10
“ YOU KISSED?”
I studiously keep my attention on the tray of peppermint bark and not Layla. I hadn’t meant to start our conversation with that little bombshell, but I’ve been holding it in for days, and I needed to tell someone. So much for not fixating.
Luka has texted me multiple times since he left. A selfie of him with a pumpkin cannoli from the Italian deli on his street, a look of horror pulling at the corners of those golden eyes, the straight, sharp cut of his jaw. A diatribe about how nothing is sacred and cannoli deserve to be consumed how God intended, with fried dough, ricotta, and chocolate chips.
Another selfie twenty minutes later of his eyes closed in absolute bliss, cannoli wrapper empty, a touch of pumpkin clinging to the corner of his mouth. I change his contact photo immediately.
A text asking if I’ve changed the password to HBO Max, and oops, no, he just used the incorrect amount of exclamation points. Did I see that they just added the full collection of Harry Potter movies? A quick note that he left popcorn jammed in the cabinet by the stove when he brought dinner over the other night. Movie theater butter, none of that kettle corn crap.
A picture of him and Charlie out to lunch, both of their faces twisted in exaggerated comical frowns. Wish you were with us, it said.
And a voice memo reminding himself to pick up fresh tomatoes and chicken stock, voice out of breath, the heavy sound of weights in the background. That one had me picturing Luka sweaty and flushed, hair damp just behind his ears. Arms flexing and releasing. I listened to that voice memo twice before I deleted it completely from my phone, concerned with myself.
A text message seventeen minutes later with an apology, he had meant to send it to himself, and I just happened to be at the top of his messages. But while he’s thinking about it, do I need him to pick up anything from the grocery store on his way back into town?
All of them completely normal. Not a single indication that he was thinking about our kiss.
“Yes.” I pick up a mallet and smack the peppermint bark once in the middle. It cracks and I hit it twice more. Now I know why Layla is always making seasonal chocolate bark. It’s very cathartic. “But it was a pretend kiss.”
“Ah, okay. A pretend kiss.” Layla shuffles across the kitchen as I continue to pound the bark.
We converted an old tractor shed into a cooking space and bakery for Layla, the ceilings low in the back, where she does all her cooking, the front replaced almost entirely with glass. Full evergreen and balsam trees press in on every side, brushing up against the windows. When it’s especially cold, the windows frost at the bottoms, and you can just barely make out Layla bustling behind the counter, trays of cookies and brownies and tarts in neat little rows in each display case. Mugs stuffed with candy canes and a chalkboard with the daily special. The dining space is filled with small red- top tables with walnut chairs, cozy green booths along the walls. There are picnic tables with space heaters just out front, and they spill out into the fields. I love that this place is tucked away like a little gingerbread house for our visitors to discover.
I came over this morning with a box of replacement bulbs for the string lights Beckett hung over the weekend and quickly got roped into peppermint bark labor.
She curls her fingers around my hand on the hammer. “We need this to be peppermint bark, honey. Not peppermint dust.”
I release the mallet and frown at the countertop, collecting a little pile of peppermint and chocolate with my fingers. Layla picks up one of the bigger pieces I left behind and offers it to me.
“Explain to me what a pretend kiss entails.”
“I don’t know. Exactly what it sounds like, I guess.” I shrug and think of the sound he made when I put my hands in his hair. That low little hum. I nibble at my peppermint bark. “We thought it would be a good idea to practice kissing before we have an audience.”
Layla gives me a look. “All right. And so you, what? You just kissed each
other?”
“Yep.”
Layla sighs and reaches around me. She gives the peppermint bark another hard whack. “You’re not giving me anything to work with here.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I need details, obviously.”
“Like what?”
Layla gives me a look like she wants to use the mallet on my fingers.
“Like what,” she mutters. She puts the mallet down and props her hand on her hip, sifting through the peppermint bark shards until she finds one to her liking. “Did you talk about it first? How long did it last? Was there tongue?
Come on, now. Don’t be shy.”
It’s not that I’m shy. I’m just a little . . . protective, I guess. Right now it feels like mine—well, mine and Luka’s—and holding it close feels right.
“It was . . . fine.”
At Layla’s slightly murderous look, I feel a bit of the tension release from my shoulders. I huff a laugh through my nose and reach for the bags we’re supposed to be putting this bark into. Not stuffing our faces with.
“It was a nice kiss,” I offer quietly, thinking of the way gold danced across his skin, how his palm pressed to mine as he tugged me closer, into the curve of his body. I sigh. “It was a really nice kiss.”
