I can’t help but laugh. “Honey, you’re the only person I know who can make chocolate complicated. But that’s why I love you.”
“Says the woman who spent six months painting nothing but broken mirrors.”
“That was art.” I grin, grateful for the familiar banter. “You’re just being neurotic.”
“Says the woman who alphabetizes her paint tubes by shade gradient.” She reaches across and steals a sip of my Thai iced tea, which is basically a declaration of war in our friendship.
I snatch my drink back. “That’s called organization. And at least I don’t catalog every restaurant receipt by cuisine type, date, AND emotional resonance.”
“It’s a filing system! How else should I track which places make me feel what?” Her hands spread wide, chopsticks still clutched in one. “Last week, I had pad thai that tasted like pure chaos.”
“Normal people just use Yelp stars.” I tap my chopsticksagainst the table—one-two-three, one-two-three—a rhythm I can’t quite stop. “But no, my best friend has to create spreadsheets with color-coded emotions.”
“Says the person who won’t start painting until her brushes are arranged by size down to the millimeter.”
My cheeks heat. “That’s different. It’s about flow and energy alignment.”
“Right, and the fact that you count your brush strokes isn’t weird at all.”
“Hey!” I point my chopstick at her like a tiny sword. “That one time I lost count at 2,847 and had to start over was justified. The composition was off.”
“And you called me at three a.m. to complain about it.” She adjusts her napkin, making it perfectly square with the table edge, which she probably doesn’t even realize. “Which, by the way, I logged in myAmelia’s Art Crisesjournal.”
I freeze mid-tap. “You did not.” Pause. “What color tab did you give it?”
“Midnight blue. For both the time of night and your mood.”
We both burst out laughing, drawing looks from nearby tables. I resume tapping my chopsticks because the rhythm helps me think, and Maya’s probably dying to reach over and align them with my placemat, but she restrains herself.
“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” I sigh, but warmth spreads through my chest.
“A perfectly organized mess,” Maya corrects, finally getting her napkin corners just right.
Our food arrives, and the smell is perfect—lemongrass and chili and that specific fish sauce tang. But I notice Maya’s not eating, just staring at her pad thai like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“Earth to Maya?” I wave my hand in front of her face. “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.” She takes a bite but makes this little face, like the food isn’t measuring up to something. “Just thinking about work.”
“About work or about tall, dark, and chocolatey?”
She chokes on her noodles, and I immediately feel guilty but alsovindicatedbecause Iknewsomething was going on.
“What?”
“Please. Every time I mention Adrian Vale, you either blush or zone out. Sometimes both.” I stir my curry, watching the colors swirl—red chilies, green basil, golden coconut milk. “And right now, you’re doing both.”
“It’s not...” She gulps water. “There was something in that last chocolate. Something... personal.”
My brain immediately goes to twelve different places.Personal. What does personal mean? Drugs? No, Maya would taste drugs. A secret ingredient? Family recipe? Wait?—
“Personal how?”
A flush creeps up her neck, that tell she can never hide. “You know how my synesthesia works. How I can taste emotions, intentions...”
“And?”
“And there was definitely something intimate in that final piece. Something that felt like...” Her voice drops to almost a whisper. “Like him.His essence.”
