“Cole! Are you awake? Are you decent? Can I come in?”
He definitely had not been awake. And as for whether or not he was decent . . .
“Um . . . hang on.” He couldn’t quite remember what he’d gone to sleep wearing, so he lifted the sheet. Bottom half was fine. Joggers were present and accounted for. “Just a minute.” Cole looked around the Sudworths’ maidless maid’s quarters and tried to orient himself again. He’d thrown a T-shirt somewhere at some point . . .
“Come on, Cole! Hurry up!”
He groaned softly as he spotted his gray shirt seemingly suspended in air on the opposite wall, and the memories of how that came to be caused the reorientation process to speed along nicely. “Be right there.” He sat up and stretched his arms over his head, one way and then the other, as he lowered his feet to the carpet, then crossed the room and gingerly freed the ticking clock on the wall—there had been so much ticking—from its cotton prison. With a sigh he pulled the multipurpose T-shirt over his head and slipped his arms through.
“I’m coming,” he called out one more time for good measure, though Laila had stopped knocking.
He paused briefly in front of the floor-length mirror and groaned again. There wasn’t one particular thing causing the groan. It was just the reaction he had every time he looked in a mirror lately. He didn’t think of himself as a vain person, but what could you do but groan when each new mirror in which you caught sight of yourself seemed to have advanced the film another year or two?
Taking a deep breath, Cole turned away from the mirror and faced the door. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done to Laila what he’d done to her the day before. Avoided her. Refused to talk to her—at least about anything real.
And then what had been that little outburst in the car? Had he seriously been so callow as to throw a temper tantrum because his blind date wasn’t a celebrity? As if he cared. As if he had any interest in any of that.
Of course, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He had zero interest in being set up. It really bothered him that he had zero interest. But not as much as it bothered him that Laila had been excited about the prospect. And, needless to say, none of that had bothered him as much as how bothered he had been.
He turned the doorknob and pulled the door open to see Laila beaming up at him with the biggest, most authentic grin on her face.
“Good morning.” She was practically bouncing on her bare feet, her toenails painted the shades of various flavors of cotton candy. She’d gotten her contacts in, though everything else about her face was as fresh as if she’d just awakened. Without any makeup on she still looked like fourth-grade Laila to him, standing up to the fifth graders who teased Cole for not having a dad, threatening to “pummel” them, and somehow scaring them into believing that as little as she was, she could still do it. She was radiant—but she was also a mess. Her hair wasn’t in its usual placed-and-perfected messy bun. There were loose strands everywhere, making their attempts at escape from Laila’s carefully cultivated chaos. She was wearing a lilac scoop-neck Care Bears sweatshirt that said, “Friends Help Make Big Jobs Small!” and frayed denim shorts, and there were random streaks of who-knows-what across her neck, her clothes . . . you name it. And still . . .
Radiant.
“Good morning,” he responded, grinning at her in a way he hadn’t been able to yesterday. It was confirmed in his mind. He was a horrible human being. He’d done absolutely nothing to deserve this radiant beam of light and warmth in his life. Ever. Especially not lately. “You’re awfully chipper this morning.”
“I have a surprise for you.” She reached out and took his hand and pulled him down the hallway, through the kitchen—Oh gosh . . . what happened to the kitchen?—and to the dining cubby, or whatever it was called. She stopped in front of the table, with her back to it, and positioned him in front of her. Then she squeezed both of his hands and released them, stepping to the side of him with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
A perfect flame burned from a taper candle in a silver candlestick next to an orchid in a silver bud vase, and on a dinner plate sat one egg, sunny side up, a couple slices of ham that had seen better days, and half a slice of charred toast.
“What’s this? Did you order in, or . . .” Oh! The kitchen. No wonder it’s a mess. No wonder she is. “You made this?”
The nervous energy that had been causing all the bouncing cumulated in a little bit of a squeal, and then she threw her arms around him. He didn’t hug her back, only because she took him by surprise. But obviously sensing his lack of movement, she pulled away abruptly before his arms could catch up. The expression on her face didn’t accuse him of a thing but displayed a new awkwardness he couldn’t allow to go on any longer. And her eyes were lost to him—suddenly darting from side to side.