“A nice kiss.”
“Yeah.”
Layla hums under her breath, her inquisition fading, a thoughtful gleam entering her gaze as she cocks her head to the side. She reaches for a pair of scissors and drags the blade along a strand of cherry red, the ribbon curling beneath her fingers.
“You know, you’re allowed to enjoy spending time with Luka.”
“I know. I always enjoy time with Luka.”
“I meant”—she ties the ribbon into a bow and repeats the action, forest green nails moving flawlessly through the maneuver—“I meant more like you are allowed to enjoy kissing him. Enjoy pretending.”
And that’s just it, isn’t it? I do like the pretending. Too much, probably.
It’s the end of the pretending that’ll be the problem. The part that comes after.
I can’t stop thinking about it, despite Luka’s plan to just continue.
We lapse into silence, the crinkle of the bags and the curl of the ribbon the only sounds between us. I am once again grateful for work that keeps my hands and brain busy.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had a nice kiss,” she says, a little bit wistful. I think of her and Jacob, her current boyfriend. The way his eyes stay stuck on his phone rather than anywhere near her when they’re together. I frown and reach for her hand, squeezing it once. She gives me a tight smile and squeezes back.
A timer beeps in the background. Another tray of goodies ready to come out of the oven. Layla is still looking at me thoughtfully after the interruption, rubbing her thumb back and forth over her bottom lip.
“What?”
She blinks, a sly smile curling her lips. “I would have paid so much money to watch.”
I sputter a laugh, cheeks flushing red. Sometimes shy, sweet Layla surprises me. I pinch the skin just above her elbow. “Don’t make this weird.”
“Too late,” she singsongs, heading toward the ovens.
I’M IN THE pharmacy browsing nail polish I absolutely don’t need when Gus pops up in front of me, a bag of peanut butter cups clutched in his hand and a goofy smile stretched across his face. He’s a handsome guy, especially when he smiles, two twin dimples appearing in his scruff-covered cheeks. There’s a rumor going around town that he has something going on with Mabel, and I think the pair of them are adorable together. He reaches into the front pocket
of his EMS uniform and pulls out a stack of haphazardly folded bills, holding them out to me with two fingers.
I take the stack of greasy bills after a moment’s hesitation. He must have gone to Matty’s for lunch. “What’s this?”
Gus leans back against the concealer display, an elbow propped up against various shades of foundation. He unwraps a single peanut butter cup carefully and then offers me the bag. I shake my head, my hand still occupied with the stack of bills held between thumb and forefinger.
“Gus, why did you hand me a wad of cash?”
He smiles at me around a mouth of chocolate. “It’s your cut.”
I groan. “Please don’t tell me you’re growing something on the farm without my knowledge.”
He laughs, knocking over an entire row of tiny glass bottles. “It’s not that.
Jeez, Stella.”
“Then what is it?”
“The betting board.”
“Okay,” I wait for him to continue, but he just keeps smiling at me, another peanut butter cup in his giant paw of a hand.
“You see, I had a foolproof equation.” He holds up one hand between us like he’s presenting in front of a lecture hall, fingers spread wide as he lays out his words. “Distance, timing, and good old-fashioned tension. That picture you posted on Instagram of you out in the fields helped too. But that was more a stroke of luck. Can’t take any credit for that.”
I struggle to keep up with the conversation, my mind grabbing onto that last part. I had posted a picture on the farm account of me in the fields, yes, but that was over a month ago. I don’t typically feature myself, but it had been a perfect day working quietly out amongst the trees, and I had dirt all over my hands and cheeks. It was silly, impulsive. Two bright blue eyes laughing through a mask of dirt. Cheaper than a Sephora mud mask, I had written.
“Gus.” I suddenly understand why Layla wanted to murder me with a spatula yesterday. “What are you talking about?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by Dane strolling down the aisle in full sheriff regalia, hat tucked under his arm. He takes one look at me and frowns, eyebrows slanted low.
“A word, Stella. If you don’t mind.”
His voice grits along the edges, a sure sign that I’m about to get yelled at.
“Uh-oh. Someone is in trouble,” says Gus.
I shoot a look at him. He shrugs and turns on his heel, heading toward the checkout counters and leaving behind his mess of makeup. Coward. I hope he pays for those peanut butter cups he’s destroying. I almost tell Dane Gus is about to shoplift so we can postpone whatever this conversation is.
I shove the wad of cash in my back pocket and give the sheriff my full attention, watching as his fingers drum on the bill of his hat.
