“Nice job,” she says softly. “It’ll get easier.”
I sigh, letting my head tilt toward hers for a beat. “I don’t know if this is gonna work.”
“Maybe not.” She grins up at me. “But I liked the dream. Did you eat the Snickers?”
“Definitely.”
“Oh good.”
Her phone lights up in her lap with a new message, and she holds it up to where we can both read it.
TOMMY: I think James is high???? Also hey:) What are you wearing? JK. Sort of.
I roll my eyes. “You know, I regret trying.”
Madison just bumps her shoulder against mine, still smiling. “No you don’t.”
We’ll see . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Madison
ROME
34 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
“Here it is,” I say, slapping a piece of paper onto Emily’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“Evidence that I’m taking care of shit, since I know that you’re sitting in your little house sweating your cute little ass off over it.”
My type A sister looks up at me with a practiced air of disinterest, but I can see it in the brief flick of her eyes to the paper on her desk that she very much cares. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I trust you completely.”
“Since when?”
“Since . . .” She shrugs. “Forever. I’ve always trusted you to take care of yourself.”
I laugh so loudly that if her students were here instead of in music class they would have jumped out of their seats. “You’ve never trusted me! And rightfully so, I’ve been kind of a mess. . . .” But I don’t finish that thought because it’s time to stop talking so negatively about myself all the time. I had never even considered myself brave until James suggested it. And now it’s all I can think about.
It was almost two weeks ago that we lay on the roof of the apartment building and he told me I inspire him. I can still feel the way those words tingled across my skin as if he’s whispering them in my ear right now.
When we got back, he helped me find the perfect place to let Sammy go, and ever since we have both been so busy with our respective jobs and annoying adult shit that I’ve barely seen him.
I miss him.Aggressively.
We haven’t been completely apart, though. There’ve been hints that we’re still best friends. (Or whatever we are.) Occasionally I find a word search puzzle taped to my door. A bowl of fruit salad placed in his fridge. Drinks at Hank’s on Friday nights—and passing him and Will running together early one morning when I had to drive into the town over for some ingredients the Market doesn’t carry.
Emily closes her eyes, looking like an alcoholic trying to resist a bottle of her favorite liquid. “First, you’re not a mess. I know you are a capable woman and I don’t need to read your menu as proof that you can manage your restaurant.”
“Okay, fine.” I slide it off her desk. “Then I’ll just leave you to your school day and take this with m—”
Her hand slaps down on the paper just before I pull it away. “You came all this way . . . so I can take a quick look.”
“Mm-hmm. Great. While you’re at it, pick which menu you like better. There’s two on there.”
I’ve been playing around with several different options, cooking deep into the night, destroying my small cottage kitchen in the process, and rekindling so much delight in cooking that I find myself giggling and laughing like a maniac to my audience of mixing bowls. It’s been a tough decision, but I’ve whittled the potential menu down to my favorites. And Emily—my incredibly strong and wise sister—is the only person I trust to help me make this final decision.
