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I pull my grip from his neck to grab a hand and guide him into the dining room.
“It did. Her son-in-law was just . . . off.”
We sit down together, and I rub a hand down his arm. “Do you think she’s not safe?”
He turns, making eye contact with me finally. Swirls of confusion flutter in the soft blue waves of his irises. “I think he knows not to hurt her. But I don’t know if she’s comfortable there. Her husband died a few months ago, and she’s been asking for more visits with me since.”
A pang of pain hits for his aunt. “She must be feeling lonely, then. You could have invited her here. I bet she would have loved to help with the cake fiasco.”
“I should have. Maybe we can come back next weekend and take her out for dinner.”
I pause for the briefest of seconds before deciding to ignore the ‘we’ comment. It was probably a slip-up. We only have tonight. This is it. It’s over. There’s no time to be hung up on words that mean nothing.
Declan grabs the fork in front of him and reaches for the first plate. I hold a breath while I wait for his response. I’ve already tasted them all. There was no way in hell I’d sit here with the cakes staring at me and not trying them so that I could expect what he’d say.
I already know that this one is too dry and tart. I also made my tasting sheet and tucked it away into the bottom of my purse so that when we go back to Saoirse, I have actual, reasonable points for saying no, other than “this is dirt.”
He chews and swallows the entire bite before turning to me. “No.”
I lean in, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “Why? Why is it a no?”
“Because what the fuck? I need to wash it down with a glass of milk and isn’tthatthe exact opposite of what vegans want?”
I raise my hands in defense. “Okay, man. I was just asking.”
He takes the second one. This one isn’t dry. It’s actually the best of three, but knowing how difficult he’s been, I tried my best to guess what the issue will be. It’s the sweetness. I wouldn’t describe the cake as too rich, but it’s almost as if the sugar is fake.
“There’s a weird aftertaste.” He reaches for the water in front of him. “Like, plastic or something.”
“Plastic?” I ask. Hmm, yeah, it did kind of taste like that. “Okay, weird.”
I reach for the third and final one and hold it out in front of his face. “This is it. My final offering. Will you take it?”
He shoots me an annoyed look before taking the plate from me. I tap my fingers against the tabletop to feign impatience. My eyes are glued to him. He stabs the desert with force before taking a bite. It’s the worst of them all. I saved it for last intentionally. There’s too much lemon, making it too sour.
He doesn’t even chew, let alone swallow, before he’s gagging and spitting it out. “Fucking no.”
I let out a fit of giggles. “What’s wrong with it?” I ask.
“Stop, Samira. You have got to know by now that this vegan thing will not work out. I don’t know why she wanted me to do it.”
The smile I’m wearing wipes free with the harshness of his words. This isn’t funny for him. There are lines of frustration etched between his brows and forehead. He’s got a valid question. Why did she want it to be him? Why are we here doing this instead of her, when she’s the one who wants the entire guest list to eat this cake. It would be more reasonable to have one regular cake and one vegan.
“Disgusting,” he said the night at Saoirse’s. Lemon cake is disgusting, yet here he is eating it.
What else had the guys been talking about when we walked in? I close my eyes, trying to recall exactly what it had been about. They were talking about a girl. Scotty had asked about her favorite cake.
“Cara,” I say, shaking my head.It’s for Cara.Just like the sudden flower change. I bring my knees to my chest and squeeze them. “Oh, god, Declan. Cara is the weeping girl, isn’t she?”
“I don’t want to discuss this.” His jaw ticks.
I nod, knowing not to press it. I don’t want to talk about my failures either. Not when they come in the form of the people I love dying. “Sorry. I pushed too far.” I stand and collect the disposable plates to toss in the trash. “What’s the name of the bakery?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“That she liked. What’s the name?”
He rubs his eyes. “Please, Samira. I don’t want to do this right now.” When he looks at me, my heart breaks for him. She’s here with us now, in this room. I can tell by the way he looks at me, red-rimmed eyes and exhaustion in his gaze.