“I don’t know anything about the betting pool, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I cross my arms over my chest and watch as Dane’s mustache twitches. “So if you’re here to question me about an underground —”
“Why am I finding out about property damage on the farm from Luka?”
I blink.
“He stopped by the station a few days ago, says you’ve been having trouble. A fence collapsed, and now pumpkins are being smashed?”
Damn, he must have stopped by on his way back to New York. I scratch at my eyebrow and fight not to fidget under Dane’s steady stare. “I was gonna come down to the farm, but I spotted you in here. What’s going on, Stella? Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I didn’t—I didn’t think it was a big deal.” And it’s not. Or it wasn’t.
Separately, it’s all tiny things. The fence, the pumpkins, the stolen signpost from the main road. The missed deliveries and the barn door left wide open back in August, half our supplies getting soaked by a summer thunderstorm.
My brow creases in thought and I rub my palms against my thighs.
“Don’t you have your magazine highlight coming up?” I don’t correct him and explain it’s a social media feature, not a magazine. I don’t have the energy to explain TikTok to him right now. I tried to show him Instagram once, and he frowned so fiercely I thought his face might freeze that way. He
was grumbling under his breath about cat filters for close to a month. “Even more reason to make sure everything is buttoned up.”
“You think it’s connected?”
Luka had implied something similar, and I can’t say I haven’t been thinking about it. It does seem like an awful amount of bad luck, but what could possibly be the explanation? I can’t imagine a pack of high schoolers would be so methodical. And I’m not sure who else would. I don’t have any enemies in this town.
He rubs his palm across his jaw and peers over my head, gray eyes scanning the pharmacy. It’s empty as far as I can tell, Cindy somewhere in the back working on restock. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “But I think it’s worth lookin’ into.”
He settles his hat back on his head, tipping the brim up with his pointer finger so I can still see his face. “I’ll stop by the farm this afternoon and take a look around.” He pauses and shuffles his feet. “Will Layla be there, you
think?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
A light blush climbs his cheeks. “I wouldn’t say no to one of her bear claws, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah, she’ll be there. I’ll let her know you’re stopping by, and she’ll fix you up with something nice.”
“No need to go through any trouble,” he mumbles.
“No trouble.” I smile and curl my hand through his elbow, towing him to the front of the store and ensuring he can’t get away. I have something I’ve been meaning to discuss with him, and now is the perfect time. “Now, while we are on the subject of things we’ve kept from each other, I’ve noticed you’ve been spending an awful lot of time over at the pizza shop.”
Dane’s blush goes from a light pink to a fierce burning red in a matter of seconds. I cackle and tug on his arm, just short of hopping up and down in glee. I knew it.
“I knew it,” I poke him in the chest, right above his badge. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”
“You know nothing, Cinnamon Stick.” He swats me away, but I can see that he’s fighting back a smile. His hand finds the brim of his hat again, and he pulls it down low before pushing it up, unsure what to do with himself. He clears his throat and peers at me out of the corner of his eye. “I like the pizza.”
“Sure,” I hum. “And it has nothing to do with a certain handsome pizza shop owner, huh?”
I’ve caught Dane loitering outside of Matty’s a couple of times. I didn’t think anything of it until I spotted him standing just outside the window, gazing longingly at the handsome pizza man behind the counter. I followed him in and listened to him stutter over his order for a pepperoni pizza and
some garlic knots, and I knew.
“They have a good special on Tuesdays.”
“That certainly explains why you’re there Saturday, Monday, and Thursday as well, then.”
“Easy. Or I’m going to be the one smashing your pumpkins.”
I bite back on my laugh and guide us down the street, back to the sheriff’s station, and coincidentally, the pizza shop. I have a few errands left to run while I’m in town, but giving Dane a gentle nudge in the right direction is a detour I’m happy to make. He grumbles under his breath as he realizes where we’re walking but keeps my hand tucked in the crook of his arm, patting it absently.
“When does your contest lady arrive? The one who is doing the story for the farm.” He’s officially switched off sheriff mode and is asking as a friend.
“About a week and a half. The Monday after Thanksgiving. She’ll stay through the weekend and leave that Sunday.”
“Feeling ready?”
