Dylan
I’m craving chocolate.
It’s been four days since I crashed Tavi’s kitchen. She’s followed me every day at work, taking videos, telling me to do what I’d normally do, helping with the plumbing when I’ve let her, falling silent until I sometimes forget she’s there and start singing like I usually would while I’m alone, only to remember when she stops the video and tells me I’m better than some of the rock stars she’s dated.
She’s made me blush.
She’s made me get irrationally angry when she talks aboutoh, but it wasn’t serious with himandwe both got something out ofthatrelationshipanytime one of my clients asks her about dating some famous “hottie.”
She’s made me want to wrap her in a hug when she gets this look in her eyes like she’s trapped and frustrated and wants to be anywhere but here when she thinks I’m not looking.
She’s made me want to kiss her again when she lets loose with the full belly laugh that I associate with therealTavi Lightly.
I’ve taken her mint.
I’ve taken her basil and lavender.
I’ve been thanked and had the basement door shut—and locked—in my face, without a single bit of chocolate passed over to me.
And I’m about done.
So I’m sitting here in Café Nirvana, waiting for her to drop by for today’s plans on what to record and lessons on how the hell filters work in this damn app, craving chocolate.
“How’s the coffee?” Anya asks.
I smile at her. It’s natural, but I don’t feel it. “Good.”
“You want more chocolate in it?”
“No, this is great.” I’m lying.
I want more chocolate.
But I’ve never ordered my coffee with chocolate in it here, and it would look weird to not just ask for it but ask for more on top of asking for it in the first place, which is what I did this morning to make her look at me like she’s afraid the next thing I’ll do is toss an old bathtub in the lake and then bully someone into trying to row it across, with a promise that I’ll toss their lunch in the lake next if they don’t.
Not that I’m confessing to ever doing something like that.
And now I want chocolate again.
Mocha syrup isnotwhat I want.
And I won’t be telling Anya that.
Secrets and I are like acquaintances. We nod to each other in public, acknowledge that we coexist and that’s cool, but I’m not gonna look up Mr.Secret and invite him to join me for dinner.
And before you call me two faced about belonging to the Tickled Pink Secret Poker Society, that’s secret for a reason.
There are too many people in this town who can’t handle losing and too many other people in this town who have zero poker face. And I play poker with them on occasion, too, but once a month, we save them all from themselves, and Ridhi, Jane, Willie Wayne, and I play a solid, hard-core game of poker.
Anya sizes me up like she knows there’s something off about me. “You feeling okay?”
“Never better.”
“You sure? You look like my mom after she eats too much chicken makhani.”
“Totally fine,” I insist.
“No lingering side effects of the concussion?”
