Page 23 of How My Fake Alien Boyfriend Learned to Cook and Saved the Family Business

I wasn’t sure what hurt the most—the blow to my pride or the blow to my body. But when Lola put a hand to her head, face scrunched in discomfort, I found my answer. I had hurt Lola. That was the worst of all.

Clumsiness, carelessness. Kal, the screwup, impossibly hopeless.

My knees tucked up to my chest as I rolled into an upright sitting position. Slowly, Lola did the same. In the time it took for her to brush herself off and check for injuries, I’d braced myself for the worst. A scolding at the very least, surely, but I wouldn’t have flinched if she threw me out forever.

Funny how that thought pinched, sending cool liquid through my veins. I think I could have lived my entire life on Xaerea never knowing someone like Lola existed, and I would have been fine. But now that I’d met her, all I wanted was to learn more, earn more of her, this dazzlingly bright human.

My thoughts floundered between wishing I could fold myself into nothing, disappearing completely, and feeling the pull to make things right. I wanted to apologize to her, prove that this was a fluke and that I could be a well-adjusted, very composed person, actually. There was also a very likely chance she would laugh in my face, and I winced from the pain of it prematurely.

“Are you okay?” Lola watched me with concern etched across her face.

That was…not what I’d expected. No malice in her voice, nor anger. I could feel myself unwind, just a little.

“You took a pretty hard fall,” she continued, voice soft.

Once again, my muscles lost some of their tension. Lola wasn’t reacting anything like what I’d grown accustomed to. She wasn’t being angry; she was being kind.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t understand, because hadn’t I ruined everything?

My voice was small and tense. “I’m fine,” I said. “I—I’m sorry about…” I gestured to the mess around us, determined not to meet her eyes.

Lola snorted and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s no big deal. Seriously. I’ve seen way worse messes in kitchens.”

My eyes snapped to hers, still confused. “You’re not mad?”

“Not really.” Lola shrugged. “Mostly just surprised.” She shifted her position on the floor and rubbed at the base of her spine. “And possibly a little bruised.”

I groaned, completely guilt-ridden. I deserved her anger and her frustration, but all she showed me was kindness. What was I supposed to do with that?

Lola clambered up from her seated position and began gathering the golden discs in the fabric of her apron.

“Here, let me,” I said, eager to make amends and prove I could be helpful. I jumped up and bent to sweep the remains into my arms. We worked in silence for several moments. I played and rewound the last five minutes over and over in my head, so engrossed that I didn’t notice how close I was to Lola. We reached for the same scrap of abandoned baked good at the same time, bumping heads.

“Ouch.” Lola rubbed the spot where we had collided. I reared back, hoping that if I put distance between us, maybe I would stop making such a fool of myself.

But before I could berate myself more, Lola started to laugh. “If it’s going to be like this,” she said, squinting an eye as she continued to rub at her head, “one of us is going to have to wear a bell. Or an air-cushioned bubble.”

“I’m really very sorry,” I said, backing slowly toward the door. I was sure—so sure—one accident could have been forgiven, but two was a step too far. “I’ll…I’ll go. I’m so sorry.”

“Wait!” Lola called out. “It’s okay.”

I paused halfway to the door.

“Really,” she said with a small smile. “Accidents happen.”

Accidents happen.

Accidents happened, but why did they always seem to happen to me? In a world of strict rule-followers, on a planet where perfection was normalcy, it was always me who couldn’t keep it together.

But Lola didn’t seem to be upset at all, only concerned for my well-being. Which was…new.

“You’re not mad at me?” I felt pathetic asking the question. So pathetic that the question caught in my throat like a lump.

“Pssh,” Lola made a funny sound with her lips. “It’s just a few biscuits.” She tossed her apron of ruined biscuits into the bin. “This was nothing. One time, when I was, like, sixteen, I spilled a gallon of cooking oil because I wasn’t holding it right. It was so bad. We were slipping and sliding for hours before we got it all up.” Lola shook her head as she recounted her story.

“But I learned my lesson, and I’ll never make that mistake again. Now you’ve learned an important lesson,” she said, tossing more biscuits away.

She looked at me expectantly, but my words were stuck in my throat.