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“Milkshake?” I offer awkwardly. We’re not what we used to be to each other and we’re not interested in being anything else. It’s an odd limbo.
“What flavor?” Her eyebrows arch with interest.
“Strawberry. It’s from UDF. Your favorite.” I frown in thought. “Or it used to be, anyway. There’s a smoothie shack in town, but I wasn’t sure if you were a shot-of-wheatgrass kind of girl or if you liked fruit.”
Yep. Definitely not getting any less awkward.
“So you bought me a milkshake,” she states.
“Yeah.”
“It’s not like I’m preparing for a part anyway.” She holds out her hand and I place the cold cup in it. Our fingers brush and that subtle touch stirs some unnamed thing between us. For me, anyway.
She shuffles aside and invites me in. “I didn’t think you were working today.”
I step into the foyer. The A/C is cranked and it feels fantastic.
“My guys aren’t, but there are things I can do. We’ll need to paint here in the next week or so. If you can arrange to be away for a day, it’d probably be better than breathing fumes.”
She puts the straw to her lips and sucks the pink milkshake into her mouth. Her eyes close and she lets out an Mmm that borders on orgasmic.
“It’s been forever since I’ve had a milkshake. Like, a real one.” Her gaze softens on mine, her smile easy. She used to look at me like that all the time. And when she did, I never was able to resist pulling her close, bending low, and kissing her mouth.
“Live a little. Or a lot. It’s your vacation.” I clear my throat to dislodge the lust clogging it. “Or whatever this is.”
“Hiatus.” She quirks one eyebrow.
“What’s with the pencil?”
She reaches up and plucks it from her hair. “Oh, right. I forgot about that. I was having trouble typing out my ideas, so I found a pencil in the junk drawer and went on a search for paper. I thought maybe changing my medium might help the ideas flow better.”
“Writing?”
“Yeah.” Shyly, she looks away. “I had this idea for a screenplay. I don’t know. It’s probably stupid, but I need something to do besides sit around and read articles about myself.”
A shrill beep, beep, beep comes from the kitchen.
“My oven fries are done. Want some?”
“With my milkshake? Hell, yeah.” We share a smile and I wonder if she’s remembering the many, many fries she’d dipped into one Wendy’s Frosty or another during the summers when we went out.
Positioned at the stove, she scoops the fries from pan to plate and serves them on the island with a bottle of ketchup riding sidecar. We dig in, each pulling the lids off our shakes and dunking a hot fry into the ice cream, reserving the ketchup for later. Or maybe not at all.
“Strawberry’s still my favorite.” She smiles up at me.
“Good.”
We both reach for another fry.
“I’m not sure where I stand with you,” she says. “We used to be great friends, and then…you know, boyfriend and girlfriend, and then we broke up. Now we’re something else. Not strangers but not friends.”
I don’t comment since there’s nothing to say. She’s right. We’re not strangers and we’re not friends.
“Do you think we could be? If not friends, then friendly?”
“Friendly.” I grunt the word. It’s unflattering and makes me sound like a golden retriever.
“We’re capable of amicability if the milkshakes and fries are any indicator.” She gestures with a fry. “And I’m going to see you on and off with this project you have going on for Mom and Dad. It would be nice if we could coexist.”
