“Really?” I stand too, fighting every instinct that wants to close the distance between us.
“Yeah.” She shoulders her purse. “It was.”
And then she’s moving in for a hug. Her arms wrap around me and for one perfect second, I’m home. I inhale deeply, probably creepily, but I can’t help it. Her shampoo is the same—something floral that she used to special order online. The fake stuff gives her headaches, she used to say. God, the details Iremember.
She lets go and steps back, taking all the warmth in the world with her.
“I’ll see you later.”
“See you,” I croak out.
I watch her leave Rye Again, weaving between tables with that dancer’s grace. She’s sunshine in the gray January day. Even after she’s gone from view, I just stand there like an idiot. Other customers move around me.
Our conversation was cleansing, like finally cleaning a wound that’s been festering for years. But it also left me with more feelings. More needs. More questions.
I suspect that Devin wasn’t telling the whole truth, that the damage I did was worse than she made it out to be. She’s protecting me from the full weight of it, even now. That’s who she is—someone who softens blows for others, even when they don’t deserve it.
So the question is: how do I go about fixing things? How do I prove that I’ve changed without making it about me? How do I show her that I see her now—really see her—without asking for anything in return?
I stand there in the coffee shop, watching the space where she was, wondering if I’ll ever get the chance to find out.
Chapter Eleven
Devin
“You have to toss it in the air, right?” Not waiting for Maya’s response, I throw the pizza dough into the air. The disc spins upward, flour dusting down like snow, and for a half second, I think I’ve got it. My hands position themselves beneath the spinning circle, ready to catch it like I’ve seen in a dozen cooking shows, but the dough has other plans. The whole thing flops onto the counter with a wet slap, one edge hanging over the side.
“Damn it,” I mutter, peeling the drooping section back onto the granite.
Maya laughs, the sound bright against the electropop pulsing from her speakers. “I’m pretty sure throwing it around isn’t required.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I work the dough back into something resembling a circle, my fingers pressing and stretching the edges. The kitchen smells like olive oil and fresh basil, and late afternoon light streams through the windows, catching theflour particles still floating in the air. “What kind of toppings did you get?”
“Pepperoni, basil...” She pulls everything out of her fridge, containers and packages crowding the counter. “I also have black olives.”
“That’s good?” I raise a doubtful eyebrow, picking up the container and examining it like it might contain something suspicious.
“It’s delicious.” She bumps my hip with hers as she reaches past me for the cheese.
“Then let’s go for it.” With the dough finally back in an acceptable shape—more oval than circle, but close enough—we sprinkle it with cheese, the mozzarella falling in white ribbons across the surface. Maya arranges pepperoni slices while I tear basil leaves, releasing their spicy, peppery scent. The olives go on last, dark spots against the red and white landscape we’ve created.
Sliding the pizza into the oven requires both of us maneuvering around each other in the narrow space between counter and stove. The heat hits my face as the door opens, and I guide our creation onto the rack. When the door closes with a satisfying click, I hold my hand up for a high five and Maya gives it a smack that echoes through the kitchen.
“Now all we need to do is make sure it doesn’t burn,” she says, wiping her floury hands on a dish towel decorated with tiny pineapples.
“The hardest part—not forgetting about it.” I sink into one of her kitchen chairs, the woven seat creaking slightly under my weight. My energy levels are pretty good today, a solid seven out of ten, but that still means I need to pace myself. Too many times I’ve felt this good and pushed forward, convinced I could handle just one more activity, one more hour on my feet. Then boom—steering myself right into a flare that knocks me flat for days.
“I’msetting a timer.” She taps on her phone with flour-dusted fingers, the screen lighting up with fifteen minutes counting down. She places it on the counter between the olive oil bottle and a half-empty wine glass from earlier, then turns to face me, arms crossed. That look in her eyes—I already know what’s coming next. “So. You and Oliver. Alexis said you had coffee with him at Rye Again.”
Of course she did. The island’s information network operates faster than any internet connection. Which means all of our friends know by now. Which means the whole island probably knows, not because my friends would share my business, but because Mrs. Patterson was definitely at Rye Again with her book club, and Tommy from the marina probably stopped in for his afternoon espresso, and they all would have noticed Oliver and me sitting together.
I shift in my chair, the wood protesting again. “News travels fast around here.”
“You know how it is.” Maya pulls out the chair across from me, its legs scraping against the tile. “But seriously, how was it?”
“He asked if I’m seeing anyone,” I tell her, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them. The memory of that moment floods back—his fingers wrapped around his coffee cup, the careful way he posed the question, like he was testing ice to see if it would hold his weight.
Her eyes widen, and she leans forward, elbows on the table. “Really?”
