I swallow, not answering her. I don’t want to answer her.You don’t want to face the truth.
“Do you love her?” Annabelle asks pointedly.
My chest constricts. “Why does that matter?”
“Oh, my sweet summer child. It’s the only thing that matters.”
Is it though? Or is that just hope talking? Hope doesn’t win games, hope doesn’t run bakeries, and hope doesn’t raise children. “I’m not sure I agree.”
“I’m not surprised you don’t,” she says, sitting down, “but maybe think about the thorn. Maybe see if you can remove it. For your own sake, at the very least.”
Seven pads back up the steps and jumps into her lap. She pets his head, then meets my gaze once more.
She looks serene, like the cat is transferring his laid-back energy to her.
I swing my gaze to Taco, wishing I could pick up his vibes by osmosis.
But I don’t know how to remove the thorn. When I leave, I pet his head some more. I swear he smiles again. Warm and simple and sure.
I’m jealous.
Of a dog.
46
THE START OF MAYBE
MABEL
“It’s a royal pair! That’s totally a thing.”
I give Remy a sharp stare. “A king and a queen are not a pair,” I say.
“But a king and a king are,” Trevyn says, wiggling his brows. “So there.”
“Fine, fine.” Remy pouts.
We’re at Afternoon Delight for our brand-new “friends night out” activity—since apparently we can’t survive on pickleball alone. And yes, I decided I needed a new poker-night wardrobe: jeans, black boots, and a black top.
It suits my mood.
Clementine sets down her cards with a catlike grin. “But a trio of threes beats you all,” she says, scooping up the chips.
Skylar sighs. “And here I thought I’d be great at this.”
“Because you’re great at everything,” Trevyn teases.
“Well, yeah,” she says.
“Keep playing,” he tells her.
It’s my turn to deal—another distraction.
“Hold on,” Skylar says, eyeing me. “You’ve been awfully peppy tonight.”
“And?”
“And what’s up? How are you really handling things?”