I am, surprisingly. Most of the decorations and lights are up. The only thing I still need to do is replace the burnt-out bulbs from the strings that lace through the fields and place the bows on the gates. We made the decision last year to start the lights on the road and weave them back to the very edge of our property line. At night, every inch of our farm glows. Beckett, Layla, and I did a dry run last night as soon as the sun dipped low enough to cast
everything in a faint purple glow. The second the lights twinkled alive, I felt my breath catch in my throat. Layla smiled ear to ear, and even Beckett gave a nod of approval. Everything was falling into place.
“I feel ready. The farm looks great. It has me in the holiday mood.”
Dane snorts at that. “I think you’re in the holiday mood twenty-four seven. Three-sixty-five.”
It’s true. I’ve always loved Christmas and everything that comes with it.
It’s the one time of year where everything feels like magic. Hopeful, earnest, and kind. The whole world slows down and . . . believes for once.
Mom and I would do the same thing every Christmas, no matter where we were. The large, colorful bulbs on the tree by the fireplace. Thick red stockings in the hallway. Pie for breakfast on Christmas morning and ice- skating in the afternoon. I still keep those traditions, even though she’s not here. It’s like holding a piece of her close, the sweet ache of it always sharpest in the center of my chest.
“I think you have to be if you own a Christmas tree farm.” I shake my head to clear the cobwebs of the past and steady myself with a deep breath.
It’s been almost . . . god, it’s almost been ten years since my mom passed away. I like to think everything happens for a reason, but I still don’t understand why she had to go so soon. I’m still angry about it.
We’re outside of the pizza shop now, the light from its hazy humid windows glowing warm and bright. I look at Dane out of the corner of my eye. I doubt he realizes that he’s the one who stopped us here, focused on the man working at the ovens behind the counter. The air around us smells like oregano and tomato sauce, a siren’s song spilling out onto the pavement.
I nudge Dane once with my shoulder. “You gonna go in?”
He shrugs, a little helpless, and I squeeze his arm. I only want the very best things for Dane. This man who chose to be a father to me when my own refused. He scratches his chin and then fusses with the collar of his shirt.
“How did you—” He clears his throat. “How did you, you know, with Luka?”
For one mortifying second, I think Dane is asking about our kiss in the barn. “What?”
He clears his throat again, a little bit louder this time. “How did you tell him how you feel? How did you ask him to—to take a chance on you?”
Something in my chest shifts at that, a little pluck that I feel reverberate down to the soles of my feet. I squeeze his arm harder until he looks at me.
“You’re not a chance, Dane.” I want to shake his shoulders, get the megaphone he keeps in the passenger seat of his cruiser, and scream it in his face. Instead, I settle for a whisper that wobbles around the edges and the best smile I can manage when my throat feels so tight. “You’re a sure thing.”
I tuck myself behind a light pole across the street and watch as Dane wanders his way into the pizza shop, pretending to look at cannoli in the glass case at the front before he shuffles his way over to the ovens. Shoulders by his ears, he fidgets, his hat tucked back under his arm. Matty half turns, about to ask after his order, I’m sure, and their eyes catch. Matty’s smile splits into something wide and beautiful, and Dane’s shoulders roll back, his forearms
finding the counter. Finally relaxed.
A sure thing.
I hide my smile behind my fingertips and wander my way back up Main Street, shooting Layla a text to let her know that Dane will be stopping by later to take a look around. The wind kicks up at my ankles and twists around my calves until it lifts the ends of my jacket, curling under my sweater and brushing a hello at the small of my back. It’s my favorite time of year, this in- between of fall and winter. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath.
Stillness and sweetness all rolled into one.
I’m not watching where I’m going, too caught up in tracking my boots against the pavement, the black sharp against the browns and creams of fallen leaves. They’re almost all gone now, the only branches bursting with life are the ones on the farm. Sturdy little swipes of green dotted all along the fields and hillside. A splash of red here and there from the holly trees that Beckett planted purely because they looked pretty.
My phone buzzes with a text. I check it and see a string of messages from Charlie.
CHARLIE: Don’t think I’m going to forget about you bringing Luka to dinner.
CHARLIE: We discussed you at length during lunch the other day.
That’s interesting. I wonder what they talked about. I’m just tapping out a reply when another message pops up.
CHARLIE: Won’t kiss and tell though.
I roll my eyes.
CHARLIE: Also, isn’t this amazing?
A picture pops up of my dad facedown on the Thanksgiving table, except Charlie has added dancing turkeys all over him. I immediately save it to my phone.
I’m just typing out my response when I slam into a body, the momentum almost taking me to the ground. I stumble and catch myself on a light pole.
Unfortunately, the person I’ve run into is not so lucky.
