“What?”
“We were supposed to have lunch. I’m still taking you to lunch.”
“I can’t—I have to pack, I have to?—”
“JuJu.” He keeps his hand extended, waiting. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He reaches down and gently pulls me up from my chair. “There’s this place near the waterfront that does pasta. Carbs are their love language.”
“Rodriguez—”
“Nope. You’re spiraling and you haven’t eaten and you’re going to make yourself sick.” His hand is warm around mine and he hasn’t let go yet. “Let me feed you. That’s what fake boyfriends do, right?”
I give him a small smile. “I don’t think that’s in the job description.”
“It is now. I’m rewriting the rules.” He tugs me toward the door. “Come on. Pasta fixes everything.”
“That’s not even close to being true.”
“It’s my truth.”
He holds the door open for me and I realize I’m actually going. I’m letting him take me to lunch when I should be packing and panicking and figuring out how to survive the next week.
But his hand is warm in mine and he’s looking at me like I’m not broken, like I’m not about to fall apart completely.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Pasta.”
“That’s my girl.” He says it so easily, so naturally, like we’ve been doing this for months instead of agreeing to it five minutes ago.
And maybe it’s the shock of Olivia’s call, or maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s just that I’m so tired of holding everything together on my own—but I don’t pull my hand away when we walk out of the building. The cold air hits us immediately, sharp and clean.
I just let him lead me to his car, let him open my door, let himdrive me to some restaurant I’ve never heard of while he talks about absolutely nothing important, filling the silence so I don’t have to.
And for the first time since my phone rang twenty minutes ago, I think maybe this is going to be okay.
Maybe bringing Rodriguez to Toronto isn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.
8
RODRIGUEZ
February 11
I’moutside Juliette’s apartment thirteen minutes early because I’m not screwing this up.
I’ve been awake since three. Showered, shaved, put actual effort into my appearance for the first time in weeks. Dark jeans, gray shirt, leather jacket. Hair styled but not overdone. Just enough cologne that she’ll notice it in the car but won’t think I bathed in it.
My leg bounces as I sit in the driver’s seat, knee protesting slightly but I can’t make it stop. This is my shot. The one I’ve been waiting for since September when I saw her skate and completely lost my mind. She’s finally letting me in, even if it’s fake, even if it’s just for a weekend.
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
Almardon
You’re insane
Probably