Fix this, Cole. Fix this now.
“This is amazing!” He leaned down and wrapped his arms around her and didn’t let go until she had stretched around his torso again and snuggled in just as tight and comfortably as she always had.
“Okay, seriously . . .” He pushed back on her upper arms so he could look at her. “What is happening right now? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” She giggled, and he turned back to the plate of breakfast. It wasn’t difficult to imagine most of what had transpired, and he would have given just about anything to watch it. The half piece of burnt toast was the best she could salvage, he was guessing. The ham had spots of black char on it but probably wasn’t inedible. But the egg . . . The egg blew his mind. “Laila, that egg is perfect.” He threw one arm over her shoulders. “I’m so impressed.”
But not surprised. That was the rest of the sentence, but his instincts stopped his mouth from saying it. Of course he wasn’t surprised. She could do anything. But right then it wasn’t about how she could do anything. It was about how she’d done this.
“Hang on. Don’t move. Don’t touch any of it!” He pulled away from her and ran down the hallway to his room, unplugged his phone from the charger on the desk, and was back at the dining alcove—Alcove! That’s it. Not cubby—in seconds.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Documenting this moment, of course.” He snapped different shots from different angles as she giggled and blushed and then got involved by helping him set up the proper lighting as he activated the portrait mode on his camera. They stuck their faces in a couple shots and posed with the plate. “It’s almost too pretty to eat, but I must admit . . . I’m dying to try it. Do I actually get to eat it?”
She reached for the fork on the table beside the plate and handed it to him before sitting down across from him. “If you’re sure you’re brave enough.”
“Just try to stop me.” He slipped into one side of the curved booth built into the wall and pulled the plate to him as he sat. He inspected it from a couple more angles—and took one more close-up photo of the egg yolk—before breaking into it with his fork. It broke perfectly. Cinematically, almost. He looked across the table at her in awe and saw her eyes frantically darting between his face and the plate. “Laila, I’m telling you . . . no one makes an egg this beautiful on their first try. You’re a natural.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “Well, technically, it was my seventh try. And then there were two eggs that I ruined before I even got them to the frying pan—”
“Makes no difference. No one makes an egg this beautiful on their ninth try either.”
He cut into the white and scooped up a gorgeous bite, yellow dripping slowly back onto the plate, and put it in his mouth. And, truth be told, for as beautiful as it was, it just tasted like an egg. A bland one at that. She hadn’t even salted it, he was pretty sure, and once he got inside, the white was a little undercooked. She’d used too much olive oil to keep it from sticking, causing him to believe that too little olive oil had played a big role in at least some of those other six attempts. But literally none of that mattered. It was the best egg he’d ever tasted in his life.
“Well?” She leaned in and rested her elbows on the table, though there was nothing else restful about her. She was jittery with anticipation. “Be honest.”
Easy. “You’re amazing.”
“Oh, come on.” She laughed. “You don’t even have to eat the whole thing. I won’t be offended.” She reached across the table and tried to move the dish away from him, so he circled his left arm around the plate, lowered his head, and practically shoveled the rest of the egg into his mouth with his fork.
“You’re such an idiot,” she choked out through her laughter as Cole used the little bit of toast to soak up the yolk and then jammed that into his mouth as well.
He chewed and swallowed as quickly as he could and then stuffed the ham in before dropping his fork, raising his hands like he’d just been told time was up on Chopped, and attempting to say, “Compliments to the chef.” He got about as far as “Comp—” before he started hacking from the saltiness of the (very nearly inedible after all) ham. Chunks of barely chewed pork started sputtering out as he coughed.
Laila was no help at all, of course. She’d completely lost it, and while Cole ran to the refrigerator to find something to wash the dry bites down with, she collapsed onto the cushions of the booth in a knotted-up, stomach-cramped fit of hysterics.
