“Now, how about that cake? Tell me your favorite kind. I regret that I don’t know this piece of Maggie trivia.” I bump her with my shoulder.
“You’ll laugh when I tell you.”
“You know me, Magita, I’m all about laughter.”
I turn a corner in the kitchen, but it’s a dead end. I spin around and we collide. Our hands brush and the crackle turns into a blaze as if stoking the embers from when we held hands earlier.
“Your hands are cold. It’s a definite no on the ice cream.” My voice sounds unusually gruff. I want to rub her hands between mine to warm them up, but I worry that could make things awkward or that it would be unwelcome.
“This old building is drafty.”
The near darkness in the kitchen and her proximity after all this time give me courage. I clasp both her hands in mine and draw them close between us.
She wears a shaky smile and stares at our fingers as they link together. The crackling inside me grows.
With a straight face, I say, “I would never laugh at your favorite kind of cake. There is absolutely nothing funny about cake. Except for last year, the guys made me a chocolate birthday cake that resembled a certain emoji. Wolf brought a roll of toilet paper instead of napkins, if you catch my meaning.”
Her lips twist with a suppressed smile.
The light of the moon through the high window illuminates her face. Her skin is fresh from the mask she’d used and her eyes shine bright.
Our gazes lock. It’s an unspoken stare-off like a thumb war or arm wrestling. But the winner will get the satisfaction of seeing my best friend, who has become a beautiful woman, smile. Yeah, it’s a game I intend to win. Call me greedy, selfish, whatever, but there is nothing quite so satisfying as a genuine Margaret Pearl Byrne smile.
The corners of her eyes crinkle, then her lips crack before she tips her head back with a full peal of laughter.
I laugh too and then quickly shush us both.
She glances from our hands to my eyes.
I’m not sure if this is like in the hall during dinner and we’re having a real moment. But I’m determined to make it into one, so I kiss Maggie’s knuckles and after each peck, I say, “If your favorite kind of cake is a secret, it’s safe with me, Cinderella.”
Her breath catches.
Mine stops altogether.
What’s happening? What am I doing?
Playbook, playbook, playbook, I repeat in my mind.
“Cinderella?”
“Yes, my favorite fairytale princess. Oh, wait. Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who go around declaring they don’t need a prince. That they’re not a damsel in distress. Let memake this clear. No oneneedsa prince. Whether you want one and everything that comes along with it is another story. And I’d argue that this Printz is pretty wantable.” I wink.
Maggie’s exhale is shaky, but she follows with a steady inhalation. “If you know me at all, then you’re aware I’m not impressed by fame and fortune.”
“Clearly,” I say, recalling her reaction to my designer garb.
Maggie glances down as if suddenly shy. Then, as if gaining resolve, she says, “Someone loyal, caring, and kind. A friend and a teammate. Someone, who above all, knows who the true King is—our Lord and Savior.”
Biting my lip, I take a risk. “I can think of someone who checks off those boxes.”
“If it’s anyone on the Boston Bruisers, the answer is no.”
“No?” I ask.
“No,” she repeats. “They’re like your brothers and that’s a strictly platonic relationship. Imagine if I dated one of your teammates and things didn’t work out. They never do,” she mumbles, then more clearly says, “that would be awkward. Maggie plus any football player equals platonic.”
My shoulders dip. “Platonic?” I ask.
