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“You like it?” asked Leila.
I cleared my throat. I glanced back at the kitchen. How strange would it feel making breakfast in there, not tripping over Leon and Spencer? Not stealing bacon off of their plates? Not stealing kisses when Leon was out?
My heart leaped, then plunged, at the thought of Spencer. He made my heart race, but that was the problem. Hearing Leon last night, and Lola at the café, two things had come clear to me, clear as day. First, my feelings for Spencer had crossed a line. I wanted more than hookups and stolen kisses, which brought me to the second thing: Spencer didn’t. He’d gone so stiff last night when Leon got going, like the very word “love” set his nerves jangling. And the way he’d looked at me, all deer-in-the-headlights, like he thought any minute I’d declare my devotion — it was insulting, was what it was. Like my love was some scary thing? Some fate worse than death?
“I like it,” I said.
“But you’re not sure,” said Leila. “Okay, why don’t you fill out an application? I’ll run a credit check and see where we stand. That way, if you pass, you’re first on my list. If you decide you want it, it’s yours. Otherwise, someone else could swoop in while you’re thinking.”
I nodded. “All right. Let’s do that.”
Ten minutes later, I was back on the street, dazed and bewildered but feeling okay. Wasn’t this what I’d wanted, a fresh start? A new, more mature station in life? This move would give me that, a place of my own. A new job would give me potential to grow. Distance from Spencer would free me up from distractions, so I could focus on my new life.
This was good. It was great. On-paper awesome.
“Distance,” I whispered, and my phone chirped.
I fished it out of my pocket expecting a text from Spencer, but what popped up instead was an email alert. An email from Lehman and Anderson, New York. My screen went dark before I could tap it, but I’d already caught the key phrases: got your application. Intrigued by your work. Love to set up a Zoom call.
I stood frozen, not breathing, my head full of static. People streamed all around me, hurrying by. If I’d been the superstitious type, I’d have taken this for a sign. I’d said distance, and boom. Like I’d cast a spell.
“You gonna stand there all day? People need to get by here.” A man jostled up on me and I shuffled aside. I pulled up the email and read it again. This was my dream job, so why wasn’t I cheering? Why wasn’t I on my phone screaming to Lola? I should’ve been thrilled, but what I felt was confusion. Confusion, disappointment, a sharp sense of loss.
I let out a harsh breath, a frustrated huff. What I needed was closure, for Spencer to say it. For him to tell me we had no future together. Then I could move on with no regrets, knowing I had left nothing unsaid.
I jammed my phone in my pocket and strode back up the street. That’s what I’d do tonight — I’d talk to Spencer. Tomorrow, I’d start the next phase of my life.
CHAPTER 17
SPENCER
Ihad my phone on the counter, propped on the toaster, paused in the middle of a long how-to clip: JENNY EXPLAINS IT: SETTING YOUR TABLE FOR A FORMAL DINNER. I’d made it as far as folding my napkins, but Jenny’s instructions were quicker than my fingers. My swan fell apart in a limp spill of linen.
Maybe this was too much. Too full-on romantic. I surveyed the table, already half-set — tablecloth, china. Candles and lilies. Bowls of water and rose petals next to our placemats. Wait, were there even supposed to be placemats? I had a whole tablecloth. Weren’t placemats redundant?
I scrolled back through my video, frustration mounting. Sure enough, I wasn’t supposed to use placemats. I wiggled them out and stuffed them back in the cupboard, and ran to the stove to check my sauce wasn’t sticking. This was stupid. So stupid. Izzy would laugh. She’d laugh in my face and I’d damn well deserve it. Who did I think I was, Gordon Ramsay?
I hurried back to the table and snatched up the lilies. The front door whooshed open and then it slammed shut. I froze in place, guilty, as Izzy called out.
“Leon? Is that you? Mm, what smells good?”
“Just me,” I called. “I made, uh… some dinner?” Man, I sounded dippy. Like some nervous kid. I cleared my throat and stood up straighter. “Leon gave me the recipe. I made us spaghetti.”
“Ooh, great, I’m starving!” Izzy kicked off her shoes and they thumped on the floor. I cast about for a place to stash the flowers, but Izzy was still talking. I couldn’t focus.
“I had the best interview. I think I might get it. I think—” She paused in the doorway. “Are those for me?”
I scowled down at my flowers. “They’re for the table, so… sort of? I was still setting up.”
“Well, here. Let me help you.” Izzy took the flowers. “You’d best grab your meat sauce. It’s about to boil over.”
“It’s not meat sauce,” I said. “It’s— oh, shit!” It was boiling over, spilling onto the stove. I hurried to get it while Izzy fixed the table. My whole face was burning, and not just from the steam. This dinner wasn’t off to a promising start. I’d wanted to show Izzy I was, I don’t know, an adult. Ready for adult stuff, like real sit-down dinners. Real conversations. Real feelings. Real futures. Instead, I was fumbling around without a clue in my head, my doofy kid side on full display.
Izzy giggled. “Who’s Jenny?”
I spun around. “What?”
“‘Jenny Explains It: Setting your Table for a Formal Dinner.’ Oh my God, were you trying to?—”
