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“I should’ve made time for you, for our friendship.” As I say the words, there’s a warmth in my chest, a fiery conviction that burns so much stronger than a youthful sentiment. I’ve experienced life without her, felt the loss, and I don’t want to make that mistake again. “I’m so incredibly sorry I lost touch.”
“Me, too.” Her voice is low, laden with sincerity.
“Never again?” I shift my bags to one arm and hold out my free hand.
“Deal.” She does the same, and we slap palms, snap twice, then wiggle our fingertips together, exactly how we used to seal important agreements when we were kids. Feeling a little silly as we revert to our childhood in front of the perfume counter at Bloomingdale’s, we share a sheepish laugh.
“Ready to go?” Brynn asks, tossing her paper cupcake wrapper in the recycling bin.
“Not yet.” I follow suit with my cardboard pudding container and grab her hand. “There’s something we need to do first.” I tug her back toward the escalator.
“What’s that?”
“We’re getting you that flashy coat because the Brynn Delaney I know can not only pull it off but looks amazing in it.”
She grins, revealing the slight gap between her two front teeth, and in that moment, she’s the same Brynn from our youth. The Brynn who still believed in happy endings and the permanence of a person’s promise.
I’ve let her down before, more than once.
And I make a silent pledge to never let it happen again.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
The next morning, I skip my run with Ethan under the guise of needing to work on my ad campaign. And it’s not a total ruse. Although my main reason is to give my heart some much-needed time and distance to figure things out, I do need to focus on Extra Energy Drink. I still haven’t thought of a slogan, let alone designed an entire campaign. I’ve tried to focus on their all-natural ingredients and the gentler, plant-based energy-boosting compounds, but I can’t think of anything that doesn’t feel prosaic and overdone. Which means even if I check off every single item on my list, it’s a moot point if I don’t have a pitch for the competition.
I tuck myself away in my room, only surfacing for an occasional snack and bathroom break. When daylight slips into the dim of evening, I slink into the kitchen, weary and dry-eyed from staring at my laptop screen for too long.
“You okay?” Ethan asks when he takes one look at my harried appearance.
I can only imagine the state of my hair since I’d combed my fingers through it in frustration all afternoon. And I vaguely recall losing a few popcorn kernels in my clothing as I mindlessly munched on endless handfuls. I brush the crumbs from my baggy sweater and sweatpants, which is definitely not the most flattering outfit I own. “I’ve been better. I’ve been racking my brain all day for the perfect catchphrase, but my mind is blank.”
Ethan adds plump shrimp to a pan of melted butter and garlic. They spurt and sizzle, sending the most tantalizing aroma into the air. “Try not to stress about it. And give yourself a break. The right words will come at the right time. Often when you least expect them.”
“Next you’re probably going to tell me to use the Force,” I tease, climbing onto the barstool to watch his culinary skills in action.
“Funny, you are,” he says in his best Yoda impression. “But I was actually going to tell you what you really need is a good meal.”
“I won’t argue with that.” I grin, grateful for nourishment other than junk food.
He grabs a pair of tongs and places a mound of angel hair pasta on a plate, followed by a generous serving of the buttery shrimp. After adding a pinch of fresh parsley, he slides the plate toward me and hands me a fork.
Leaning forward, I inhale the fragrant steam, my mouth watering. “I don’t think I can ever go back to cooking for myself,” I say without thinking.
“You know you don’t have to,” he says quietly.
I whip my head back, meeting his gaze. His eyes search mine, asking an unspoken question. A foolish, reckless part of me wants him to ask me to stay. But why? What would be the point?
A muscle flexes along his jawline, the precursor to his next thought.
I inch toward him on the barstool, practically hanging off the end.
But before he can speak, the front door flies open.
“I have a problem,” Brynn announces as she barges inside, a ball of agitated energy.
Our connection broken, Ethan moves back to the stove and fixes another plate of pasta.
Burying my disappointment at her penchant for bad timing, I turn my attention to Brynn. “What’s wrong?”
