Page 21 of Best Friends for Never

“I know.” I nod. “I know.”

“Okay,” he repeats. Then he looks—no, hesneers—over at the guy who used to be my whole world. “I’d say it was good to see you, but that’d be a damn lie.”

A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, which earns me a smile from Axel and a scowl from Noel, but I don’t mind.

“I’ll see you later, right?” the giant asks, and I know he’s really saying,I’ll be back for the details and to make sure I don’t need to make good on my promise of fighting him.

“Yes,” I tell him. “But Axel?”

“Hmm?”

I nod toward the Tupperware in his hand. “My dinner from last night, please?”

His eyes narrow, but he’s not about to deny me right now.

He hands me the lasagna and wraps me in a quick hug.

“You have thirty minutes,” he whispers before releasing me.

I smile, loving how protective he is, and then with one last glare at our surprise guest, he leaves. And I’m alone with Noel Carter once again.

We stand there awkwardly for far too long for two people who know entirely too much about each other.

I know he wore superhero underwear until he was seventeen, that he slept with a night-light even longer, and that he always had to hug his grandmother before bed, or else he’d be up in the middle of the night because he couldn’t sleep. Heck, I’ve seen him projectile vomit SpaghettiOs before. We’re far from strangers.

But right now? Right now, it feels like we’ve never met before.

“So, is—”

“I was—”

We start and stop at the same time.

But instead of that self-conscious chuckle that usually follows situations like that, we go back to silence.

And I absolutely hate it.

Why is this so hard? Why can’t we just talk? Why did he have to be gone for ten years?

Oh, right. BecauseHollywood.

And right now, he looks every bit like he’s from Hollywood, with the light scruff lining his face, his styled midnight hair, perfectly fitted dark-wash jeans, black button-down shirt, snazzy deep-brown leather jacket, and matching boots. It’s like he just stepped off a movie set or out to lunch with whatever starlet he’s linked to this week.

He looks so similar to—yet different from—the boy I grew up with.

“Is this your place?” he asks, looking around the messy restaurant.

Out of everything I thought he’d say, that was not what I was expecting.

“This is Rossi Café. Surely you haven’t been gone long enough to forget that.”

It’s a dig. He knows it, and I do too.

Regret eats at me for stooping so low, but it only lasts a moment, mainly because it feels good to finally acknowledge out loud to him that he’s been gone for far too long.

“I remember. It’s why I came here. Was craving one of those—”

“Italian Rossi breakfast sandwiches, double the ham and extra cheese,” I finish for him. I’ve heard him order the exact meal a hundred times before, and I’ve likely ordered it for him a hundred times more.

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