Page 33
Caleb
I tighten my fist around the note, tempted to crumple it, pitch it into the sink, and set it on fire. Instead, I place it on my nightstand to revisit later.
“Such a sweet boy.” Mom picks through the box of expensive chocolates and pops one in her mouth.
“Right.” I snort. “Sweet.”
“He is sweet,” Mom insists. “Other than borrowing your towel to investigate the sirens, what did he do wrong?”
“You mean besides almost getting me arrested?” I leave out the part about him kissing me like he paid for the privilege.
“He made one little mistake.” She flicks her wrist as if magically erasing his crimes.
I snort. “His mistake was far from little.”
“He wanted to impress you. It’s the thought that counts.” She pleads his case as if she has a stake in the matter.
I groan, wishing I hadn’t told her about the whole pool debacle. That’s what happens when my best friend vanishes for days. I start confiding in my mother.
“He spent the night in jail,” she reminds me. “And you made it home safely.”
No thanks to him.
“You should give him another chance.”
Ugh. She won’t let this go until I agree.
“Fine. I’ll consider it . . . if you consider putting less focus on my social life and a little more on your own. Did you set up that Tinder account like I suggested? You need to find a nice guy of your own to buy you candy instead of hijacking mine.” I snatch a chocolate from her fingers, making a mental note to check in with Caleb on Monday. He took the brunt of what happened. Rightfully so, maybe, but he did apologize. And I did make it home safely.
Mom pats my shoulder, then turns back to my candy. “If you’re done daydreaming, get dressed and come downstairs. I’m taking you out for breakfast, and then we’re getting our nails done. My treat.”
“Mom . . .” I groan.
“Don’t Mom me. It’s Valentine’s Day. And since I no longer have a sweetheart, I’d like to spend time with my daughter. Now, hurry up.” Guilt trip initiated, she snatches another piece of chocolate before leaving me with a room full of roses.
After throwing on the first clothes I find, I follow the oddly familiar aroma of baked goods down the stairs. The trail ends at the front door, where Mom shoves a giant pastry between her lips. She scowls at my gray flannel pajama pants and happy penguin hoodie as she chews.
“You’re not wearing that, are you? I thought you had a date tonight.”
“Keyword tonight.” I glance at the white cardboard box of what looks like freshly baked cinnamon rolls balanced in her other hand. They look perfectly edible, but I can’t assume anything where my mom’s concerned. “Did you make those?”
“Make what?” She glances at the remaining pastry in her hand. “Oh, no. These were just delivered for you . . . they came with the flowers.” She points toward the large arrangement on the wooden bench beside the door.
After brushing a finger along one of the velvety petals, I grab a warm cinnamon roll and take a big bite, moaning my appreciation around a mouthful. “Since when do florists deliver breakfast?”
“Since this morning, I guess. But it wasn’t technically a florist. I don’t know about the daisies, but the cinnamon rolls came from the little coffee shop on Peach and Main.”
I nearly choke mid-swallow. “The Beanery?”
She nods.
“Who sent them?” A quick search of the flowers comes up empty. “There’s no card. Are you sure they’re for me?”
“The delivery man said your name.”
“He didn’t happen to bring a white-chocolate mocha, did he?”
Mom laughs. “No.”
