Page 27 of Waiting for You

"Those are two separate statements."

He turned all the way around, pinning me with an accusing stare.

"Vanilla," he repeated, dragging the word out.

"I have a defensible reason."

He let out a bark of laughter. I threw up one hand like a traffic cop to silence him, but the laughter only grew.

"It was for Violet's novel!" I defended. "Her debut crossed a million reads, and I wanted to throw a huge celebration. So I bought a custom cake, and the cake happened to be vanilla, and it was incredible. It was a phenomenal cake, Xavier. I have no idea what the baker laced it with."

He shook his head, a boyish grin splitting his face. "A total traitor to the cause."

"Stop laughing at me."

"I also still hate vanilla."

"I know."

"We made a blood pact."

"I know."

"We compiled a logical, extensive list of reasons."

"I know," I sighed. "I remember the whole manifesto. The artificial aftertaste is disgusting, the scent is cloying, bakers only use it to mask the absence of real flavor, and it's the universal default for cowards who don't trust their own palates."

"And yet you gleefully betrayed the cause."

I clutched my chest. "I carry deep, profound remorse. Every single day. But the cake was fantastic, and I apologize to the movement."

He laughed again, a rich sound that bounced off the brick. I let myself laugh right along with him, forgetting to hold any distance at all.

We did have a fiercely guarded reason for hating vanilla. It started on a freezing walk after dinner, the night our casual friendship turned into something heavier. We'd stumbled past a glowing 24-hour bakery and ordered the "baker's choice" slice, the classic idiotic move of two people trying to look spontaneous. The exhausted cashier handed us a slice of cake. It was painfully vanilla. I choked down every bite. He did the same. Hours later, on the walk back from somewhere else, he finally cracked and admitted it tasted like sugary cardboard, and we stood shivering on the cracked pavement, laughing ourselves stupid. From that night on, it was our thing: hating vanilla together, trading disgusted looks across rooms in solidarity.

I reached out and grabbed a bottle at random to inspect the label and hide my flushed face.

"Any other grand betrayals you'd like to confess while we're locked in here?" he asked.

"I can't think of a single one." I slotted the bottle back into the rack. "What about you?"

He went still.

"Yes," he said.

"What did you do?"

"I went to see the aurora borealis."

My jaw dropped.

He burst out laughing again, and I yanked the nearest bottle from the rack and brandished it at him.

"Don't you dare hit me," he wheezed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

"We were supposed to do that together!" My voice cracked, losing its teasing edge. "That was supposed to be ours. We mapped out the whole itinerary!"

"I was angry," he said, the humor fading from his eyes. "I wanted to do something that would hurt you back, something beautiful you couldn't be there to see. So I booked the flight."