It was all worth it, he knew. Even as he downed a sparkling water so quickly his eyes sprang leaks and he felt as if holes were being burned into his esophagus, and even as he looked around Brynn and Seb’s kitchen and noticed splatters of oil and grease and yolk in places the newlyweds probably hadn’t even touched in their new home yet, and even as he realized that here in a second the laughter was going to start fading and the memories of the day before were going to rear their ugly heads again for both of them, he knew it was all worth it.
“You okay?” she asked a few seconds later, holding her stomach as she returned to an upright position and wiped freely falling tears from her face.
“Yeah, no thanks to you.”
“I’ve always told you that if I ever cooked it would probably kill you. I just didn’t know it would be because it was so delicious.”
He smiled at her and returned to his side of the table. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, Lai, but thank you.”
In an instant the humor was gone for them both as her eyes met his. “I told you. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, Cole Kimball. Not a single thing.”
“Hey . . . hey, hey . . .” He started to scoot around to her but then realized how long it would take to get around the entire monstrous alcove. Instead, he climbed out and rushed over to scoot in next to her on her side. He wrapped his arms around her, and she rested her cheek on his chest. “I’m so sorry about yesterday. I was being a total jerk.” Guilt washed over him, and déjà vu assaulted his senses. “And I’m sorry I’ve had to make that apology so many times lately.”
She’d wanted to talk last night. After they got back to the condo and Brynn and Seb had given them keys and codes and phone numbers, thrown some things together, and headed to the airport with Malik, she’d tried to get him to talk. And instead, he’d focused far more effort than was required on moving his small amount of luggage into the now-devoid-of-wedding-gifts other room and settling in. Then he’d said he was tired and needed to rest. That had been . . . what? Six o’clock? Seven, maybe? He’d wasted too much of a day. A day he could have spent with her. They could have talked and sorted it all out, or they could have gone up on the roof and looked at the city, or they could have at least sat together in silence and pretended everything was okay. But he couldn’t even pull himself together enough to pretend.
Not that he wanted to pretend.
What had she done for the rest of the night? He had no idea. He didn’t know if she’d eaten dinner or been able to sleep. He didn’t have any idea if her back had been hurting enough to need the pills that—Shoot. The pills he was still in possession of. He hadn’t even thought about it.
And it wasn’t that he thought Laila needed him to take care of her. He didn’t. She didn’t. She was just fine without him, and she always would be. But last night had been wrong. Everything about it had been so completely wrong. Nothing could be right with the world when he was focused on himself at her expense.
“Lai, look—”
“If you’re really planning on leaving, then that’s something we should talk about. I’m convinced there’s no way on earth I can leave my dad right now, but if you can think of a way to make it work, we’ve got to be able to talk it through. And I need to be able to tell you why you shouldn’t go, because I don’t have the answers, Cole, but I know I’m not okay with that.” Her hand flexed against his chest, balling up his T-shirt. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about it. I know we made a deal. But I’m not okay with this deal anymore. We can’t make deals where we don’t talk about things. That goes against our original deal.”
“What’s our original deal?”
Assorted deals they had made through the years zoomed through his mind, bumping into and intersecting with memories and milestone markers. An insignificant deal not to watch season three of American Idol without each other. (And for twenty years their dismay at Jennifer Hudson coming in seventh, despite their calling in for her every week, had continued. How had the world not seen what they had seen?) Deals to notify each other as soon as possible if they ever had food stuck in their teeth. They’d made a deal to go to prom together, but when Laila struck up a spring break romance with Mrs. Stoddard’s nephew, Drew, when he was visiting from Denver, of course Cole had stepped aside so Laila could ask him to go with her. He’d felt horrible when Drew couldn’t make it, because Cole had already asked Brynn to go with him, thus sparking their short-lived attempt at romance. But ultimately the three of them had basically gone together anyway.
Some of the deals were more sacred than others, but he’d never taken any of them lightly.
“Our original deal is us, Cole.” Laila pushed back from him and looked into his eyes as she clenched the front of his T-shirt in her fists. “We’re the original deal. All other deals must work to support the original deal or they’re not valid. And when we made the deal a couple nights ago to just take the pressure off and enjoy the trip, I guess I didn’t realize all the reasons that wouldn’t work. But any deal that causes you to avoid me is a bad deal. I would like to officially revoke the deal. Deal?”
