Page 67 of Let’s Make a Scene

And then it’s just the two of us smiling at each other, and I don’t know how to break us out of this moment, don’t think I even want to.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your book,” she says eventually, taking a step back. “Sleep well.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“With doughnuts?”

“With doughnuts,” I promise. “ ’Night, Cynthie.”

“Good night, Jack,” she replies softly, and as she turns away, I close the door before I do something reckless like drag her over the threshold.

It takes me a long, long time to get to sleep.

THE NEXT MORNING I’M UP early, and I head straight out on my promised coffee run. Despite the hour there are still a handful of photographers camped outside who are beyond delighted to see me and to catch me in the act of obtaining some postcoital sustenance.

If only, I think.

When I get back there are more paparazzi waiting—clearly the bat signal has gone out—and I make sure they get photos of the tray with the two to-go cups and the box full of doughnuts, making it as clear as possible that I’m bringing back breakfast for my girlfriend.

There’s no sign of Cynthie yet, so I set myself up in the kitchen, enjoying the light, cheerful space. I wasn’t just being polite about Cynthie’s house the night before: it really is spectacular, but not in a showy way. It’s warm and it feels like a real home. The shiny designer fridge is covered in children’s drawings (presumably Priya’s handiwork); the long kitchen table is scattered with books, pens, a script with Cynthie’s name on it, and a large vase of sunny daisies sits in the middle. I pull up a seat at the table with my coffee and my book, eating a Boston cream doughnut and enjoying the morning sunlight, the dappled green of the garden through the wide French windows.

In the end it’s only ten minutes before Cynthie appears, still in her pajamas and looking half-asleep. She rubs her eyes.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Hey,” she croaks. “I thought I’d be up before you. I was going to make coffee.” She runs a hand over the slightly wild mess of her hair and grimaces.

“I think I’m still on New York time at the moment,” I say, mesmerized as she smooths her fingers through her hair and twists it up on top of her head, securing it with a hair tie. “I brought you a coffee instead. Should still be hot.” I gesture to the kitchen counter.

“You’ve already been out?” She takes the coffee cup, looks at the writing on the side, and her eyes widen. “And this is my coffee order. What are you, magic?” She flips the lid on the doughnut box and selects a glazed ring, sinking her teeth into it with a murmur of appreciation, which I try manfully to ignore.

“I texted Hannah. Predictably, she’s an early riser.” I shrug, secretly delighted by how pleased she looks, even gladder that I had taken the time to get Hannah’s number at brunch.

Cynthie groans. “I know. She’s always been a chipper morning person. I cannot count the number of times I’ve wanted to smother her with a pillow when it’s six a.m. and she’s acting like a Disney princess who gets dressed by tiny birds.”

“The worst,” I agree, watching her mouth as she polishes off her doughnut in a few neat bites. “Usually I’m all about a late rise, and don’t even try to talk to me before I’ve had my coffee.”

“I remember.” Cynthie laughs, and then she cuts herself off, her face a picture of dismay.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I say softly.

“Do what?”

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “Pretend like we don’t have history. Mentioning the past isn’t going to be the end of the world for either of us.”

“Isn’t it?” Cynthie asks cautiously.

I hesitate, unsure whether we should just have it all out right now, but I don’t want to spook her. “No,” I say instead, making my tone easy. “It was a long time ago. I think both of us could use a fresh start.”

Cynthie brings her coffee over to the table and sits across from me. She narrows her eyes, observing me with careful consideration. “Possibly.”

I lean forward. “How about this?” I say. “A truce. A real one this time, with no time limit.”

“An indefinite truce with my mortal enemy?” She lifts her brows.

“I don’t think I’ve been your mortal enemy for a long time, Cynthie.”

She lifts her shoulders in a graceful shrug. “Maybe not. I guess we’ll see.”