Page 48 of Keepsakes and Kismet

I hear a rustle on the other end of the line, then a loud thud, like the phone dropped to the floor.

“What the hell, Peyton? You’re just going to dump that on me with no warning? I’m in a fucking coffee shop right now. And it’s a quiet, serious, aesthetic one!” Tessa sounds out of breath, panting in between whisper-shouting into the phone.

I bite back a laugh. While I don’t miss New York—or the fashion scene—I miss Tessa’s dramatic ass so much. We’ve been through a lot together. High-stress environments, cutthroat bosses, faulty dating apps.

“Sorry. It’s new for me, too.”

“Any man? Which man? All of them?” The surprise in her tone is nearly tangible.

I shudder, spinning in my office chair. “God, no. One man. One health inspector man.”

“What do you mean by ‘health inspector?’ Mental health? Spiritual health? Cult leader?”

“Think less sound baths, more Listeria. Throw in a poultry thermometer. Khaki pants. A little plastic baseball-looking cap thing, a government-issued vehicle, and a clipboard.”

Silence, then a tentative, “Okay…”

I can only imagine how this sounds coming from me. Tessa knows all about my history. About three months after we met, I told her all about my pageant experiences, modeling, and the nothing-special relationship with my parents. And then two weeks before I moved to Ohio, I told her everything else. My touch aversion, my ex. We ordered two dozen midnight cookies and cried over them.

“My heart is breaking, Peyton. I’m a terrible friend. I can’t believe I didn’t notice anything with your ex.”

It would’ve been almost impossible for her to notice. Tessa met my ex one time, at the very beginning of our relationship, and it was backstage at the only fashion show he ever attended.

“I know it sounds wild, coming from me. But I’ve been wanting to put my beginner exposure therapy to the test, and I’m actually eager to touch him again.”

“Again?! You’ve already touched him? When?” Her voice deepens. “…also, where?”

Laughter bubbles out of me. “His hand. I held his hand. And it felt… pleasant. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed touch with a man I…” The end of my sentence trails off, but I quickly finish it inside my head: With a man I can’t stop thinking about.

“Anyway, I told him we could hold hands again today, which I know sounds very Kindergarten, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t make me feel abnormal. And all of that makes me want to touch him even more.”

“So, you like like him then?”

The emotions are complex, but my answer is simple. “I like like him.”

I’m not sure what I’ll do with that, but it’s how I feel.

It doesn’t sound like Tessa knows what to do with it either, because I hear nothing on the other end of the line. Complete silence from the woman I called on a mid-morning whim, needing to debrief with my best friend before my mind overheated.

A bell chimes and a horn honks before a loud squeal from Tessa pierces my eardrums. “Sorry, I needed to get out of that shop so I could give you a proper reaction. I’m so happy for you, Peyton! I’d jump for joy, but I’m holding Gio’s cappuccino.”

Giovanni, Tessa’s husband, is from Italy. It’s actually where they fell in love—somewhere amidst the fashion, the fig trees, and his family’s pet pigeon.

If a domesticated pigeon is a requirement for falling in love these days, I don’t think Callum’s a possibility. He’d probably rather kiss the hand of a toddler than get within fifty feet of a disease-carrying sky rat.

“Sometimes, I think Gio’s more serious about his coffee habits than he is about me.”

I snort. “Impossible. He literally embroidered a blanket for you to commemorate your last marathon. And you came in eighteen-thousandth-and-first place.”

She sighs happily. “The last three digits after the eighteen could barely fit. God, I love that man.”

I grin and fidget with the stress ball on my desk. “So you two are doing good, then?”

“Really good. If you can stay on for another five minutes while I finish my walk to his shop, you can say hi to him. He’d love to hear from you. Shit. I really need to book it. It’s ten forty-five.”

“You should know that—as a single person—I’m happy for you, but not from the bottom of my heart,” I joke.

“Well, great news. You can be ‘not bottom of your heart happy for me’ in person. We’re visiting my mom and step-dad in a few weeks, and I was hoping to drive up and see my best friend.”