Page 20 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

“I drove by yesterday on the way home from a hike,” Nat said, patting at the soil around a tomato plant. “It was packed. That’s good, right?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But that’s one good day after months of bad days. We would need, like, every day to be like that for things to turn around.”

Nat grunted, but stayed quiet. One thing I appreciated most about my best friend was that she didn’t always jump into fixer mode. She did enough of that in her work as a firefighter. As a friend, she leaned more toward letting someone figure out how to tackle their own shit before stepping in with solutions.

I poked the garden rake into the loose dirt. “Or…”

Nat twisted to look at me, and I could see where her sienna complexion turned pink across her cheeks from the heat. “That sounds like a load-bearing or, Lola Maloney. What are you not telling me?”

“I’ve had a bit of an opportunity fall into my lap,” I said tentatively. Nat waved her hand for me to continue. I flopped onto the ground, crossed my legs, and explained the upcoming restaurant contest. How it could mean free publicity, an influx of much-needed cash. And a boost in confidence, I thought, but didn’t say. I wasn’t sure if even Nat understood how broken down I’d been from working in Nashville. And how broken I still was, because moving home hadn’t fixed anything—I’d only continued to doubt myself, just in a familiar location. I left all of that out, as much for my sake as for hers.

I was Lola Maloney, after all. Upbeat, idealistic Lola. It’s how people were most comfortable seeing me.

“You obviously have to do it,” Nat said, snagging my water bottle and taking a deep drink. “I hope you already told them you’re participating, or I’ll have to do it for you.”

“I did,” I said. Then, more sheepishly: “But don’t you think it’s a bit of a long shot? I mean, the chances of getting first place—am I being delusional?”

Patting fresh soil around a seedling, Nat took her time before responding.

“Do I think it’s a long shot? Maybe. I don’t know what your competition will look like. But are you being delusional? No way. You’re the best chef I know.”

“I’m the only chef you know.”

Nat shrugged. “Doesn’t change my answer. And technically I know your ex, so that counts.”

I scoffed and poked at the dirt. “Right.”

I wanted to ask her a question, but I also didn’t. Seeing Walter earlier today felt like a blow to the gut, and not just because I probably looked like a sweaty bog troll. It wasn’t that I necessarily wanted to impress Walter, but it would have been nice to remind him of what he’d lost—even though I never, ever wanted him back.

In truth, I just wanted to move on to the part where I was Lola Maloney, strong, independent woman and successful chef. The opposite of the person I was with him. The version of myself I’d always envisioned. Yet, I still felt like I was behind, playing my career on hard mode. Everything had always looked so easy for Walter. I think that’s part of what drew me to him, the appeal of life on easy mode.

“But really, how is it?” I finally asked.

I had done my very best at ignoring any and all news about Walter’s new restaurant. When I moved back and we reconnected, it was the thing we’d talked about most. His big plans to finally open a restaurant worth eating at in Roswell Falls. I’m not sure how I didn’t understand that as an insult at the time. Since our final breakup, I’d simply decided I didn’t care about his restaurant plans. There’s something to be said for putting your head in the sand and trying to ignore one bad thing when the rest of your world feels like it’s spinning out of control.

“He said his restaurant is about to ‘pop off’ and ‘do numbers like you’ve never seen.’” Nat made air quotes with her fingers, sending bits of soil through the air. “So, you know, any modicum of success is going to his head. As expected.”

“I can’t stand him,” I said, kneeling to pull weeds across from Nat. “I just can’t stand him.”

I was raised not to wish ill on anyone—even the people I didn’t get along with. It was the golden rule in our household, and I’d always taken that very seriously. But in Walter’s case, the man who in so many ways made me question my worth and my abilities, some days I struggled to think kind thoughts. I didn’t want him to fail, but I also didn’t exactly want his restaurant to succeed. Which made me both a bad person and a bad neighbor, and possibly a bad advocate for the local economy.

But what woman has ever wanted her cheating ex to have a thriving business? I think I was well within my rights to wish ill will. My fists curled, fingers cutting into the loose soil.

“You know what? Let’s call it done,” Nat said. “I clearly can’t trust you around my seedlings right now. I’ll take that, thank you.” She gently pried my fingers open and pulled a plant from my hand. I hadn’t even noticed when I’d yanked it from the ground, yet it hung limply in my grip.

“Shoot, I’m sorry.” I handed over the poor, flaccid pepper plant with a grimace. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“That just means it’s time for margaritas,” Nat sing-songed, tossing her gardening gloves onto the ground and leading me inside her gingerbread cottage.

I loved everything about Nat’s house. That we used to walk by it when we were kids; that it was a soft pink with white trim, yard overflowing with flowers; that I was always welcome. It was small and cozy, and so definitively Nat.

The fact that it was hers caused a ribbon of envy to run through me, like fudge in rocky road ice cream. There, but not overpowering. I was happy for her, really I was. There was a tiny part of me, though, that was jealous that Nat had her own space.

I, on the other hand, was still living in the apartment over my parents’ garage. The space was decent. Certainly livable. But even full of my furniture and décor, it still didn’t feel like mine. This seemed to be a running theme in my life.

I watched as Nat pulled out provisions for margaritas, threw them in a blender with ice, and poured the drinks into glasses until the slushy liquid was alarmingly close to the rim.

“Weird question—do you know anyone named Kal?”