Once again, Dani tracks the motion. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Ask me if I’m okay again and I’m gonna throw a baked good at you.” I tear off a piece of croissant and try to chew it slowly, like a cow with cud. This, at least, tastes normal. Buttery. Salty. Safe. I chew it slowly and try to ignore the way Dani is looking at me.
But, thankfully, she takes mercy on me, probably because I’m starting to look a little green in the face, and launches into a long, detailed story of her date with Fireman Chad last weekend.
Turns out he’s a six-foot-two redhead with a rescue dog he named Dog and a standing Sunday phone call with his mom. For their fourth date, he cooked linguine at his (immaculate) apartment, spent the whole meal peppering her with thoughtful questions about herself, and even noticed when she got quiet halfway through dessert and asked, very gently, if she wanted to talk about her ex or skip the subject entirely.
It’s honestly touching to see her light up when she talks about him. The affection is physical and obvious. Her cheeks are pink. Her hands keep fluttering up to tuck hair behind her ear even though her hair is already tucked. She’s glowing in that dumb, wonderful way people glow when they’ve finally met someone who doesn’t make them feel like garbage.
It’s nice. It’s so nice. So nice andnormal.
I want to curl up against the warm sun of her happiness like a cold-blooded reptile basking in the sun.
Since Giana died, nothing in my life has resembled anything that anyone would call “normal.” Not my marriage or my grief. Not the ugly black rage I’ve been nursing in my chest for five years.
So yeah, I’m happy for her.
I’m also a little jealous.
“Timeout,” I say, scooting my chair back. “I need to pee before you get to the part where Fireman Chad lets you slide down his pole.”
“You know,” she sighs, “if you keep making bad puns about my sex life, I’m going to stop confiding in you.”
“Liar. I’m the first person you call when someone hot and new rails you.”
“He didn’t rail me!” she protests.
“Yet.”
“Yet,” Dani concedes, beaming. “But…”
“Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” My smile fades as I weave between strollers and highchairs on wobbly legs and push intothe little single-stall bathroom at the back of the restaurant. The lock snicks shut. I grab the edge of the sink with both hands and look up.
Lordy, I look awful. Like I fell out of an Ugly Tree and hit every branch on the way down. A little green around the edges, a little sweaty at the temples. I look like I smell bad. The concealer on my cheek has worn thin enough that the yellow underneath is peeking through.
“For God’s sake, get your shit together, Cassandra,” I whisper.
I turn on the tap, then pump a little glob of foamy pink soap into my palm. But the second the smell hits me—some cloying, fake-rose, fake-vanilla, fake-everything nightmare of a scent—my stomach flips inside out.
I gag into the sink.
I shove my hands under the faucet, scrub the soap off as fast as I can, and stumble back from the counter, breathing through my mouth. I press my forehead against the cool tile wall and close my eyes.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Oh, fuck me sideways.”
The handle of the bathroom door rattles. I don’t even bother to lift my forehead off the tile.
“Occupied,” I croak.
“It’s me, dummy. Open up.”
Of course it is. I should’ve known the second I scooted my chair back that Dani was already counting down the seconds until she came after me. She’s not stupid, that cousin of mine. Guess I got all the dumb genes in the family.
I shuffle over and flip the lock. Dani slips in, pulls the door shut behind her, and locks it again.
She takes one look at my face and her own falls. “Cass.”
“Don’t.”
