Page 15 of I Love a Good Challenge

“So, how’s it going on the dating apps?” Sparrow is looking at me, but her eyes are a touch too wide, her smile a bit too forced. I know she knows something is up, especially after my little chat with Graham at the diner.

I sigh and shrug. “The usual. Horrible. Lots of men holding fish. Or photos with children who aren’t theirs. Or sitting on a weight bench facing the mirror, and I am left questioning their confidence to take a picture like that in a crowded gym. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s more acceptable in a crowded place or not.”

Sparrow is feigning interest, though I see she is trying to hold back her laughter, so I continue my tirade.

“Or they’ll upload bathroom mirror selfies—fully clothed—with gross bathroom sinks that they don’t crop out. I honestly don’t know how these men expect to win anyone over. It’s unnerving, at best. And don’t even get me started on car selfies. If I see one more man in his car with a cell phone reflecting in his aviator-style sunglasses, I think I may spontaneously combust.”

I release a breath and observe the people at the next table looking at each other as if they’re regretting their seat choice. I don’t blame them.

“That’s a lot,” Sparrow says politely. A to-go drink is placed on the table in front of her, and I see her immediate smile. “You ordered for me?”

I nod. She goes to lift it and nearly knocks the cup over. I smirk inside. I love her, but Sparrow hasn’t lost any of her clumsiness by getting engaged. I guess love doesn’t remove all our quirks.

We pick up our drinks and take our time walking through town back to our shop. Easter is this weekend, and it’s our unspoken understanding that we’ll be working more than usual to fulfill all the orders. Maple croissants, macarons, and chocolate bunnies are in the queue for the day. All the other shop owners around town are no doubt stuffing plastic eggs to the brim with candy and treats for the egg hunt. Shirley, the owner of the dress shop and tailoring service, All Sewn Up, is probably making a new bowtie for this year’s Easter Bunny costume. I’m pretty sure I even spotted a hand pie from Angie’s Pies in the shape of a carrot as we passed her storefront. Along with the other locals busily getting festive in this town, Sparrow and I have been preparing our whole lives for moments like this.

As we walk in silence, my confidence wanes. I know I need to tell Sparrow the truth about me and Graham. I must tell her. The expiration date for this conversation is so far past due I should be evicted from our friendship. When we walk past the little blue house on the corner—the one that was my childhood home and hasn’t seen my family gather in several years—a sense of longing overtakes me. It frustrates me more than anything.

How can we know deep in our hearts that we have nothing to complain about, nothing to be ungrateful for, and yet still feel at war with ourselves? How can there be an inexplicable weight of the world on our shoulders that we can’t seem to shake, even if it doesn’t make sense to our rational minds?

My parents call me only every few months, even when they’re halfway across the world. I feel their absence. I still get jealous now and then of all the people who get to see them every day in real life while I settle for a screen. And I can tell you all the reasons technology is wonderful and how I utilize it and won’t grumble about it, and yet I’m still wishing there was a way technology would advance enough so a screen still doesn’t feel like a wall I can’t climb between us.

I understand their motivation and their choice to live and work overseas. I admire and respect them for it. Yet I still miss them so much that I sometimes find myself crying when I wake up alone in my apartment, wishing for the days I didn’t know how painful their emotional distance was, when I could walk downstairs to the sight of my dad making pancakes on Saturday morning, my mom exasperated at the sound of the whistling tea kettle she forgot to turn off for the thousandth time. I wish I could call them and tell them to meet me at Train Car Diner for a piece of pie and believe that they’d accept the invitation just because we can.

Trivial moments. Wonderfully unimportant. Everything to me.

It’s only when we’re back in the café twenty minutes later, and I’m surrounded by our familiar pastries and the well-worn details of the bakery that I love, that I feel a sense of peace click into place.

Not even five minutes later, that peace is interrupted.

“Okay, spill,” a soft voice says.

I whip around from the stove where I’m tempering chocolate. It flings off my spatula and hits the wall with exaggerated flair. I grumble, knowing it will take me a good ten minutes to scrub that melted goodness off the tile.

Sparrow is staring at me a few feet away. Her arms are crossed, her feet in a relaxed ballet position she often holds while standing.

“Whatever do you mean?” I attempt. But it’s no use. My moment of reckoning is finally upon me. “Fine.” I sigh, abandoning the chocolate that’s now seizing behind me. “Let’s do this.”

My heart wasn’t in the moment anyway.

Sparrow narrows her eyes. “I know something is going on with you. And I’ve been trying to give you space. But, Lils . . . ” she begins, pulling out her nickname for me again in the hope of breaking me, no doubt.

“This is about him,” I begin.

She nods. “Is it awkward that Graham asked me out on that train platform, and I told him I would only date a Frenchman? Yes. Have I reconciled the fact that he’s best friends with my fiancé? Also, yes. So, if I can power through, I need to know why you can’t.”

“Maybe I just don’t like him,” I mumble, the lie bitter on my tongue.

“Eh!” Sparrow makes an obnoxious noise that honestly resembles a sound I would make, a challenge in her eyes. “I’m not leaving until you tell me. And I’m only going to pretend for a minute that I’m not hurt because you haven’t told me what’s going on with you two.”

“With . . . Graham and me?” This innocent act is making even me cringe.

“Lily,” Sparrow warns. She grabs a bag of chocolate and sticks it in the microwave, her finger hovering over the quick start button, a daring expression on her face.

“You wouldn’t,” I mutter.

It seems Rafe has brought out her playful and terrifying side. Does she really plan to ruin chocolate just to get me to crack? When she hits the button, my mouth goes slack. I race to the microwave, nearly crashing into the counter between us.

“No!” I yell as Sparrow steps aside and lets me rescue the chocolate from the microwave. I cradle it like a baby before setting it back on the counter. “I wouldn’t hurt you like that,” I whisper to it.

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