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“I want you to leave, Chris.”
He pulls out a carton of eggs, followed by a half gallon of milk. “Have breakfast with me. Remember how much you loved my French toast?” He rifles through my cupboards and pulls out a loaf of bread and a mixing bowl, and I let the front door shut with a defeated sigh.
“Fine. Cook breakfast if it’ll make you happy.” I plop onto the sofa and send Cash another message.
Me: I’m okay.
Cash: What’s he doing there?
Me: He’s making French toast in my fucking kitchen. Can you believe that?
Cash: To hell with the risk. As your boss, I might have some files that I NEED to drop off.
Me: Please don’t. He knows me too well. It won’t take him more than five seconds to figure out how I feel about you. Just give me an hour. I’ll let him say what he needs to say then get him out of here.
Biting my lip, I wait for his response, hoping he’ll find the logic of waiting and back down long enough for me to get Chris out of here.
Cash: Promise you’ll text me if you need me.
Me: I will, I promise. You should get some sleep anyway. You looked exhausted on TV.
Cash: You saw?
Me: I had the sound muted, but yeah.
Cash: I miss you already. The only thing I want right now is you in my arms.
Hell, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I do a little of both, my eyes burning as the corners of my mouth turn up. I’m texting that I miss him too when Chris breaks into my Cash bubble.
“Who are you texting?”
“None of your business.”
Chris is busy dipping pieces of bread into egg batter, but every few seconds, he sends a glance my way. “You were smiling, Jules.”
“I do that a lot these days.” Shit, I need to rein in my attitude. Chris is…Chris. He’ll always have a place in my heart, and I’d rather us move forward as friends than enemies.
“You seeing anyone?” he asks, failing to mask the nervous hitch in his voice.
With a sigh, I set my phone aside. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending everything’s okay. We broke up.”
He doesn’t slow his stride in the kitchen as he places the bread pieces onto a griddle, but the set of his broad shoulders turns rigid. “I quit drinking. Been sober for over a month now. I’m even going to meetings.”
I rise from the sofa and slide onto a barstool to watch him cook. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”
“At first, I did it for you.” He settles his brown gaze on me. The lines of his face are determined, and too familiar. “I wanted to be good enough for you, Jules. So I got my shit together. I wasn’t about to come out here until I’d at least come that far.”
“You have to do it for yourself,” I say softly.
“I know that now. So no matter what you decide, I’m staying sober. I just need you to know that.”
“Chris,” I begin, tone heavy with objection, “It’s over—”
“Please hear me out,” he interrupts.