I reach out a hand to help Mr. Hewett up, cheeks blazing in embarrassment. It’s not like me to be so careless, though I suppose I have a lot on my mind.
“Mr. Hewett, I’m so sorry.” He’s busy rearranging his glasses on his face, brushing off brown leaves from the edge of his coat. “I didn’t see you. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
He scowls up at me from behind the slightly magnified lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses, gray eyes narrowed in disdain. His jacket is faded at the elbows, well loved and worn often, the collar sticking up unevenly on one side. His patchy gray hair is a bit of a mess, tousled by the wind now whipping in earnest. He’s a small man, but he holds himself tall, chin tilted up in defiance.
It’s the look on his face that has me taking half a step back, the aggressiveness out of place on this tiny side street. It feels angrier than any sidewalk bump-in deserves. I suddenly remember the stroll Luka and I took through downtown last week, with Mr. Hewett watching us from the steps of the library, that same furious look on his face. I had thought it had something
to do with Luka and me together, but it seems like I might be the common denominator.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again. I haven’t been to the library in ages, and it seems like I’ve missed some things. Like whatever I might have done to piss off Will Hewett. “Can I—”
“ ‘It is better to have your head in the clouds and know where you are,’ ” he recites, voice oddly formal, a bit nasally, “ ‘than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them, and think you are in paradise.’ ”
I blink at him, confused. “Um.”
Is that an insult? A warning?
“That’s Henry David Thoreau.”
Apparently, it’s Henry David Thoreau.
I was going to offer to buy Mr. Hewett a hot chocolate to apologize for bulldozing him, but now I just want to quickly remove myself from this odd conversation. I do my best to be kind to everyone in this town, grateful for their role in helping me put myself back together after the death of my mom.
But I’m not sure I can tolerate a stilted conversation about New England transcendentalism. Not even for a peppermint hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.
“That is . . . nice, I think?” When Mr. Hewett only offers silent contempt as a response, I shove my hands deep in my jacket pockets and look for an escape route. The pine air freshener from the other day is still there, and I grip it like a lifeline, edges digging into my palm. “All right, well, I have a few things left to do in town. I’ll stop by—” I am not going to lie to this man.
“I’ll see you around town, I’m sure.”
I hurry down the street, careful this time to note where I’m going and if there is anyone else on the sidewalk. What a strange little man. I search for my phone in my oversized pockets, intending to finally text Charlie back when it suddenly comes to life, buzzing in my hand. I smile when I see the picture of Luka and the pumpkin cannoli on my screen and swipe to answer.
“Hey, I was just about to text you.”
“Oh god, is she there already?”
I frown at the way his voice sounds slightly out of breath. Like he’s running or—I hear the clink of a coffee cup in the background, the faded tones of some sports show—pacing his apartment.
I look around me at the almost completely abandoned side street. Just me and a couple of sparrows, collecting crumbs from an old half-eaten bagel.
“What? No, Evelyn isn’t here for another week or so. The Monday after Thanksgiving.”
“Not Evelyn,” he breathes out, and I imagine him scratching at the back of his head, just where his hair starts to curl. “My mother.”
I swallow back a laugh at his deeply foreboding tone. Mainly because I know how much Luka loves his mom. His relationship with her is like a Hallmark card. He doesn’t go a day without calling her at five thirty on the dot so she doesn’t have to eat her dinner alone. Once he got caught up in a meeting but still managed to call her from the hallway just outside the boardroom, adding me into the group call so she’d have someone to talk to.
He brings her flowers when he visits and dresses up in the school mascot costume when they can’t find anyone else. Because she asked him once and he doesn’t want her to have to ask again. He is the picture-perfect son and dotes on her constantly with genuine affection.
“What’s going on with your mom?”
“I don’t want you to panic, Stella.”
Unease scratches at the back of my throat, and I swallow around it until I can manage my voice. If anything’s happened to Luka’s mom—memories rise like a swelling tide. Hospital visits, prescription bottles, how small and brittle my mom looked at the end, still trying so hard to smile for me.
“Luka—” I can’t seem to catch my breath. I press shaking fingertips to my chest. “Is your mom okay?”
“Ah, shit. Yeah, Stella. She’s okay.” All the air whooshes out of me. I feel like I need to bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees. “She’s okay.
I’m sorry. That was . . . not a great lead-in.”
“I think you’ve known me long enough to understand that telling me not to panic will only cause me to panic.”
I swear I can hear his smile over the phone. I close my eyes to imagine it.
