“James! What are you laughing at?”
“You.”
I gasp. “Rude.”
And then he does the most strange, incredible thing. Still shaking with barely restrained laughter, he lazily reaches out his arms until his hands curve behind my shoulders, scooping me to him. He cradles me right into his chest and then wraps me up.
James is hugging me.
I blink and breathe in, dizzy from his conflicting tangle of cigarette smoke, cinnamon sugar, and men’s deodorant. Irish Spring, I’m betting.Nothinghas ever smelled better.
“Madison, it’s cinnamon toast.” He squeezes me affectionately. “I thought you were about to teach me something you learned in culinary school, because you were so serious just now, with a frown between your eyebrows. But then you madecinnamon toast.I kept waiting for the big reveal of a secret ingredient.”
“You’ve had this before?” I sound pouty, arms limp noodles at my sides as he attempts to squeeze a hug out of me.
This really sets him off laughing. I can hear it joyfully knocking around inside his sternum. “Are you serious? I ate this toast before you were alive.”
“Oh my god.” I pull out of the hug that I never really committed to. “You were only four when I was born! Don’t make it sound like you rubbed elbows with Aristotle.”
“Would it make you feel better if I said this is definitely thebestcinnamon toast I’ve ever had?”
“A little,” I say, downplaying how his compliment drops into the center of my heart and fizzes like an Alka-Seltzer.
I turn away and busy myself placing the cinnamon and sugar containers back inside the pantry so he won’t see the effect he has on me.No repeats of the towel attraction fiasco.But then I catch sight of something bunched up at the far end of his countertop.
“Hey, what’s that?” I say, pointing to the little contraption.
James sees what I’m gesturing toward, then squints one eye. “I don’t guess you’ll believe me if I tell you it’s a tire inflator?”
I pivot and give him a hard stare. “Let me rephrase my question. James, why do you have a blood pressure cuff out on your countertop?”
His throat bobs as he contemplates what version of the truth he wants to give me. “Because I had an appointment with my doctor this morning, and now I’m supposed to monitor my blood pressure every day for the next two weeks while making lifestyle changes.” I guess he decided on the full damn truth.
Worry creeps up my neck. “Are you okay?”
He looks as relaxed and easygoing as always. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’llbefine? As in you’re not currently?”
“Iamfine. I just . . . I was having some symptoms. So I went in for a checkup. Turns out I have slightly elevated blood pressure.”
“James.”
“Madison.”
“Your dad had a heart attack,” I say, like he isn’t aware.
It happened shortly after I moved to New York. I hated being so far away during it. But Emily kept me up-to-date on how they were doing, and I called Ruth to check in on her and Martin a few times too. I didn’t, however, call and check in on James. A fact that doesn’t sit well with me anymore.
The look in James’s eyes tells me he’s reliving that terrifying day now. He’s the one who found his dad in the greenhouse right as Martin was falling to his knees. “I know he did. But I won’t. My doctor thinks it’s just . . . stress-induced. She wants me to try a few lifestyle changes and see if that helps—Hey, whoa, why the teary eyes?” he says, coming in close again to rub his hands up and down my arms. Comfortingmewhen he’s the one who owns a blood pressure cuff.
“I really . . . don’t like the idea of you having a heart attack.”
“That’s good to hear.” His hands slideup and down, up and down.
I meet his eyes. “And we’re just now becoming friends. You can’t die at the start of our friendship.” Maybe that’s selfish, but I don’t care. It’s true.
Having already lost my parents at a young age, and then my wonderful grandma who raised me, death is an ever-present monster, waiting around each corner, salivating to claim everyone I love most. I’m terrified of it, always jumping to worst-case scenarios and imagining—feeling—the moment that someone gives me horrible news that changes my life forever. Even if it’s not real.
