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After he’d fixed the disposal and told them to keep all the pumpkin rinds far from it, he’d taken a seat at the table, sampled all the treats—the pumpkin cheesecake had been fucking amazing—and even been willing to try a pumpkin spice latte for the first time.
He wasn’t really the latte type. In any flavor. Certainly notthatflavor.
But her friends had been sonice. And Becca had been dressed in blue jeans and a light flannel with her hair in a high ponytail and her glasses on and…she’d looked like regular Becca. Beautiful sure, but just Becca. Sweet, smiley, and a little nerdy—they were twenty years old and carving jack-o-lanterns at her mom’s kitchen table and talking about the Halloween party they were throwing when they got back to LSU, for fuck’s sake. She was just the girl he’d lived next to for ten years. And seriously, that pumpkin cheesecake had made him groan out loud.
Strangely, right after that groan, Becca and her friends had all looked at one another and Savannah had said, “Askhim.”
October…twenty-seventh to be exact…
Toby nodded. “Definitely ask him.”
Becca shook her head. “No. That’s okay.”
Daniel agreed. “You should. He’d definitely know.”
“Yes, he’s the best one,” Toby insisted.
Becca looked at Beau. And sighed. “I know.”
Beau paused with a bite of cheesecake halfway to his mouth. “Best one for what?”
“I just need an opinion on something,” she said.
Beau took the bite, chewed, swallowed, and shrugged. “Okay.”
Something he and Becca had done since they’d been twelve had been give each other pure, honest, no bullshit opinions about things. Even if those opinions were unsolicited.
It had started when his dad had died when they’d been twelve. The night after the funeral she’d brought him brownies.
Heartbroken and angry at the world, he’d taken a bite of one and said, “These are the worst things I’ve ever tasted.”
They had been. They’d been awful.
She’d punched him in the jaw and said, “Just because you’re sad doesn’t mean you have to make other people feel bad.”
She’d also gotten grounded for a week for being mean to the kid next door whose dad had just dropped dead from a heart attack.
But she’d been right. So, he’d taken her a peace offering two days later. He’d climbed the tree outside her window, knocked, and handed her a chicken and broccoli casserole.
She’d looked at it. And started laughing. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“It will be a hundred times better than the brownies,” he’d told her. “But I didn’t make it. It’s from all the food people have been bringing us. Because I’d rather bring someone somethinggood. And I know thatIcan’t make anything good.”
She’d shaken her head. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”
He hadn’t. For the whole twelve years he’d been alive he’d been pretty sure he was awesome. That’s what people had always insinuated. And told him. “You think so?”
“I do,” she’d said with a nod.
“Why?”
“Because you know that I brought you those brownies to say I was sorry about your dad and to let you know that I cared. Youknowthat you should have just said thank you and pretended they were delicious.”
“I did say thank you,” he reminded her. When he’d first taken the plate from her, he’d mumbled athanks.
“And you should have just left it at that.”
“You should know that your brownies are terrible though,” he said. “Seriously,” he added when she rolled her eyes and started to shut her window. “Wouldn’t you rather give peoplegoodbrownies? I mean sure, the idea is nice even if they suck. But havinggoodbrownies to eat in my room later that night would have been even better.”
