I hide.
The doorbell goes, and my heart leaps even though I tell it to chill.
Because, for as savagely as I’ve tried to stifle the thread of hope inside me, to tell myself it’s dumb, I can’t forget the look in Leo’s eyes, the softness in his I’ll see you soon.
And it’s why I really want it to be him at the front door.
For soon to be right now.
Stupid, huh?
Yup.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to allow that stupidness to rule my life.
I can feel all the feels, can find it impossible to stifle that little bud of hope inside my heart—that maybe there’s a slender possibility that I can be like Luna and Faye and Kailey and find what they’ve found—but I’m not going to let that desire ruin my life.
Or my baby’s.
Recentered, I head for the door.
It could be the Pope on the other side for all that I care.
So why does disappointment rush through me when I see Luna and her very pregnant belly on the other side?
She grins and leans in to hug me. “Hey, girlie pop.”
“Hey,” I say, the hug soothing the rough edges of my mood. “Did I forget we were meeting up?”
“No.” She breezes into my apartment. “I’m being incredibly rude and dropping by without warning.” She sniffs then moans. “Please tell me that smell is something I can be even ruder about because I am suddenly desperate to taste it.” Her ponytail swings as she spins back my direction. “Of course, if it’s for an event, ignore me.” Her lip juts out. “And my sad face.”
I grin, despite the whirlwind of emotions that have gripped me since this morning, and close and lock the door, following her down the hall and into my kitchen.
She’s leaning over the pot of soup and inhaling greedily.
“It’s not exactly summer fare,” I say, moving close and gently nudging her out of the way so I can add the final ingredients—the fire-roasted corn, the shredded chicken, the cotija cheese. “But I’m having a salad with it, so I figure it evens out.”
She inhales again. “I don’t care what season it is, that smells delicious.” She clasps her hands together and turns puppy dog eyes in my direction, bouncing lightly on her toes. “Can I have some? Pretty please?”
“As if that were ever in question,” I say as I snag two bowls from the cabinet, along with plates for the salad. “I feed people.” A shrug. “It’s what I do.”
“I’m thrilled to be here to benefit from it,” she says as I add the fresh herbs and start dishing up the soup.
But she doesn’t stand around watching me work.
She goes to the fridge and pulls out the salad, placing heaping servings for both of us on the plates. Then she’s carrying them over to the island, setting them on the placemats, returning for napkins and silverware.
“What are you drinking?” she asks, retrieving two cups from the cabinet.
“I have some fresh strawberry lemonade in fridge, that sound good to you?”
“That sounds perfect.” Then she’s grabbing the pitcher, pouring two glasses, and bringing those over.
I meet her there with our soup and the next few minutes are spent with us filling our bellies.
“So,” she says when she’s on her second bowl of soup and we’re no longer resembling vacuum cleaners.
“So what?” I prompt when she doesn’t go on.
