“Not you,” she whispers.
Two words that shouldn’t mean as much as they do. But I have to focus very hard on the road to keep from pulling over and doing something stupid. Like kissing her. Telling her she’s all I think about. Admitting the weeks since Bora Bora have felt like I’m slowly suffocating from how much I miss her.
“Good to know,” I answer softly.
“Before we get to their house,” she says, her tone suddenly sharp, “do we need to discuss the fact that I don’t want you calling me out for putting my career on hold to bake muffins.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. In fact, I’m a big fan of your muffins.” I deliberately drop my gaze to her chest before dragging it back to the road, giving her an exaggerated leer that breaks the tension.
She snorts. “Subtle.”
“I never claimed to be subtle, Avah.” I shift lanes to pass a slower vehicle, choosing my next words carefully. “You’ll be great at whatever you do, and if baking brings you joy?—”
Her body goes rigid, and I wonder what unseen landmine I’ve stepped on now. “Did Sloane tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“About my bucket list item.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. My sister talks about the book club constantly, regaling me with updates, inside jokes, and her gratitude for their ride-or-die bond. I’ve tuned out more than I should, too focused on trying to seem present without actually being present. It’s coming back to bite me in the ass now.
“She hasn’t mentioned it.”
Avah studies me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to decide whether to trust me with whatever this is. “Each member of the book club is taking a turn with a bucket list challenge.”
“Like going skydiving?”
She shakes her head. “Things that push us out of our comfort zones.”
“Like being real with people?” I mock shudder. “Sounds terrifying.”
“Yeah, well…mine is finding joy.”
“Joy?”
“Joy,” she repeats, gazing out the window at the passing landscape, suburbs and strip malls giving way to high rises as we approach the city. “I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I felt genuinely happy. Not performative or pretend happiness. Real joy.”
The confession settles into the quiet between us as I think about her armor and attitude, every word sharpened to a point. Behind that armor, she’s trying to keep herself safe, just like me.
But here she is, letting me see the unguarded version of herself when trust doesn’t come easy for her. I don’t think she has any idea how brave that is. Or how much it makes me want to be brave enough to do the same.
“What does joy look like for you?”
Her laugh is hollow. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
“You’ll get there.” I reach out and trace one finger along the back of her hand. “For me, it’s getting what I want.”
“You sound like a toddler.” Her words are a rebuke, but I’ll take the smile that comes with them.
“A toddler with excellent instincts for business investments.”
“And decent taste in baked goods.”
“Especially snickerdoodles.” I signal for the exit that will take us toward Cherry Hills Village. “I’m also partial to women with zero patience for my bullshit.”
She doesn’t respond to that, but I file away theflush that creeps up her delicate throat as evidence that this thing between us isn’t one-sided, even if she won’t admit it.
We pull up to a comfortable two-story colonial with a basketball hoop in the driveway and flower beds that need weeding. It’s the kind of house where kids grow up, and grandchildren come to visit. Real, just like Avah told me to be.