What would happen if I kissed her?
He swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat at the thought. Had it even been a thought? It felt more like a compulsion. A need. His arms were still wrapped around her, and her chin was tilted up toward him. And he was listening to and caring about every single word she said, and he was trying to sort it all out and figure out how to proceed, and how to clarify that it hadn’t been just the (yes, he could agree, in retrospect) bad deal that had thrown him off his game (or, more accurately, had made him attempt to play a game in what had always been a game-free zone). But he was suddenly so distracted by her lips. He knew everything about her. Everything. So how had he never noticed that her bottom lip was always just a little pouty, even when she wasn’t pouting?
He’d never noticed the little creases above her top lip, just below that perfectly centered dip between her nose and her mouth, but he didn’t even have to think about it to have a complete understanding of what had caused the creases. Those were there because of him. Because of all the times she had contorted her mouth in reaction to whatever story he was rambling on and on about. Some ridiculous thing that had happened at Cassidy’s. Something he’d been waiting all day to tell her. And the creases were there because of all the times she had held her tongue and funneled all her excess energy into puffing up and sucking her cheeks back in like a puffer fish while she put more effort than he deserved into finding a nice and supportive way to explain to him exactly why he was wrong about something.
What was the expression? That women’s brains were spaghetti, able to mix everything together and get sauce on everything all at once, while men’s were more like waffles, only able to absorb syrup in one grid at a time? Something like that. Even so, how had he been so distracted by everything else in life as to never notice that even her lips were a souvenir of the life they had lived together? What would happen if he leaned in, got closer than he ever had, brushed his lips against hers, and added one more stamp to the passport of their shared travels?
He cleared his throat and released her, then stood up from the booth. He had no idea what he wanted (well . . . he knew what he wanted . . . ), and he certainly had no idea what Laila wanted. And it was that thought that forced him onto his feet.
“What do you say we go get ready and get out of here?”
Her shoulders fell. “Don’t you think we need to talk?”
Of course he did. That was the point. And alone in that penthouse, suddenly hyperaware of her lips, he was afraid of the lengths he might go to just to avoid talking. “Yes. Let’s talk. About all of it. I’m with you, Lai—that was a bad deal. I don’t want to avoid talking to you about anything. Not ever again.”
He felt his chest tighten and his heart speed up—or had it just stopped?—as he said those words. Because he meant them. They needed to talk. Although, right then, the only words coming to mind were all the curse words he never said. His grandmother had always told him foul language was a sign of laziness, but right then he wanted to run up to Brynn and Seb’s terrace, turn away from Taylor Swift’s roof (since Laila would never forgive him if he accidentally cussed out Tay Tay), and shout every last one of those lazy words at the top of his lungs.
“But let’s get some air. Okay?” He didn’t wait for a response before he turned and headed back to his bedroom, but he forced himself to stop as the kitchen mess entered his peripheral vision.
We’ll clean that up later.
He took a deep breath and turned back again. “Thank you for breakfast. I can’t . . .” It was possible his pounding heart was just going to keep climbing higher and higher up into his throat until it made an appearance every bit as appealing as that of the spewed ham. “I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. You’re . . .” Words were failing. Everything. Everything was failing. He brought his hands up and crossed them over his heart—or at least where his heart used to be before it began trying to make its escape—and whispered the only words willing to come out. “I love you.”
Words he’d said to her pretty much daily for most of their lives. Those words would never fail him, but now he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d failed the words by saying them so easily . . . so casually . . . so many times. For the first time, they felt inadequate.
She smiled at him and pursed those lips as she bit down on the inside and clearly compelled the tears to stay put. “I love you too. Meet you back here in a few?”
Cole nodded and grinned at her and then carried on to his room. But not before allowing his eyes a moment to linger on the stairs in the middle of the penthouse. Nah. Not right now. Go get dressed. He’d be back to give Taylor Swift an earful later.