the curve of her collarbone. Restless, absent movements. “I’m sorry you had to bring it up with me. It looks like it’s been weighing on you.”
It has been weighing on me. Every time I close my eyes, I see Layla. Every time I roll over in my bed, I feel her bare skin against my fingertips. Every time I saw this damned date on my calendar, my chest seized and my breath came short. It has been weighing on me, but only because I want more. I want all of the pieces she’s given me and the rest, too. I want every smile, every croissant, every brush of her hand against mine. I want roller skating and ice cream melting over my knuckles. Nachos in a field.
Layla in the middle of my kitchen, big smile and flour on the palms of her hands.
“Yeah,” I manage. “It has.”
“Oh,” she says again, softer this time. “That’s, um—” Her eyes slip away from me to the neat stack of Tupperware at our side. Her shoulders curl back and she starts to collect the items she’s just pulled out of her basket—cups and plates and what looks like the same bottle of champagne she bought all those weeks ago at the liquor store. Orange with a gold foil top. When she reaches for the pastry box at the edge, I wrap my fingers around her wrist to pause her movement.
“Layla. Listen to me for a second. I’m nervous and I’m not—I’m not doing a very good job of explaining this.”
She pulls her hand from my grip and gathers the pastry box close. She holds it against her chest like a piece of armor. Like she wants to disappear inside of it.
“You don’t need to explain anything.”
“Layla—”
“Please, Caleb. Don’t explain anything.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to—you don’t have to tell me I’m not the right fit for you.” She twists her arm in my grip, pulling away from me and pushing off the blanket. I watch her skirt for a moment as it catches the breeze, my brain stuck on the phraseright fit for you. It's scratching like a record, over and over until the words lose meaning.
“I don’t think I was ready for this,” she finishes on a whisper. I have no idea if that was meant for me to hear or not.
“I’m not—hold on.” I reach for her and my fingertips glance against the very edge of her dress. I curl my hand into a fist. “I’m not breaking up with you.”
“Okay. Ending our arrangement.”
“Yes, I want to end the arrangement, but—” I blow out a frustrated breath. This conversation is going in circles. Maybe Charlie was on to something when he said I should practice in front of the mirror. “I was hoping maybe we could start something new.”
