Page 77 of The Do-Over

“You’re right. I don’t. I just thought, I don’t know, as a friend, I could say something.”

With a shake of his head, he pushed his glass to the side. “Look, I appreciate your concern and don’t take this the wrong way, but I need you to butt out. It’s my decision.”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

For a moment, it had felt like there had been a… something, a connection, that Nate might, just maybe, be interested in me. But this was a good reminder. If his wife were still around, he wouldn’t need my help. I just happened to be conveniently located right next door. He was here to make cupcakes, not declarations of love.

I glanced at him and his Jaw of Steel. Nope, don’t get any ideas. He’s not interested. My heart pitter-pattered a little dance, anyway. Frowning, I turned to stare at the oven timer, willing the next fourteen minutes to speed by.

THIRTY

“If it sounds too good to be true,

you probably haven’t read the fine print yet.”

—MIMI

Next night, I got home, ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and sprawled on the couch in front of the television, staring at the two envelopes I’d received in the mail. Both were for Nate, one an offer from a credit card company, the other from a Caroline Russo.

This was the fourth letter I’d accidentally received from her. I’d been tempted more than once to ask Lilah who she was. A search of Facebook only proved there were a lot of women named Caroline Russo in the world. Maybe she was a sister or a cousin or his mother?

I glanced at the time—a little before ten. That wasn’t so late. Surely, he’d still be awake. Should I take them over? Maybe feel out the situation. Was he still angry with me for bringing up the talent show? What about that weird moment when our hands had touched? Had he felt something too? Why had I opened my big mouth?

I sat up and turned to Sal. He stared back at me with all the love in his tiny fish body. “Do I take them over?”

A big dark eye stared back at me.

“Good idea. I’ll take some blueberry muffins to be neighborly.”

Nate opened his door a minute later. I shoved the plate in his hands. “I thought you and Lilah would like some muffins for breakfast. I hope you like blueberry. They’re kind of the pizza of berries, and everybody likes pizza.”

He took the plate from me. “Thanks.”

I stared at him; he stared at me. His eyes were dark green tonight, almost the same shade as his t-shirt. Finally, we both spoke at the same time.

“I should get back—”

“Do you want to come in and I’ll give your plate back?”

I nodded. “Um, sure.”

Nate’s apartment was a mirror image of mine—kitchen in front, long exposed brick wall, small dining area, and living room. But where I’d painted and decorated with abandon, this apartment was bare bones.

Couch—brown. Recliner—beige. Giant television. Nothing hung on the walls—no art or family photos. The only pops of color appeared to originate from Lilah. Bright yellow high-tops in the middle of the living room floor. Her bird backpack on the counter. A small bookcase overflowing with her books. Crayon drawings covering the fridge door.

The only photograph also hung on the fridge, a five-by-seven of a child with giant eyes—certainly Lilah—sitting on the lap of a young woman. In the photo, Lilah’s little hand was pressed against the woman’s cheek as though she was turning her head. The woman was pretty with dark eyes, despite the smudges under them and the gray-striped scarf wrapped around her head.

This must be Lilah’s mother.

“Here’s the plate.” Nate set it on the island and pushed it toward me. He motioned to the muffins he’d placed in a plastic container. “These look good.”

“Hope you like them.” I gripped the plate until my knuckles turned white. “I’m sorry if things were weird last night. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m sorry if I got defensive.”

“No, I get it. I guess it reminded me of stuff from my childhood that never quite worked out. Plus, if you haven’t noticed, I have a way of saying just the wrong thing.”