@theanswerisno:
That actually makes sense.
I could cook. But William? Man, William was a magician. I’ve told him. We’ve all told him. I grabbed ingredients he needed from the cabinets and from the bags of things they’d brought along with them.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, giving him a block of Parmesan.
He offered me one of those smiles that had all the women weak in the knees. “Yeah, it’s really convincing when you tell me that when I’m nearly done.”
I chuckled. If they’d asked me if they should come all the way here, I’d have told them it wasn’t worth the drive, but I’d bet that was why they didn’t ask me.
This friendship thing was weird but nice.
The same couldn’t be said for my oldest friend, who seemed to be experiencing some negative side effects of our friendship. I walked up to Claire, who was seated in the living room where Rose had set up Dixit and Pictionary.
“Hey.” I sat next to her. “I’m okay.”
She looked at me with what had become a permanent frown. “I know how hurt you are and how difficult this must be. You don’t seem angry.”
“I’m not. I’m confused and shocked and scared,” I said. “Why are you so angry?”
Claire took a deep breath. “Because I worry about you. I know you take forever to trust someone, and when you do, you give them everything. Does she know that’s what she’s getting? If she’s not ready, I… I don’t know, Lincoln.”
Did Elizabeth wanteverything? Would myeverythingbe enough for someone like her? Or too much? She’s Elizabeth Gordon-Bettencourt, and I’m just Lincoln Carden.
Dean walked in carrying a pile of wood and made his way straight to the fireplace. Claire’s frown turned into an emotion I’d rather not see.
William walked up to us, a bowl in either hand. “Buon appetito.” He offered the first bowls to Rose and Claire.
Elizabeth hasn’t eaten.
As if reading my mind, William leaned in and whispered, “I made some extra. In case she’s hungry. I know she lied and stuff, but… I don’t like it when people are hungry.”
“Me neither,” I said.
I walked to the kitchen and prepared another bowl of spaghetti bolognese. I took the two short steps to Elizabeth’s bedroom door and knocked once.
There was a quiet sound of shuffling before the door cracked open. It was as though I was meeting an entirely different person. A red-faced, red-eyed, red-cheeked woman whispered, “What’s up? Everything okay?”
I extended the bowl, which couldn’t even fit through the tiny gap she’d allowed. I wanted to ask her what was wrong. I wanted to know what she needed to feel better. To not cry. But I didn’t know how to find the right words and the right way to say it.
She swallowed and reached out a shaky hand. “For me?”
I nodded.
“Thank you,” she squeaked.
“William makes the best spagbol,” I said, stupidly, as a replacement for what could very easily be a love confession.
Half a smile graced her puffy face.
I searched her eyes, but she avoided mine. In a desperate attempt to make her feel better, I said, “We’re about to play Dixit… Do you want to join us?”
“I don’t want to intrude.” She swallowed hard. “Plus I look like crap.”
Crap? I wish I could tell her otherwise. Instead, I gestured down to my sweatpants. “This is a no judgment zone. Plus, uh, it takes up to eight players…”
“You don’t mind? Are you sure?”
