Page 85 of Common Grounds

I glance at Trevor, who is smiling like an absolute fool at his phone screen. It may not be against the rules, but I’ve never felt great about the comments I was leaving that week, and the reminder throws me off-kilter again.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair. This morning is so far from the cozy one I pictured having with Trevor when I arrived last night, and he’s sitting over there, completely unaware of my inner turmoil.

I wonder if he knew how unsure I really was, would he still want to be around me?

He looks up from his phone, still grinning from ear to ear. “Check this out,” he says, turning his screen to face me. I lean forward to see a picture of the shop taken from behind the counter. Every table has someone sitting at it, and a hand making a thumbs up is poking in from the side of the frame.

“Mike sent this.” His voice is almost giddy. “He says it’s been like this all morning. People are excited about the shop again.” He puts his phone down on the table and leans forward, placing his hands on my knees and squeezing. “This is because of you. You did this.”

The look on his face is one of awe and gratitude, and I can’t deny that it makes me feel good to know he appreciates me, but the truth of the matter is that I didn’t do much. I wrote a couple of shitty articles, left some comments to stoke the flames, and scrounged up one measly piece I was halfway proud of. And all the while, he’s been working his ass off to create new menus, pose for Ethan’s photos, and start up his social media. And punched my asshole ex in the face, to boot.

He thinks I’m something I’m not. Even he thinks I’m “unassailable.” He might have pretended he didn’t know what the word meant, but his subconscious must, at the very least.

I’m surprised her pussy wasn’t ice.

What am I doing here? I’m an idiot who tried to ask him if we were dating last night. Who brought the same waffles we ate the night we met as some kind of romantic gesture. I should have known when he didn’t quite answer me. I should have seen the forgotten whipped cream as some kind of omen.

“I didn’t do anything,” I manage to choke out. I want to try to let all of this go. To get back to licking whipped cream and moaning each other’s names into the night air. But I can’t get away from the edge of that cliff again, and I’m so completely thrown off, I don’t think there’s anything left to do but finally let myself fall.

He squeezes my knees again. “What’s wrong, sreco? Is everything okay?”

I search his eyes. They’re laced with concern. The edges of them crinkle together as he bounces his attention around my face, looking for cracks he can’t see.

Whatever this is with him has gone too far. That’s probably what that dream was trying to tell me. Get away from the edge or die. And suddenly, I’m so embarrassed about how I misread all of it. My mouth has gone dry, and my heart is pounding again. “I guess that’s not entirely true,” I start. “I did something. I wrote a couple of crappy articles and went in the comments section and told everyone how hot you are.”

He reels back, and his hands slide off my knees. “What?”

The skin on my knees is cold where his hands used to be, and I shiver. This is a stupid thing to bring up, but I’ve jumped now. “I wanted so badly to win this awful game with Randall. I saw the girls fawning over your pictures, and I went in to respond to a few. Well, more than a few. I was poking around that comments section on and off for the better part of a week. That’s when the yoga girls started coming in. Because I suggested they should check you out.” I shrug helplessly, but it’s twitchier, like even I can’t stand being in my own skin. “We all do it. The writers, I mean. We have anonymous comment accounts to drive engagement.”

Trevor runs a hand over his jaw, and I hear his palm scrape against the rough hairs. I search his face for something, anything, but it’s carefully blank as if he’s trying to decide how this new information feels inside his brain. And then hurt flashes over his features. It’s quick, but it’s unmistakable.

I hurt him.

I stand quickly. “I’m sorry. Like I said, it was stupid. It was before…” I sweep my hand, silently encompassing him, me, the bed, the waffles, the coffee, the entirety of everything between us, whatever it was.

Trevor stands, too, his features hardened in a way I haven’t seen before. “I don’t get it. Why are you bringing this up now?”

“You keep saying I’m helping you.” I shake my head slowly. “And maybe I am, but it’s not as altruistic as you think it is. I needed to win that bet, Trevor. I was drowning in that office.”

“What happened to ‘hotness is not a sustainable growth strategy?’” he asks, putting air quotes around my sister’s words from earlier.

“I…” I swallow hard. “At the time, I wanted to win at all costs. I figured…” God, why is this so hard? “I figured sustainable growth was your problem, not mine. That changed, obviously, but…” I throw my hands up in a useless shrug. Words are my thing, but they’re failing me now.

He runs a stiff hand through his hair as his other hand still rests on his hip. “Let me get this straight.” He crosses the room and grabs a t-shirt to pull on, then faces me again. “You reduced my life—my father’s and grandfather’s lives—to a thirst trap. For clicks.”

“When you put it that way—”

“Did you ever intend to take this seriously?”

I stand there, gaping. My mouth opens and closes a few times, but I don’t have a good answer. I didn’t, at first. Or, I did, but only seriously enough to win. I don’t know when the switch flipped, as Cass put it, but it did. But I’m afraid if I tell him that, he’ll take it the wrong way.

“That last article you wrote.” His voice is shaky, almost pleading. “All that stuff about feeling at home and being part of a community? Finding common ground? Was all that a show to get more clicks, too?”

“No,” I answer, almost too quickly. “I had written a half-hearted article before that. I deleted it. I was actually proud of the one that went to print.”

He studies me for a moment, his eyes burning through me. His face is completely impassive. I wish I could tell what he’s thinking, but I can’t. All I can tell is that something has shifted between us. Inside me. And not for the better.

“I should go,” I say slowly.

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