“Jayson!” she calls toward the kitchen, ignoring my half-hearted objection. “We’re closing early. Family emergency.”
Jayson pokes his head out from the kitchen, his chef’s whites already splattered with the evening’s work. He takes one look at my tear-stained face, then at Lark’s determined expression, and just shrugs with a small, understanding smile. Without a word, he starts shutting down the grill and putting away his prep. That’s Jayson for you. Five years working here and he just rolls with whatever chaos we bring, no questions asked.
Within fifteen minutes, Lark has everyone out and the doors locked. All four customers, Eddie included, who pats my shoulder on his way past, murmuring something about how that boyfriend of mine better get his act together. I don’t have the energy to correct him that Calvin isn’t my boyfriend anymore. At least I think he isn’t. Ugh.
“Wait,” I say as we get to Lark’s car. “I should go home to check on Laila first, play a bit of fetch, make sure she has water and?—”
“We’re bringing her to my place,” Lark interrupts, already turning toward my apartment instead of hers. “We’re having wine and a girls’ night. Three girls, no boys allowed.”
We pick up Laila, who is absolutely delighted to be included in what she clearly considers an adventure. She prancesbetween us, tail wagging, thrilled about this unexpected Saturday evening outing.
At Lark’s apartment, Laila immediately investigates every corner before settling on the couch between us, clearly pleased with this arrangement. The whole place smells like the citrus candles Lark burns obsessively. She puts on music, something mellow I don’t recognize, and pours us both wine without asking.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, curling into her couch with the wine glass while Laila rests her head on my lap. “Part of me wants to drive to Seattle right now. Part of me thinks if he meant it,he’dbe drivinghere.”
We spend the next few hours going back and forth between dissecting Calvin’s poem and completely unrelated topics. One minute we’re analyzing what he meant by waiting in the wreckage, the next we’re debating whether the new coffee shop on Main Street is worth the hype (it’s not) and if Lark should finally text back that guy from the wine distributor who’s been flirting with her for months (she should).
Lark makes pasta because she insists I need real food, and we eat while we’re somehow back to Calvin, watching parts of the video again, looking for clues in his expression, his body language. Laila gets several pieces of pasta that “accidentally” fall multiple times, courtesy of Lark, who insists Laila deserves carbs since she is part of the official girls night. I indulge and toss her one too, much to Laila’s thrill.
“I can’t stop thinking about how he looked at the camera,” I say, twirling pasta on my fork. “Like he was looking right at me.”
“Maybe he was,” Lark says.
“So what am I supposed to do with that?” I ask. “He read that poem to a room full of strangers and still hasn’t called me.”
“Are you both just waiting for the other person to be brave?” Lark asks.
“Probably.” I take another sip of wine. “God, we’re a mess.”
“Most people are,” she says. “The question is whether you’re going to be a mess together or apart.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“Probably around the second glass of wine,” she admits, and we both laugh.
We jump between topics for the next hour, talking about everything and nothing, the way you do when you’re trying not to obsess over one thing. By the time we’ve talked ourselves in circles and opened a second bottle of wine, it’s past nine.
“Bridget Jones?” Lark suggests, already pulling up Netflix. “I feel like we need to watch someone else’s romantic disaster to put this in perspective.”
“Yes, please. I need two hours of someone else’s chaos.”
We end up under blankets on her couch, Laila sprawled across both our laps like she owns the place, watching Bridget fumble through her love life while we provide running commentary.
“At least you never wore bunny ears for Calvin,” Lark points out, gesturing at the screen with her wine glass.
“No, I just tattooed his words on my body, which is so much better,” I say dryly, scratching Laila’s ears as I speak.
“Fair point,” she concedes, and then we’re both laughing. Maybe it’s the wine or the emotional exhaustion, but suddenly the comparison seems hilarious, and we’re giggling like teenagers, disturbing Laila who huffs at us before resettling.
By the time Bridget’s choosing Mark Darcy, we’re both getting drowsy. The day is catching up with me, making everything feel softer around the edges.
“We should get you set up for bed,” Lark says, standing andstretching. We work together to pull out the couch bed, and she disappears to grab sheets from her closet.
“I think you should go to Seattle in the morning,” she says as we’re tucking in the sheets that smell like her lavender fabric softener. “While you’re both still raw from this. Before either of you can build up walls again.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, considering it. “I’m supposed to drop Laila at Theo’s tomorrow anyway. Chloe’s been begging for another sleepover. I could get Calvin’s address then.”
“Perfect. It’s meant to be.” She hands me one of her oversized t-shirts to sleep in, then pauses at her bedroom door. “You won’t talk yourself out of it overnight?”
