Page 84 of Ablaze

“Right.” I nod, covering up my vulnerability and the fact that he doesn’t tell me he misses me back with a forced laugh. I’ve never had to force a laugh with him, but as much as I called him initially to chew him out and tell him to get his head out of his ass, I also just want to talk to him since it’s been so long. I just want to paint a facade of normalcy–maybe if we pretend enough, it’ll feel real again. “Well, in case you were burning up with anticipation, the answer is teapot.”

Dean’s blank face stares back at me.

“The riddle,” I clarify, hoping my smile doesn’t wobble. “The answer is a teapot.”

“Got it,” he responds with a shuttered look.

God, this is so fucking hard. I feel like I’m trying to drain blood from a stone. “So, how are things? What have you been up to?”

He rolls his tongue over his teeth. “Good. All’s good.” He pauses, and then, as if he just remembered to ask me the same thing back, he adds, “How are you?”

I clench my fist, digging my short nails into the inside of my palm to focus on something other than the way nausea seems to be crawling up my throat. “Good!” I say all too cheerily, like an overdramatic actress. “Things are good! Just busy, but I’ve been learning a lot and getting to know everyone here.”

I don’t tell him that, in the two months I’ve been here, I’ve had more nights where I’ve cried myself to sleep because I miss home, I miss my café, and I fucking miss him like I’ve been ripped from the inside out.

I don’t tell him that so far, I haven’t quite enjoyed anything about working here besides the couple of friends I’ve made. I keep telling myself that it’s still too early to make a judgment call, but I already know how I feel in my gut.

I don’t tell him that on most nights, I get back to my empty apartment and instead of doing the things I used to love, like watching movies or reading books, I flip through years and years of pictures of him, finding myself back in those memories as if they were just yesterday.

Like all the pictures he’s sent me of sprinkles. Sprinkles on a cupcake. Sprinkles of rain on the window at the fire station. The picture of a sweatshirt he bought for me for my birthday a few years ago–a sweatshirt I wear so often, its cuffs are tattered–that says, Life is better with sprinkles.

Under each picture is just one word. Sprinkles.

Pictures of when we went kayaking and sat on a grassy knoll near the lake afterward, talking about anything and everything. We even silently photographed a family of black bears in the distance, napping atop one another.

And pictures of when Dean taught me to rollerblade. The smile on my face, rollerblading right beside him, once I felt confident enough to do it on my own, rivals the brightest star in the sky.

Dean swings his head front to back in a placatory nod. “Looks like LA life is really suiting you.”

I can’t mistake the accusatory note in his voice. What does he expect me to do? Wallow in sadness–Well, newsflash, Fido! I already am!–or run back home? The way he’s acting doesn’t make the prospect of being near him any more exciting, either. Though I can’t deny it’s all I want to do.

Still, I’m exhausted with how he’s being. I’m trying. I’m trying so fucking hard to keep things as much the same between us as they used to be, but he doesn’t even want to budge.

“Right.” I look out the window to the sliver of Santa Monica Beach visible from my high-rise office before coming back to study him on the screen. The Pacific Coast water may still have the winter chill during this time in April, but the number of people bathing would indicate otherwise. “What’s wrong, Dean? Why does it feel like we’re so far away from each other right now?”

Dean wipes his face with a towel. “I don’t know, Mala. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’re in LA, and I’m still here . . . in Tahoe.”

My jaw clenches. “You know I’m not talking about physical distance. Is this what we amount to after eight years of friendship? Is this what you want?”

“No.” His eyes sharpen. “This isn’t what we amount to after eight years of friendship. This is where we are after you–” He stops himself, looking away. He comes back to the screen, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

I snap my mouth shut, realizing it had dropped open. “Wow. I’m sorry, Dean, but as I recall, you were the one who suggested one night between us. You kissed me first.”

“That’s not . . . That’s not what I was going to say.” He takes a deep inhale, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he’s trying not to lose his temper. “You know what? Never mind.”

“When, Dean?” I throw a hand up. “When are we going to move past that night? When are we going to go back to what we had?”

I hate that my chin shakes. I hate that my chest burns and my sight blurs. I hate not being there to make him talk to me, to make him listen to me.

And most of all, I hate this limbo where I can’t hate him but I can’t love him, either. I fucking hate all of it.

I turn in my chair and Dean’s eyes look past me–or, at least, I think they do from what I can tell on my small screen. I look over my shoulder to follow his gaze to the vase of pink roses. I’d forgotten they were even there.

“Nice flowers. Did a new boyfriend get them for you?” There’s a hint of something in his voice . . . Sarcasm? Irritation? Jealousy?

I think about lying to him but can’t get myself to, even though from the looks of him, it might be the better option. “I’m not dating anyone. They’re from my boss. I just completed two months here, and he got me flowers. They’re nothing.”

Dean chuckles, his gaze burning. “They seem like something to me. Wonder if he gets flowers for all employees on their two-month anniversary. Let me guess. He took you out to dinner, too. You know, on a non-date.”

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