Page 122 of Before We're More Than Friends
Toby wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I’m often right.”
“Still.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, and I mean it.”
Toby sat on a bench. He was at the park we’d used to takeour dogs. Something tugged in my chest. “I’m sorry for how I reacted last Saturday, too. I was just . . . frustrated.”
“I understand, but I was the one who was snapping at you when you were only being honest,” I said as I lay next to Houston on my bed. “I didn’t want to hear the truth.”
“It’s fine. Friends get into disagreements.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s just that . . . I really miss you, and I thought I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. I’ve tried to make new friends, but no one clicks with me. I don’t want to make this about me, but I don’t think I’ve been this lonely before.”
My chest ached. I wished I could take away the pain in his eyes. “I-I’m sorry.” I swallowed. “I didn’t know you were hurting that much.”
“I’m hurting a lot,” he said, not looking at the screen. Talking about his problems made him uncomfortable. Most of our deep conversations about his life happened during our walks.
But that was no longer an option.
“I know it’s a lot harder to be there for you now,” I told him, “but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. We’ll spend more time talking to each other when we can. Calling, texting, even sending random pictures, whatever. I just want to be there for you.”
He nodded. “I want to be there for you, too. You and your wrongness.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m right sometimes.”
He laughed. “I really miss you, Dallas. I’m glad you’re still my best friend.”
I beamed, happy there was still a way I could talk to him. “I always will be. I don’t plan on moving anywhere else.”
CHAPTER 30
Raina
One thing on my bucket list was learning how to cook at the same level as Mom. Or at least put together a meal without burning the house down.
The last time I’d cooked was when I wanted to help Mom make Easter dinner last year. It didn’t take her long to remember why we had a home chef.
But after the heck of a band practice we had this afternoon, I needed to distract myself. Packaging my orders hadn’t helped, thanks to Isabelle’s information sitting in my order queue. At five thirty, I gave in and headed to the kitchen.
This was completely stupid. I thought I’d be able to hold myself together at band practice, but when Oliver had picked “Impossible”—a song I may or may not have been listening to on my new playlist titled “when the truth hurts more than the lies”—that was it for me.
It’d been next to impossible to sing that song without looking at Dallas.
And even worse to make him cry afterward.
He was genuinely sorry. He was hurt that I’d rejected him. I had every right to be mad, but the cold shoulder I’d been givinghim didn’t feel the same anymore. It made me feel like I was the one who was doing something wrong.
Gosh, why couldn’t any aspect of my life be simple?
After a few minutes of tinkering around in the kitchen, I decided my best bet was just cooking pasta. It didn’t involve a knife and was one of the easiest things to make, which meant lesser chance of an accident. Of course I quadruple-checked everything I did to make sure that nothing would go wrong, fighting the anxiety in my chest. Susanna would be proud of me for facing my triggers head-on.
Toward the end of my cooking session, Mom walked into the kitchen. Her mouth fell open. “Am I seeing this right?” she asked, blinking at the mess I’d made. I guess I took after my dad.
“It’s nice to change things up,” I said as I stirred the pasta, hoping I wasn’t killing it. “Wanted to do something special. No occasion.” Except for distracting the unwanted thoughts about a guy who had me wrapped around his finger like a wedding ring.
Stop thinking about him!
“This makes me so happy,” Mom said, clasping her hands over her chest. “Want me to help you?”
“You can make some garlic bread.” I checked my noodles before grabbing the salt and pepper. “It may be possible that this tastes like absolute crap.”
“We all start somewhere,” Mom said before taking garlic bread out of the fridge.
