Page 50 of Lessons in Lemonade

I can do this.

I hope.

Candied Pecans

LIFE HAS BEEN interesting, to say the least.

For starters, it’s been a really long time since I’ve lived with someone. As easy as it has been for the two of us, there’s also been a learning curve. I can’t walk around in my underwear, as much as I’d like to. Hell, I wouldn’t complain at all if she wanted to walk around in hers, but she doesn’t. Sometimes I have to tell her no when she wants to cook certain foods, and that practically kills me, but I have to be careful. And as much as I like to have sports on, although she doesn’t complain, I can tell she doesn’t like it hour after hour. She’s more of a music over TV kind of gal.

Secondly, watching Meg work has been insane. She’s up at the crack of dawn, works ten hours, and then at three I bring her home, where she works on social media, deals with the business side of things, or cooks to try new recipes. She never stops. Just like at my house, she’s a little tornado that’s constantly spinning around and moving—in high heels—and it’s overwhelming.

Third, although things are easy with us, since her last date two weeks ago, things have been different. She’s still funny, kind, and great to be around, but I can see the wheels turning in her head, and I don’t know what to think about that. She’s more quiet than she was when I first showed up, she blushes more when I touch her, and when I’m not looking at her, I can feel her watching me. I’d like to think maybe she’s about to have a change of heart about her whole let’s-just-be-friends thing, but my fear is that she’ll retreat instead of moving forward.

I don’t get it. I really don’t. Granted, I’ve never been interested in a girl for longer than a few weeks, so I’m not a pro when it comes to the ins and outs of a relationship, but if you like someone and are attracted to them, I feel like the possibilities are supposed to be endless. And I like her a lot.

Tomorrow, I will have been here for three weeks, and tomorrow is also the last day of the Charleston Wine and Food Festival. While I’ve had a grand old time wandering around the city finding something amazing to eat each day, she hasn’t left the restaurant hardly at all. I get it, though; I do. This is her moment to shine, and I can’t wait to stand in the background and cheer her on. I also can’t wait until it’s over and things calm down a bit. Call me selfish, but one day soon—fingers crossed—I’ll be heading back to Tampa, and I want all the time I can get with her. That’s why tonight, I’m going to cook dinner for us and she’s going to put her feet up.

“Honey, I’m home,” I call out as I enter the house with a bag of groceries.

“Hey,” I hear from the dining room.

Kicking off my shoes, I wander into the kitchen to drop the bag, and that’s when I find her sitting at the table. Her face is puffy, her eyes are red, and every bit of me goes on alert.

“What’s wrong?” I scan her body for injuries. The only time I’ve seen a hint of tears from her was at the Super Bowl; otherwise, never—like, not ever, not even while watching a movie. So, seeing her like this now, I’m alarmed. Testosterone flares, and I need to fix this, fix her immediately.

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid. I’m just having a moment, but it’ll pass.” She lets out a deep sigh then undoes her knot of hair. Dark curls fall around her head.

“Clearly it’s not nothing. You don’t cry. Tell me what happened.” I pull out the chair next to her and angle it so I’m right in front of her. Plopping down, my elbows go to my knees so we are eye to eye. She looks down and fiddles with the rubber band.

“The florist called twenty minutes ago to tell me the orange blossoms didn’t get delivered today like they were supposed to. At the moment, I don’t have any arrangements for the tables.”

My brows pull down. I don’t know much about decorating tables, but I do know she was extremely excited for them. A conversation from earlier in the week comes to mind where she said, “You don’t understand—this is one of the largest food festivals in the nation, and I know for a fact there are at least six big-name food bloggers who have booked a ticket for our brunch, and no telling how many others. Everything has to be perfect.”

Now I can see in her eyes that it won’t be.

She lets out another sigh, one that’s filled with resignation. “Ain’t that the berries, as my grandmother would say.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. What else is there?

“It’s fine. Only a handful of us know that’s what was planned. The guest won’t know the difference at all. I called Taylor, and she just sent someone to the store to buy oranges and lemons. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to slice them, layer them in the vases, and then just use the greenery we bought to overflow out the top. It’ll be pretty enough.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the vision you had. The florist couldn’t provide you with anything else? She has to have something pretty. I mean between her and all the others in town, they should be able to come up with something.”

“We talked about that, but with the event, the pickings are slim, and I didn’t want to use overly common flowers. To me that takes away from the essence of the brunch: Southern and chic. I know that sounds terrible because I’m certain she could come up with something, but an arrangement with roses . . .” She shakes her head. “How unoriginal.”

“Okay. If you’re sure?” I ask, just trying to get a read on her one more time.

“I am. It’s not what I wanted, but it’ll be pretty. Like I said, I just had a moment. I think it’s a combination of all the stress and anticipation of tomorrow, but I’m past it. On the bright side, all the food was delivered today.”

I can’t help but smile. Leave it to Meg to find a silver lining when she’s sad.

“The food would be the most important part,” I reply sarcastically then lean back in my chair. “Other than that, how did everything else go today?”

“Good. It officially doesn’t smell like paint anymore, and we got everything prepped that we could. The tables are all set, minus centerpieces, and Zach dropped off all the wine.”

Dumbly, during the carriage ride, I offered to help paint the ceiling blue, and she thought it was the best idea ever. She switched shifts with Taylor the next day, and she and I stayed up all night moving furniture, shifting drop cloths, and painting the damn ceiling what Sherwin-Williams calls Open Air. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful, but it was a huge undertaking just days before this event.

“I wish they were staying here with us.” I frown. I haven’t spent hardly any time with my friends since the injury, and I miss them.