Food. Yes. We can eat and I’ll tell him... I might truly be sick. I swallow hard and hold a neutral face.
“I made carbonara.”
His happy expression makes my knees weak. “Can I keep you?” he asks. “Like forever?”
He can’t keep saying sweet things and not mean them. It isn’t right. Suddenly, I want to rip that bandage off swiftly. I brace myself against the door, then, remembering it’s still open, close it firmly behind me. Sweeping past him, I go to the kitchen and start serving up our bowls.
“You want to take this outside?” I ask August, who’s come in behind me.
“Sure.” A small furrow gathers between his brows, but he takes the bowls without further comment and heads out, leaving me to bring utensils and napkins.
By the time I catch up, he’s lighting the gas fire in the stone hearth set into the wall of the pool veranda. Built against the back wall of a guesthouse, the veranda faces the end of the pool and looks toward the main house. A beam-covered roof supported by two stacked stone columns provides protection from the elements.
When my grandparents were alive, they often used this space as an outside living room. The gas fireplace and two heat lamps tucked under the eaves offer warmth when the hills grow chilly at night. Iron torchiere lamps, procured from a studio backlot, have been here since the late ’40s and still stand like somber sentinels on either side of the fireplace, giving an amber glow.
Because of the solid roof overhead and the fact that it rarely rains with any ferocity in LA, the veranda boasts two deep and plush couches that face each other. August sits at one, waiting.
I hesitate. It would be safer to sit on the opposite couch with the big, petrified wood coffee table between us. It might also appear standoffish. I don’t want that. Not with what I have to say.
If he notices my dawdling, it doesn’t show. In truth, he’s staring at the flickering flames with a small frown gathering on his brow. Maybe my anxiety is catching. Or he too is wondering what the hell we’re really doing here. I can’t take not knowing.
I sit on the couch next to him. “August?”
“Hmm?” He stirs and looks my way, his expression softening. “Right. Let’s eat.”
He’s left the bowls on the coffee table, and I set the forks there too. But neither of us moves to take them. Awkward silence descends, thick and heavy, between us.
He’s hunched over, forearms on his knees, staring down at his clenched hands. I think he might be struggling too. I don’t want him to speak first and risk hearing that it would be better for us to regroup, to see a little less of each other.
“Pen—”
“I don’t think I can pretend anymore,” I blurt.
He flinches back as though slapped. “I . . . ah . . . Why?”
“You, me. We spend so much time together and . . . it’s proving difficult to navigate . . . I don’t want to upset you, but . . .”
I trail off, confidence leaving me when his brows snap together in dark slashes, and he leans in.
“Pen, don’t you dare worry about my feelings. You can tell me anything. I’d rather call it quits than see you unhappy.”
His firm assurance has me faltering.
“You’d end it?” I ask. “Just like that?”
“Yes.” The line of his profile goes hard, and he swallows thickly before facing me. “But I’d like to know... Shit, Pen, I thought—” He clears his throat and shoves to his feet to pace in the narrow space between the couches and the hearth. “You seemed to enjoy my company. Was I wrong? You know what, forget that. I’m not going to be the guy who guilts a girl into keeping him in her life.”
I watch him pace, my mouth open, then I scramble to sit on my heels, gripping the back of the couch so I don’t grab him just to make him stay. “August. Stop. Hold on. I’m shit at this.”
He wings around. “I don’t think there’s any good way to tell someone you don’t want to hang out with them anymore.”
“I do! I like being with you. Too much, August. It messes with my head when we pretend to kiss and cuddle in public.And then we come back here and it’s so great... I can be your pretend girlfriend. And I can be your friend. But I don’t think I can be both. Not without losing something of myself.”
Lips parted, he stares at me for a long moment. Then, as if his strings are cut, he flops down on the couch next to me. Given that I’m kneeling, we’re evenly face-to-face. August’s gaze darts over mine like he’s replaying what I’ve said and still trying to figure it all out.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him in the resounding silence. “I thought I could handle it but—”
His big hand engulfs my clenched fist. “Pen, I was sitting out here trying to come up with the nerve to talk to you about all this. First, I want one thing clear. If you’re not in the same place as I am, it’s okay. I’ll always be in your life, if you want me there.”
