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“Then it has to be Lance.”
“Why does it have to be Lance?”
“The reason you’re lost in your thoughts and moping around like a lovesick puppy? Who else would it be?”
“I’m not,” she denied with way too much gusto.
“Sure you are.”
“I meant I’m not a lovesick puppy,” she countered, because at least that much was true.
Cecilia laughed. “Keep telling yourself that, girlfriend, and maybe you’ll convince one of us.”
McKenzie didn’t say anything, just sat in the chair while Cecilia dabbed more highlight color onto her hair, then wrapped the strand in aluminum foil.
“Have you tossed out the roses yet?”
What did it matter if she still had the roses Lance had given her on Valentine’s Day? They still had a little color to them.
“I’m not answering that.”
“It’s been a month. They’re dead. Let them go.”
“I thought I might try my hand at making potpourri.”
“Sure you did.” Cecilia had the audacity to laugh as she tucked another wet strand of hair into a tinfoil packet. “What about the shoes?”
“What about them?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I’ve known you too long. Have you worn them yet?”
That was the problem with best friends. They had known you too long and too well.
“I’ve put them on,” she admitted, not clarifying that she’d put them on a dozen times, staring at them, wondering what he’d meant by giving her running shoes. “They’re a perfect fit.”
“I wouldn’t have expected otherwise. He pays attention to details.”
Lance did pay attention to details. Like the fact she ran away when things got sticky. Then again, he hadn’t tried to convince her not to. Not once had he mentioned anything beyond their seeing each other on Valentine’s Day. If she’d agreed, would he have asked for more? No matter how many times she asked herself that question, she couldn’t convince herself that he would have. She wasn’t the only one who ran.
Maybe she should have gotten him a pair of running shoes, too.
She bit the inside of her lower lip. “You think I messed up letting him go, don’t you?”
Cecilia’s look was full of amusement. “If you were any quicker on the uptake I’d have to call you Einstein.”
“It wasn’t just my choice, you know. He walked away that night at my mother’s rehearsal.”
“He gave you roses and running shoes.”
Yeah, he had.
“Running shoes? What kind of a gift is that anyway?”
“The kind that says he knows you better than you think he does. You’re a runner—physically, mentally, emotionally. He also gave you red roses. What does that say?”
“Not what you’re implying. He never told me that he loved me.”
“Did you want him to?”
