Page 22 of Nice Guys Don't Kiss Like That At Christmas
Then, a sound between a laugh and a sigh escapes her.“This is perfect.The universe really wants to make sure I know exactly where I stand, doesn’t it?”
“The universe?”I raise an eyebrow, feeling powder fall from my hair.
“You know,” she gestures vaguely, “Whatever’s making sure I get properly humiliated in front of the one person who—” She stops abruptly, her eyes darting away.
The one person who what?The question hangs between us, as tangible as the powder in the air.
I step closer.“Sally won’t care.She has a lot of those boxes.”
I brush a bit of pancake mix from her shoulder, and her breath catches.
“You’re really leaving tomorrow,” she says quietly.
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.“First thing.”
She nods, her fingers resuming that familiar uneven tapping against her thigh.I wonder if she knows it’s a tell.Like her throat clearing.And my need to overstretch myself with responsibilities.
I walk past her to the stove, keeping my voice low, stepping back into safer territory.“Sally lets me cook in here after hours.Perk of lifelong small-town status.”
“Of course she does.Do you also have secret access to a waffle iron and town gossip?”
I glance at her.“Waffle iron, yes.Gossip depends on who you ask.I can make you pancakes.”I keep my voice even.“Since we’ve sacrificed half the box to the kitchen gods.”
“For dinner?”she asks, but there’s no teasing in her voice now.Just a question, and maybe something like hope.
“You used to have Lucky Charms for dinner,” I remind her, softer.“Said the marshmallows were medicinal.Or oatmeal.With a touch of honey.”
She leans her hip against the counter, one eyebrow raised.“I was twenty-one and scared out of my mind, but trying to pretend everything was fine.”
I open the fridge.“And I was in vet school.You’d text me your care plans at two a.m.and I’d send you pictures of whatever I was studying.Facts to make you laugh.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything, Eve.”
The silence stretches, taut as a suture thread.
“Remember when I was cramming for my advanced pathophysiology exam?”she says, a small smile playing at her lips.“And I texted you at two a.m.asking ‘anything interesting about reproductive systems?’”
A laugh rumbles in my chest.“You said you’d been staring at the same page for an hour and needed something to ‘shock your neurons back to life.’”
“You sent me that entire paragraph about pig penises,” she continues, her eyes lighting up.“Corkscrew-shaped and—”
“Proportionally longer during erection with more turns to it,” I finish for her.
“I drew a diagram in the margins of my notes,” she admits.“Right during study group with Claire.She looked over and her iced latte macchiato came out her nose.”
“Did you tell her where you got this vital piece of medical knowledge?”
“Claire already knew,” she says.“She was firmly Team Adam even back then.Kept telling me I was an idiot for not meeting you in Pittsburgh.”
Her words hang in the air between us, another acknowledgment of what happened.What didn’t happen.At least, we’re not sidestepping the topic.Growth and all that, Kellan might say.While ignoring six unread messages from Zoe and, I’m pretty sure after today’s conversation, sending me an unsolicited gif of a winking eggplant with, “Vet hands.Bet you could crochet an alien dick that big.”
I inhale deeply.“It was complicated for you,” I say quietly.“I get that now.I think I do.”
Her gaze meets mine.“It was.But still… speaking of complicated situations...thanks for reporting that guy to the app.And sorry about you seeing that.”
“Why would you be sorry?”I shake my head.“He’s the dick.Pun intended.Also, it was fake.The balls to dick proportions weren’t quite right.”
