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“Dad?” I call out.
Finally, he notices us. Taking out the buds, he waves his arms. “What are you all standing in my kitchen for? Either work or get out of the way.”
All three of us ignore his blustering. Whenever Mom isn’t here, which isn’t all that often, he gets cranky. Apparently she’s visiting with Frances before she leaves town, leaving Lusanne to deal with the big guy.
“I wanted to ask you about my menu for Friday.”
It takes him a second.
“Ahh, the judges. Come over here; I can’t leave the dough.”
Walking by my brother, I give his arm a punch. Gian slaps me on the back before kissing Lus on the cheek.
“See you guys later,” he says.
“Later gator,” Lus responds as if she hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes ripping him a new asshole. This family is something else.
“So what are you thinking?” my dad asks.
I lean against the counter, watching him work as Lus gives me a conspiratorial look. Unbidden, I think back to last night. And not, for the first time since I dropped her off at home, the part of last night when Evie came apart in my arms.
The other bits. Specifically, when I held her in the kitchen. I only meant to comfort her with my story, and I really do believe family is what you make of it. But still, I couldn’t imagine not having . . . this.
How lonely it must be. No parents. No siblings.
I catch Lus looking at me and swear she knows what, or who, I’m thinking about. If I really wanted to prove my point, that guys have feelings too, I’d tell her what’s running through my head. How quickly Evie Fuller has gone from a fake attachment to . . . something more.
A predicament that we really need to talk about. Unfortunately, when I dropped her off, we still didn’t even exchange numbers. We didn’t mention another meeting. It’s as if we’re dancing around the obvious. That this is anything but a PR stunt, and we both know it.
But sometimes fooling yourself, even knowing you’re doing it, is easier than admitting the truth. And this is one of those times.
23
Evie
When I walk into the Wheelhouse Bakery & Deli, I look to the corner and find her easily. Zara gets up and joins me at the counter. On the weekends, when it’s busier, there’s a waitress, but on Tuesday you have to fend for yourself.
“I just ordered,” she says.
Before I moved back to Bridgewater, the last time I’d seen Zara in person, even though we stayed fairly close long-distance, was a girls’ trip nearly three years ago. Back then, unlike when we were in grade school, she concealed her face full of freckles. She had so many that there was more freckled than non-freckled skin.
But now, she’s embraced them. And is so freaking pretty I find myself staring at her sometimes. Cole must have had his socks knocked off when they met.
“Can I have . . .” I waffle. Get a salad. Get a salad. “A tuna salad on whole wheat, please.”
I mean, it has the world “salad” in it.
“Oohhh, that sounds good.” Zara grabs napkins from the counter.
After paying, I follow her to the table.
“It’s so strange to be here but not writing.”
Before she and Cole leased the building that houses his offices and her newspaper, Zara worked as a freelance writer and would often work here, just to be around people.
“I’m glad you could get away for lunch.” I push my purse into the booth. This time of year, the waterwheel just outside our window spins into the river below. Once upon a time, it served an actual purpose, but now it’s just for aesthetics.
“Are you kidding me? Scoop for About Town, straight from the source,” she teases.
