Page 23 of Best Friends for Never

“It’s the slats,” I say, allowing myself to dip back in time. “I think I should have gone with a different angle or a more uniform look, which is why I started painting it.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Peter. One thing at a time.”

There’s that nickname again—Peter.

I’ve gone years without hearing it, and now I’m being called it twice in less than twenty-four hours. Hearing it now is less jarring than last night, but it still doesn’t feel as good as it once did, that heavy feeling settling into my stomach just like it did in Jill’s.

I ignore it. “The angle, then.”

“It’s very . . .”

“Plain?” I finish for him.

“A little. What’s going over here against the wall?”

“A couch. Gianna and her wife wanted a space where people here for a quick treat could relax.”

“Hmm,” he purrs, widening his stance.

I try my best not to notice how it makes his jeans fit tighter against his legs or how it reminds me of simpler days when he used to stand and think with me for hours at the Goodman Theater, trying to get a set design right.

I don’t notice any of those things.

“Then what about not going all the way to the bottom?” he suggests. “Sort of gives it a waterfall effect, which is appropriate for EmeraldGrove.” He gives me a crooked smile, probably because I know what he’s referring to far too well.

Tucked away on a trail leading out of town is a waterfall that all the locals and very few tourists know about. While the town has been picking up a lot of steam lately and gaining popularity thanks to new vacation rentals, we’re usually just a pit stop on people’s way to the Olympic National Forest. Most don’t stick around long enough to see this place’s true beauty, like Rockaway Falls—a double waterfall that’s worth the hour hike one way.

I can’t count the number of times Noel and I hiked out there for the day. If we weren’t at the theater, we were at the Falls. It was our little slice of fun away from the busybodies in town who were always ready to spy on us and report back to Gran or my mother.

The urge to make the trek to our old stomping grounds washes over me something fierce, a pull I haven’t felt in many, many years.

“Andit would mean you get to save a lot of the work you’ve already done,” he continues. “Keep the natural wood look to really make that waterfall effect pop. And I’m sure you could find somewhere to repurpose the boards we pull up so you don’t waste materials. I know how much you hate doing that.”

He’s right on both counts. I hate wasting materials, and with just a few minor adjustments—take a few boards out here, readjust a few there—I can salvage it to make a stunning accent wall that I know everyone will love, me especially.

The Falls and this café have always held a special spot in my heart. This wall will only make me love them both even more.

“All right. You’ve convinced me.”

“Knew I could.”

He sheds his leather jacket, tossing it onto the dirty counter nearby, like it probably didn’t cost as much as two months’ worth of mortgage payments, and then rolls his long-sleeved shirt up to his elbows.

I hate that I’m not focusing onwhyhe’s doing this and instead just watching how his veins jump with every move he makes.

I don’t pull my eyes away until he claps his hands, jerking my attention back to him and not his very, very toned forearms.

“Let’s get to work.”

Then before I can say anything, he drops to his haunches and begins removing boards.

When did he even pick up a crowbar? Better yet, why am I letting him stay?

I must be more tired than I thought, because instead of asking him to leave, I join in, grabbing my own crowbar and setting to work.

We work wordlessly for the next I-don’t-even-know-how-long. Noel peels off pieces of wood, his fancy jeans pressed against the wet paint splatters on the floor like he doesn’t have a care in the world, even though we both know those pants cost entirely too much for labor like this.

We’re nearly done prying off the first section of slats when Noel breaks the silence.

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