A little bit rueful, tugging sharply on the left side of his bottom lip.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“All right, so . . .” I head toward the bookstore—my last stop before heading home. Alex called yesterday to let me know he just received a shipment of A Christmas Carol bound in fabric with gold foil etching. I want to get some for the office and one for Evelyn’s room at the bed-and- breakfast. I’ll add some cookies from Layla and a fresh bag of coffee from Ms. Beatrice. Maybe one of the mini trees that Beckett grows in the greenhouse behind his house. But Luka is distracting me with . . . whatever this is. “What’s going on?”
“My mom knows,” he offers in explanation. I hear the TV in the background click off, and the heavy gust of a sigh as he collapses into his couch. “I underestimated the power of the phone tree. Also, Betsy Johnson.”
My boots crunch over leaves along the pathway, birds scattering as I walk. “That’s not a problem though, right? She knows it’s—” I glance around me at the empty sidewalk. I drop my voice. “She knows it’s not real.”
Luka is silent on the other end of the phone, and I feel that uneasy feeling
again.
“Luka.”
Lying to Evelyn is one thing. The town another. But lying to his mom, of all people. That feels like a step too far. I never anticipated lying to his family. I never thought we’d have to. My oversight, I guess, but I can’t believe he’s considering it. The man who buys a sweatshirt with an angry badger on it every year and wears it unironically on the weekends because it makes his mom happy.
“Luka,” I say again, this time with a hint of pleading, “tell me you didn’t.”
“If by didn’t you mean I didn’t say anything when she called me in rapid- fire Italian to tell me that she was bringing you manicotti and lasagna, then yes, you would be correct.” I hear the clink of a coffee cup again, and I fight not to change direction and head to the bar instead. “She was—she was really excited, Stella. I couldn’t tell her we’re just faking it.”
“That’s exactly why you should have done it! If she finds out we’re lying to her, she’ll be furious.” Worse, she’ll be hurt. I can’t bear to disappoint his mom. I can’t have her look at me differently after all of this. “Luka, this is a mess.”
“Look at it this way. If we tell her this is fake, she’ll tell her sisters, yeah?” That’s true. Luka’s aunts are always around, and they keep exactly nothing from one another. I once heard his aunt Gianna tell his mom about her hemorrhoid cream. “And my aunt Sofia will absolutely tell Cindy Croswell. They play bridge together every other Sunday.”
I scratch at my eyebrow and fight not to scream into the sky. Never in my life have I had more childish impulses in the span of a single month. “I don’t
know, this is—”
“It’ll be fine, La La.”
I try to assure myself with the calm confidence in his voice, but it’s difficult. It actually only pisses me off more. It’ll be fine. We’ll just continue.
It’s not a big deal. His nonchalance over every single detail is frustrating.
He’s not the one with everything to lose here.
I try to explain. “I just don’t want her to think of me differently, is all. At
the end of all of this.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we—” I glance around the street again to make sure I’m alone.
“At the end of all this, when we are no longer fake dating. I don’t want her to be hurt.”
He sighs, frustration around the edges, his deep voice rumbling a bit. I imagine him in his apartment with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, his cup of coffee resting on his knee. “We talked about this already, Stella. We don’t have to say anything to anyone.”
He’s unbelievable. “We will absolutely need to say something to your mother when she’s inviting her son’s girlfriend to family dinners.”
“Or maybe I’ll take advantage of the fact that you’re being guilted into consistently attending family dinners. Finally.”
This isn’t the conversation I want to be having. I have enough on my plate right now without Luka’s laissez-faire attitude toward the most important
relationship in my life. It’s like he doesn’t even care what happens after all of this, doesn’t care what people think of us—think of me. Angry and a little bit hurt, I pick up my pace on the sidewalk and blink at the frustrated tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I’ve always been an angry crier, no matter how hard I try to stop myself. And it only makes me more upset as I trudge along the sidewalk. I know this whole thing was my idea and a consequence of my actions, but Luka isn’t—he’s not taking the fallout seriously.
“All right, well, I’m at the bookstore, so I have to go,” I fib. The bookstore is at least three more blocks down the street. “You know Alex doesn’t like people talking on the phone in the shelves.”
“Stella, wait.”
“I’ll call you later.”
I don’t wait for him to respond, ending the call and tossing my phone in my pocket so I’m not tempted to read whatever string of text messages he decides to send through. Luka has never been the type of person to let things lie. Unfortunately for us both probably, I absolutely am.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes. I ignore it and keep walking.
