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Sunday jerks slightly. She glances down, thick brows pulling together as she finally notices my peace offering. “You brought me soup?”
I nod.
“Why?”
See; pathetic creep.
When I answer with only a shrug, Sunday’s frown deepens. Straightening, she glances over her shoulder quickly, wary doubt written all over her when she faces me again. “Did you wanna come in?”
No. Maybe. Not sure. I can’t remember if that was my plan. I don’t think I had a plan, actually. I just got a little… panicky at the thought of Sunday sick and alone. Of August taking care of her all by himself. And a pesky voice—holding remarkable similarities to one of my best friends’—rattling around in my brain didn’t help matters.
She’s a single mom. She doesn’t know anyone.
And I’m a fucking dick for making her life harder.
“Make up your mind, hotshot. I haven’t stood up for this long all week.”
That snaps me out of it pretty fast. “Yeah.” With a shake of my head, I step forward. “Okay.”
Ironically, Sunday doesn’t move. It’s her turn to hesitate, and mine to joke. “Change your mind, sunshine?”
In one shaky sentence, Sunday Lane proves we might have more in common than I thought; she’s also a proud member of the Deflect With Jokes club. “Just tryna remember if any of my Cass Morgan memorabilia is on display.”
“If I see a shrine, I promise I’ll ignore it.”Not like it would be my first.“Or I can just go.”
“Will I still get the soup?”
“There’s a fifty-fifty chance.”
Drowning out her chuckle with a deep, fortifying breath, Sunday steps aside. I don’t linger long enough to let her change her mind; I quickly make my way to the kitchen, dumping the Tupperware and the tote hanging off my shoulder onto the counter. As I carefully move some of the clutter littering the surface aside to make room for the things I brought—soda, fruit, the oh-so-delicious green smoothies Amelia forces down my throat once a day—something catches my eye. Mouth twitching, I sift through the pack of playing cards until I find the one with my face on it. “As shrines go, this is pretty pathetic. I’m a little disappointed.”
“August has a poster on his wall.”
“None on yours?” God, I don’t mean for it to be, but my tone is dangerously close to flirtatious. See, this is why I had to stay mad. I can’t flirt when I’m mad. It’s easier to establish clear boundaries when I’m mad. To not slip into my easy, flirty comfort zone.
Sunday doesn’t like my comfort zone. She doesn’t flirt to ward off the insufferable awkwardness of a situation. She stiffens and wrinkles her nose and wraps her arms around her middle with a sigh, clear signs that while she might have invited me in, I’m not exactly welcome. “What’re you doing here, Cass?”
I hold up the Tupperware I still haven’t let go of. “Soup.”
Soup. One word. That’s all I say. Fucking dumbass.
“Right.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear a ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “But what are you really doing here?”
Right. Yeah. That.
As I unpack, I try to remember the monologue I prepared the other day, the one I never got to use because she was, you know, practically on the brink of death, the one I didn’t rehearse on the way over here because I wasn’t entirely sure I’d even make it out of my car.
“If this is a pity thing,” Sunday prompts, staring way too intently at an orange, “I don’t want it.”
“It’s not.” I don’t think now is a good time to point out the difference between pity and sympathy. “It’s an apology thing.”
“It’s a guilt thing.”
I don’t deny it; I figure rounding out an apology with a lie isn’t the best idea.
Making quick work of dishing up and reheating a portion of soup, I set it down on the small dining table tucked against the wall. Gesturing for Sunday to sit, I take the seat opposite her, hands braced against my thighs as I fumble for the right words. “I’m not very good at trusting people.”
Thick brows rise as Sunday blows on a steaming spoonful of broth. “I never would’ve guessed.”
