Page 14 of Crave

“I know you say you’re past it, but I would understand if there was a part of you buried deep that still hates me for what I did to you that night. And for me being so closed off when I first came back. But you’re beautiful, funny, and you bake the best damn cupcakes in Texas. Any man would be lucky to have you. It’s killed me watching you date loser after loser when you deserve someone who will trip and fall on his ass running up the steps to kiss you when he gets home every day.”

“Ugh, can we not do this?” I blinked at the sudden stinging in my eyes, begging, pleading with him not to come any closer, unsure what I would do if he did. “And for the thousandth time, I don’t blame you.”

“You should. Everything that happened that night was my fault.”

“Don’t,” I pleaded.

“You think I don’t beat myself up every day for accidentally infecting you? For everything that happened to you after, to your mom? You think I wouldn’t give anything to go back in time and make a different decision? If I’d thought, for even one second—”

“I forgave you a long time ago. It wasn’t… it was a freak accident.”

I bit back a curse. This was why we didn’t do this, why despite the fact that Dallas texted me at 2 a.m. just to have someone to yell at when the Cowboys lost, had his produce guy put me on speed dial, and texted me so many times when he was cooking I’d had to upgrade to a higher data plan just for the twenty variations of pineapple salsa he’d sent me in the past week alone, I’d never wanted to talk about the four years he was away. He’d already been hurt enough. I swiped at my eyes, but not fast enough. Dallas drew a raw breath.

“Just—” He clawed a hand through his hair. “Will you answer me one thing? I have to know—”

I gripped the edge of the counter, gutted by the rasp in his voice and wishing more than anything that we could have gone back to the easy snark and banter that had gotten us through every day for the past five years.

But this was Dallas, the person I went to when my mom’s panic attacks kept me up all night and there was literally no one else in the world who understood that in the morning I just needed a chest to cry on, arms to hold me, and zero questions asked. Dallas, who sent an extra-large platter of beef ribs, coleslaw and crispy French fries across the street once a month like clockwork when he knew I was starting my period. Dallas, who once drove three hours with me on Black Friday just to go to my favorite baking supply store down in Austin that sold these completely adorable silicone whisks in crazy whimsical shapes that I hoarded the way cute baby dragons did chocolate gold foil-wrapped coins. And didn’t even make fun of me for being a total girl.

Okay, much.

And as I watched his face twist as though he were being stabbed, it felt like that knife was passing through me, too.

“Did you love my brother?”

I took in the sharp, too-beautiful downward turn of his mouth, the hard resignation in his eyes, and knew whatever answer I gave, it wasn’t going to matter. Some wounds you could scar over, but never truly heal.

“You should go,” I said quietly, digging my teeth into my lip before I could say the rest. That we had nearly destroyed each other once before. And I wasn’t sure I could survive pain like that again.

He cursed under his breath, but a second later, the bell over the door jingled, a rush of icy November air swirling through the room as I began to silently cry.

3

Dallas

THE SUNDAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING dawned with a winter storm warning in effect for the Texas Hill Country, and skies that were the stormy gray of eyes I was doing my damnedest not to think about. After sending half a dozen apology texts to Lacey—that she ignored—I turned off my phone just to keep myself from smashing it. We hadn’t talked in two days, which was forty-six hours and twelve minutes longer than our longest fight on record since I came back from Calgary (my chicken was not dry and she was a total shit stirrer.)

Not that I was counting.

My office in back of The Spoke had oversized leather couches and a distressed oak coffee table that came in handy at our biweekly team leader meetings. The butter yellow orchid I’d had the misfortune of winning at the last school carnival and fundraiser shivered on the corner of a desk I rarely used next to a stack of purchase orders. One more thing I needed to do. Behind Saffron (because of course Lacey had named the damn thing the moment she saw it, ensuring I couldn’t kill it), a wall of windows faced out over Main Street. Directly towards Blair’s. Lowering my head, I pulled out my phone.

Me: I was a douche. Let’s talk beef ribs. I’m thinking a year’s supply.

Me: Plus that bleu cheese macaroni you loved last month.

Me: bacon-emoji

Me: I’m sorry.

BabyGotBake: Awkward is not a good color on us. Sorry I didn’t answer before. I needed time to think. Can you come over later?

Me: When?

BabyGotBake: Tonight. And I still want my mac & bleu.

Stripping down, I cranked the water in the shower over to death wish and stepped under the spray, reaching for the shampoo—

—and got a palmful of vanilla-coconut bodywash.