Page 71 of I Love a Good Challenge

As I have done each birthday for the past two years, I wish for us. Then I open my eyes and blow out the candles. As the faint whiff of smoke drifts to the ceiling, its lingering scent singeing my nose, I look at Lily. There’s an expression on her face I’ve never seen before.

She is the first to break the silence. “I don’t want you to leave. That feels like something you should know.”

I swallow, the truth of her words settling into my heart.

She continues, “Graham, I know you won’t know what this means yet. But it’s not lost.”

“What isn’t?” I can’t help asking the question. I’m not yet willing to ask if she meant to use my actual name or if it slipped in just for tonight.

“Possibly everything,” she replies.

When she withdraws her hand from mine, I miss it instantly. She walks to a shelf where forks and plates are stored. She has only taken a few steps before she peeks back over her shoulder, a soft smile on her face.

“Oh, and happy birthday.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lily

Next week, our two dearest friends in the world, Sparrow and Rafe, get married. And the decision for what happens next between Graham and me is mine.

We haven’t kissed again since before I was sick. I’ve wanted to (oh, how I’ve wanted to), but I know that Graham and I are on the edge of fully diving in. Last night, Sparrow and Rafe grabbed a pizza from Lorenzo’s, and we all sat around one of our tables at the café and ate and played card games. Graham brought a bottle of wine, being the perfect guest that he is. We drank it in our ceramic latte cups and finished the meal off with broken pastries that were within their date but unsellable. It was perfect. And I’m terrified.

Today, while Sparrow picks up our lunch order of dumplings and ramen before we start an afternoon of making macarons, the little bit of sun warms my face and sends a flush of heat to my limbs—or maybe that’s from the residual memories of Graham’s kiss. My phone rings, and the warmth is doused with a chill. It’s a video call from my parents. This is why I’ve feared it’s always going to be winter in my heart. I start to thaw, only to get stuck back in the muddy ground of my own fears. I’m like the groundhog that predicts six more weeks of winter every time.

Their call isn’t great timing, but it’s going to have to work. My “Maid of Honor” sweatshirt (black, of course) that I’ve been wearing like a uniform lately seems to take up most of the screen when I accept the call. It glitches at first, and then my parents’ faces come into view. Sometimes, I compare my life to theirs and wonder if I’ll ever travel across the world with someone I love. Could I ever fully commit and trust that someone sees me as someone they could spend the rest of their life with when I haven’t been sure how to get along with myself most days?

“Lily, honey! It’s good to see you!” My mom’s face takes up most of the screen. The angle is awkward and so true to her that it makes me ache a little. I get some of my fire from her, along with my love for chocolate, no doubt.

“Janet, I can’t see her.” That would be my dad, dressed like a man perpetually on a golf course or someone who didn’t get the memo about not wearing high white socks and khaki shorts. I still love them so much it’s laughable. I still want their approval, even when the sting of being overlooked at times is strong.

“That’s because your face isn’t over here.”

“How can my face be over ‘here’ if your face is all that’s there?”

Oh, yeah, and if I inherited some of my qualities from my mom, I can’t deny the pure nonsense I’ve gotten from my dad. It’s a beautiful thing.

“Lily, who’s that behind you?”

By the alarm in my parents’ eyes—a squint from my dad and a widened expression from my mom—I know instantly that Graham has arrived. The humming in my system is only further confirmation.

“Hello!” My mom says the word much too loudly.

Before I can warn him, Graham is at my back, the warmth of him seeping into my shoulder blades. He politely yet distractingly leans over my shoulder to get a better look at my phone, aka the meeting of my two worlds that I will never hear the end of for as long as I live.

“And you are . . .?” My mother asks the question with far too much of a delighted tone.

Graham clears his throat.

“You’re Graham,” my dad says, beating him to it.

My cheeks flush, because my parents have absolutely seen pictures of the man whose scent is searing my senses. I could be skipping through a freaking meadow with the way it reminds me of moments in a wildflower field, or nights looking out at the ocean, or movie theaters and rolled-up shirt sleeves.

“Yes, sir, I am.” Graham’s voice sounds like the river as it moves over rocks, rich and full of strength.

“And you are . . . her friend?” my mom asks, and I nearly break my face from trying to hold back my eye roll.

“Well, actually, we’re—”

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