“Since the divorce, I’ve been trying to work out who I am when I’m not standing in someone else’s shadow. It’s harder than I expected.”
“You’re doing it, though.”
Debra frowned. “Doing what?”
“Becomingyou.” Billie searched Debra’s eyes. “You underestimate how extraordinary that is. Rebuilding yourself from the ground up. Most people never even bother to try.”
Emotion welled in Debra’s throat. “You have a way of making people sound far better than they actually are.”
Billie shook her head. “No. I just see what’s there.”
“You did for me at one time.”
“Yes.” Billie smiled faintly. “I remember.”
“And now you’ve decided I’m not worth the full service anymore.” The moment the words left Debra’s mouth, she wished she could pull them back. Still, she’d always wanted to know what was so wrong with her that Billie didn’t want her. “So, you’re either lying when you tell me what you see in me…or you’re very good at pushing people away simply because you want to.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Can I be honest with you?” Debra took a breath when Billie nodded. “It felt a lot like rejection dressed up as professionalism.”
“Cancelling your appointment last week…” Billie lowered her gaze, her fingers squeezing around her espresso cup. “It was never about your worth.”
“Then what was it about?”
An awkward silence stretched between them, and when Billie finally looked up, something guarded settled over her features. “Boundaries I don’t trust myself to keep.”
“Right.”
“I know it’s probably not a good enough answer for you, but it’s the only one I can give.”
Debra clenched and unclenched her hand beneath the table, wanting to restore the lightness they’d somehow found only a few minutes ago. It felt as though one wrong move and this would be over in a split second. Debra didn’t want that. Still, as she searched Billie’s face, she caught a hint of vulnerability in her eyes.
Then Billie exhaled a slow, measured breath and said, “Do you cook?”
Debra’s brows drew together. “W-what?”
“You mentioned the roast chicken before.” Billie smiled. “I wondered if you’d mastered it yet.”
“Oh, no.” Debra laughed and waved a hand between them. “I pick a rotisserie up whenever I feel like indulging. It saves me a lot of stress.”
“Good call.”
“Do you cook?” Debra didn’t know much about this woman, but she suspected she knew her way around a kitchen. Billie just had that air about her. As though she could turn her hand to anything at all.
Billie smoothed her fingers over the edge of her napkin. “I can cook three things. Steak, risotto, and an omelette that could easily be used as a blunt-force weapon depending on my mood.”
A smile tugged at Debra’s lips. “Interesting mix of dishes.”
“I had to learn. My mother insisted that women who cooked became dependent.”
“And…did they?”
Billie laughed, and the sound hit Debra square in the chest. While she’d seen hints and glimpses of a smile or a minute laugh here and there, this one had the hairs on the back of her neck standing upright. “No. They just became better cooks.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever tried my hand at risotto…”
“If you’re serious about learning,” Billie said, “I can give you my risotto recipe. Though you’ll probably curse me halfway through. It requires patience.”
