Page 35 of Sterling Stone

11

[Stone]

For the remainder of the afternoon, I play the perfect host toward Taxi, keeping myself cordial but distant.

“Did you get something to eat?”

“Would you like another drink?”

And at one point, absentmindedly, bringing her a dessert.

Sebastian owns the local bakery, Curmudgeon Bakery, and he’s best known for his baby bundt cakes. His wife, Enya, is partial to the lemon ones. Today, he brought an assortment of cupcakes, using the family as his test samplers.

Handing one to Taxi, I say, “Sweet potato cupcake. Met an extraterrestrial in Tennessee once. She said it was her favorite.”

I ignore the sudden lift of Clay’s head, like he’s put two and two together from that night at Milton Roadhouse when I spilled that I’d met someone. A night that meant nothing . . . at least to her.

Taxi’s eyes fix on mine a second before she takes the wrapped treat from me, brushing her fingers against mine. I revel in the sparks crackling over my skin but break eye contact first, like I did in the kitchen, knowing it’s best not to stare too long.

My mind already holds a permanent snapshot of Taxi. One where she smiles widely, loves books with romantic aliens, has a passion for vivid art, and appreciates spicy cupcakes.

I give her my back because I’m not strong enough to stop looking at her. I want answers when I have no right to ask more questions. I don’t understand, and this is why I’m not involved with anyone. I know my limits. My heart is too vulnerable to open up.

“What was that?” Clay whispers, stepping up beside me as I scrape the grill that’s already been scraped for grease and crud from cooking burgers and hot dogs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my gaze aimed at the slats of the grate, scrubbing harder and harder with the steel wire brush.

“What’s going on with you and Taxi?” he asks outright.

“Nothing,” I whisper.

“Heard that before.” He pauses, but I don’t look up. “She’s the one, isn’t she?”

I still don’t glance at him, scouring that grill like I can scrape through the cast-iron slats.

“What one?”

“Don’t play coy with me.” Clay chuckles.

My brother knows me well, and he’s also good at pulling out truths from others, but I’m not up for a confession right now.

Instead, I want to stew.

“You can’t be closed off forever,” he states quietly.

My head snaps upward. “Okay, pot.” Pot meet kettle. Clay has a big heart, and he’s taken in stray animals and lost souls most of his life, but I’m not one of them. I don’t need saving by the savior in the family.

“I’m good,” I mutter, returning to my scrubbing.

“But are you?” Clay counters.

I shrug, tying the motion into my current action. “I always am.”

Clay chuckles and claps my shoulder hard, pinching me at a pressure point to get my attention. “One of these days, you’re going to fall. And fall hard.”

“Not me,” I argue. “I’m sturdy on my feet.”

Still standing, I want to remind him of how couples compare individuals not in relationships.