“I had to fall in love with myself. I wasn’t comfortable being alone with myself because I didn’t love her.” Willow let go of my hand, putting some distance between us as she reached up and tugged her hair free of the elastic holding it in a bun. “And yes, I know how utterly cliché that sounds.”
I watched as she slipped the hairband around her wrist, then ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing down the soft pink waves.
“Do you love her?” I asked.
Willow stood in silent contemplation for a moment. “Yes.”
“Good,” I said as I slid my hand down her arm, stealing the ponytail off her wrist and slipping it onto mine. “Because I can’t wait to fall in love with her too.”
7
AUTUMN
FROZEN SALSA AND FROSTY HEARTS
“Hi!” Whitney squealed as she wiggled out of her booth at the bakery. The stack of empty mugs rattled on the table as it jostled. “You made it!”
“Three hours is nothing,” I said as I pulled her into a hug. “Especially when there’s you and pie at the end of it.”
Whitney owned a gorgeous little gem in Providence, Rhode Island, called Annie’s Pies. It was nestled in a quaint college town and was the perfect place for remote workers. Every detail was thoughtfully placed, from the walls of books for all ages to the coat hooks on the corners of the booths to the lightning-fast Wi-Fi.
Maybe Rhode Island should be my next stop. I could get a rental here and work from Annie’s every day.
But then I’d be close enough for Ryan to?—
My stomach sank at the thought of not being close to Ryan. Even though I had been intentionally difficult about our deal, it was because I didn’t want to admit that he made me laugh. He was easy to be around. I was sure all that was part of his carefully contrived plan, but I couldn’t help but crave it.
And I didn’t like admitting I was wrong.
“Okay. Wow,” Whitney said as she waved her hand in front of my face. “What just happened inside that brain of yours?”
I let out a sharp breath and wiggled out the tension from the drive. “I need pie.”
Whitney and I reconvened at her table with slices of pie the size of our heads. I fortified myself with an iced coffee while Whitney had yet another cup of herbal tea.
Her hair was in a soft brown braid today. Sometimes she wore auburn wigs that were part of her branding, but around Wander and me, she let her hair down.
“It’s my current craving,” she said as she blew across the top of her mug. “Which kind of sucks because we’re in the middle of summer. But I suppose it could be worse.”
“Herbal tea?” I stabbed my fork through my slice of pecan pie. “That’s the lamest pregnancy craving ever. What happened to tuna and chocolate cake? Or salsa and ice cream?”
She perked up. “Salsa and vanilla ice cream sounds kind of good . . .”
“Yep. You’re definitely pregnant. Because that was not a suggestion that a reasonable person would latch on to.”
But Whitney was already looking down at her phone, texting. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “My favorite Mexican place is by Miles’s office, and I want to see if he’ll bring me some salsa when they open. We have the best vanilla ice cream here.”
I heaved.
“Moving on,” Whitney said as she set her phone beside her mug. “How are things going with Ryan?”
“They’re not ‘going,’” I countered. “They’re?—”
“I saw the picture he posted,” Whitney said with a self-satisfied smirk. “So I know you two are spending time together.”
I groaned.
When we were waiting in line at the festival, Ryan snapped a photo of our shoes beside each other—my Converse and hissneakers. He posted on his social media pages without a caption or self-righteous commentary. He didn’t even use it as a chance to pitch his dating course.
