Page 39 of Someday Not Soon

I spot a corner nook of built-in bookshelves off of the family room. “Don’t tell me that’s a library over there. I’ll faint because it’s too perfect.”

He looks at me, amused, and tilts his head toward the shelves. “It is. Do you want to check it out?”

“Oh god, yes please. You don’t have to ask me twice.” I’ve never been more turned on in my life. There’s something about a man that reads that does my libido good. I move straight toward them, and scan the countless spines meticulously lined up on the shelves. His eyes follow my every move, watching me like I’m an unpredictable figment of his imagination. He’s unsure of what to do or say. So am I. It’s what makes this dynamic between us so hellish, since years ago nothing stood between us.

But then I freeze when I see it—the Walt Whitman book I gave him at the beginning of that summer so many years ago. The spine is creased and even more worn, showing signs of having been frequently read.

My eyes slice to his. “You kept it?”

“Of course I did.”

“But…why?”

He shrugs lightly, his gaze steady. “It was all I had left of you.”

I take a deep breath, a mountain of emotions flooding through me. “I thought you had forgotten all about me.”

“I could never forget you.”

It’s like the twist of a knife in the gut. How could he say one thing when his actions proved otherwise? “Well, I’m glad we’re at least friends again.”

A bittersweet smile tips the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Me too.”

I drop my snooping, remembering why I’m here in the first place. “So, any ideas on how to feed two hundred people tomorrow?”

The mention snaps him back to reality. “I have a few.”

We move to the kitchen, and as he pours coffee into a clear mug, he asks, “Two sugars, no cream?”

I’m both happy and surprised that he remembers something as simple as my coffee order. I was with Stephen for multiple years and he probably couldn’t even recall my middle name.

“You remember,” I smile.

“I remember.” He grins back, handing me the steaming mug.

Over the next two hours, we work through a long list of caterers and restaurants within a fifty-mile radius of Lawson, trying to find anyone who can provide last-minute services. Unfortunately, it’s the weekend and everyone is fully booked for months. Next, we look into food trucks. But even out of the twenty we contact, none are available for a party this size.

The options grow more bleak with each passing minute, as time slips away from us in a blur. Ending whatmust be his fiftieth call, he runs a hand through his hair. “Well, fuck. What do we do now?”

I let my head fall into my hands and groan, rubbing at my eyes, which already feel delirious even though it’s only early afternoon. “We go grocery shopping. That’s what we do.” Pushing off the table, I stand up and stretch. “You ready to goTop Chefon this shit?”

He smiles. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Not wasting time, we get into his car. He drives, while I sit in the passenger seat, a notepad and pen in my hands as I write out a shopping list.

“So, what should be on the menu?” I tap the pad with the tip of the pen. “Fucking hell. What do we even know how to cook? Please tell me you’ve become a secret chef in your spare time or something.”

He glances over from the driver’s seat. “The extent of my cooking resume is knowing how to grill or smoke meat. Other than that, I’m useless.”

I jot downmeatand underline it. “Well, it’s a start. At least that can be a main dish. Let’s see, I know how to…boil water?”

“What about potato salad then? That’s just half boiling water, half throwing in potatoes, and then mixing it up with a bunch of other ingredients.”

“Oh, you’re good at this. Forcing you to help me is seeming more and more like the right choice.”

“There was noforcingme.”

I shoot him a disbelieving look. Who would willingly want to fix a catering situation on one of their rare days off?

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