Page 37

“Don’t you want to see where the universe takes you?” Larry would ask as I ticked off every milestone. “You could see the world, Beans. Fall in love with a Spanish sunset? Or maybe a local guitarrista?”

I laughed at the idea at the time, but as I lift my glass to my lips again, I catch sight of Mackenzie’s guitar case leaning against the wall—and I choke.

“Easy there.” Mackenzie’s palm finds my upper back and taps it hard until I can draw a deep breath.

“Sorry.” I set my glass down. “I was thinking about something and then drinking and breathing at the same time. Not recommended.”

He removes his hand, but the concerned look stays etched across his forehead. “What were you thinking about?”

I am not about to tell him that my uncle may have predicted my penchant for guitar-playing men, so I go with the first plausible lie that pops into my head. “Just that cake.”

Mackenzie stops halfway to picking up his plate.

“Harmony’s,” I clarify. “You said you were going to tell me the secret ingredient once I finished. I thought for a moment it might be anchovies.”

He swallows whatever is left in his mouth. “No. But you’re not as far off as you might think.”

I pick up my fork and stab a piece of chicken. “You’re going to leave me in the dark?”

He mirrors me, spearing his own piece but also pops it into his mouth, creating an air of suspense as I watch him chew and swallow it down.

“It wouldn’t be a secret ingredient anymore if I told you.”

“You are playing a very dangerous game here, Mackenzie Smith. You’re going to regret this decision when you bite into a bologna pie that I could have warned you about.”

He laughs. It causes his nostrils to flare and the corners of his eyes to crinkle, and somehow those tiny flaws work to make him even more attractive.

“Anyway.” I pick up the remote in front of me. “What do you want to watch?”

We’ve yet to have this critical conversation. Communal TV preferences can make or break a relationship. Lucca and I could never agree. He liked guns, wars, and movies with dark Dustin Hoffman. I like comedies and romances and movies where Dustin Hoffman is a lovable intern or father-in-law with questionable personal boundaries. We didn’t have a middle ground, so we’d either argue or avoid the activity altogether or settle somewhere in the middle, leaving neither of us fully satisfied.

Mackenzie stares at the Netflix options displayed on the television screen. “I usually like something a little lighter. No snakes, or planes, or snakes on planes. Bonus points if everything works out in the end.”

I almost blurt out, “What about A Princess for Christmas?” But it’s still October, and I think that is several steps too far from what he’s actually thinking.

We settle on Schitt’s Creek, and we laugh our way through three episodes and an entire two-liter bottle of Diet Coke. When it’s time for episode four, I’m on an aspartame high and my cheeks hurt from all of the smiling.

“You up for one more?” I hold out the remote and aim it at the onscreen message confirming we’re bingeing and not forgetting to shut Netflix off.

Mackenzie glances twice at his phone, and my heart sinks a little. Does he have plans tonight? It’s not even ten. He’s used to late nights. Maybe he has a date?

I hate how much I dislike that thought.

“I have another idea.” He picks up his phone and clicks the screen a few times, then turns it around so that I can see. “I don’t know if you’re into astronomy, but the Orionid meteor shower is happening tonight. It’s a pretty clear sky. We could go up to the roof and see if we can see anything.”

On any other day, the cold, hard roof could not even begin to compete with my warm, squishy sofa, but tonight the idea is appealing.

“I could be into that.”

“Great.” He gets to his feet. “I’ll find something for us to sit on, and you might want to grab a jacket. It’s pretty cold tonight.”

An idea strikes just as I stand. “Do you want hot chocolate?” My insides fill with a nostalgic longing. “I have a secret recipe.”

Mackenzie nods. “I could be into that.” He turns toward his bedroom door but stops and whips back around. “Wait. You’re not adding anchovies or anything weird, right?”

I widen my eyes as I make an exaggerated shrug—the picture of innocence.

“If I shared my secret recipe, then it wouldn’t be a secret.”