Page 84 of Go Back to December

If Baz always does breakfast, what the hell has he been doing every morning at my café?

“Melody.”

I back away from his pinched brow and curled fists.

“Melody, wait.”

My feet are already in my boots. I grab the first coat I find in the closet—Baz’s black insulated jacket—and tear out of the apartment.

I descend the three sets of stairs on wobbling knees and rush outside into the frigid morning. Salt coats the icy sidewalks and cautions me to slow my pace as I cross the street and take refuge in the vacant park. Thankfully, no other fools are up and out this early to tour the frozen square.

They’re missing out on a spectacle. Ice encapsulates the wrought-iron fencing and the bare branches of the spindly trees. It will melt under the warmth of the morning sun, but for now, everything glitters and shines.

I’m so worked up, I’m not even cold out here, which is a stroke of luck. If I draw Baz’s jacket closer, that heady green cologne of his will tear me apart.

Something cracks behind me. An icicle shatters onto the pavement.

When I turn to ensure I’m not in the path of more falling spikes, Baz is shuffling along the footpath, wearing my favorite camel coat, and my least favorite scowl.

Before he reaches me, he halts, giving me the benefit of a few feet of distance. An unspoken accusation screams across his face.

“I’m not bailing,” I say shakily. “Just give me a second.”

He huffs a humorless laugh and shoves the crutches onto a nearby bench. The fury in his gaze burns hot enough to melt the ice and the pavement beneath it.

At a snail’s pace, I close the gap between us. When I’m within striking distance, his jaw unhinges.

“I was ten when my mom opened her gallery. It was more than a full-time job. We all had to help at home, and I got breakfast. School mornings at first. Eventually, the weekends too, so I could improve.”

“Perfectionist.”

“Always.” He sighs. “Luiza was out of line. I’m sorry about what she said. About us.”

Sleeping together, he’s too self-conscious to say out loud. The wind isn’t the only thing responsible for the stain rising on his cheeks.

He’s using Luiza’s mistaken insinuation to deflect from the real reason I bolted. The enormity of what Baz hasn’t said about breakfast scares me, but I need to hear the rest. And the only way I’m ever going to get him to explain what’s really going on is if we both stop pretending.

“You’re maintaining this act about us with your family, but I’m leaving today,” I say. “What’s the point?”

The question tugs at the leash on his anger, making that vein strain beneath his clenched jaw. When he finally blows, he’ll level this park.

It doesn’t deter me. “Why are you continuing to give everyone the wrong idea?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Another condescending non-explanation. It’s not a hustle by his rules, because it’s a complete lie.

“Stop it,” I spit out. “Stop. Playing. Me.”

He holds me in his relentless stare and insists, “I’m not.”

His focus dips to my lips, travels down my throat, before it reaches my eyes again. “You asked what I wanted.”

As he stands before me in the sparkling sunlight, looking at me with hope and hunger, it feels impossible for this to be anything but make-believe.

Baz shifts closer. The rich fabric of his coat brushes my arm. “What do you want, Melody?”

It’s easier to answer the opposite question. I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked for. And I don’t want what is happening between us to be part of a charade.