Page 62 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
“So, not literally.”
“No, but—”
“Kaia, is the guy decent? Are you safe?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then why are you calling me? If you’re asking for permission to leave, no. I think you gotta ride it out. It’s an hour of your life, sweetie. Get back out there. And be nice!”
Are mothers even allowed to hang up on their daughters?
I stand, mouth agape, pride wounded, snarling at my reflection. “I’m always fucking nice.”
But I clamp my lips shut at the knock on the door.
“Hey,” James says through the solid oak dividing us. “I gotta run downstairs for more sauce.” He hesitates but hasn’t walked away. Waiting for an answer I can’t seem to conjure up.
I consider the prospect that I may now have to live and die in this bathroom to avoid ever facing James again, but when the aromas from the kitchen waft in from the slit at the doorframe, I know I won’t last five minutes.
I square my shoulders and open the door, prepared to give James my best breezy bathroom exit, but he’s gone. The hallway is empty. So, instead, I follow my nose to find my heartsick personal chef.
—
Compared to the rustic dining room that could’ve been built right into a French hillside, the kitchen, with its sleek steel and hard edges, is straight from outer space. Glistening and pristine as if it’s never been touched.
The only hint of warmth is at the center of a long silver countertop in the middle of the room. It’s covered in white linen, with the same preloved vases and dainty daisies from thefront of the house. Only this table isn’t set for dinner, it’s covered in already prepped ingredients, waiting to be made into the meal they’ll become.
A private cooking class.It actually would’ve been cute, if only I weren’t on someone else’s date with someone else’s man.
The intensity of my internal conflict, and the fact that I’m most definitely running out of time, is enough to make me do The Thing™.
7:14pm
Me:Would you stay for dinner if your date was in love with someone else?
After minutes of silence that feel like a lifetime, it’s official—we’re not avoiding each other.Rois avoidingme.I’m about to send a follow-up message claiming the previous text had been a misfire, when:
7:19pm
Ro:I’m lost.
Me:Zo sent me out with a guy who’s in love with his ex.
Me:Like LOVE love.
Ro:Have you considered the possibility that Zola’s fucking with you?
Me:Every day.
I’m still smiling at the first semi-normal exchange Ro and I have had all week, when a wineglass appears on the tablecloth before me.
“You left this out there,” James says as he begins unloading thin silver trays from a rolling cart. “I made sheets of ravioli before you got here. I thought we’d cut and fill them together, but—”
I hold the sip I’ve just taken on my tongue in anticipation.
“Is everything okay?” he finishes finally. “I get the vibe you might not be staying.”
The wine goes down like gravel. “What? Why?” I screech, but at the earnestness in his eyes, I try again. “What makes you say that?”
