Page 26 of You Cake My Breath Away

I gnaw on my bottom lip, forcing myself to keep eye contact instead of looking at my shoes. “Yeah, it’s terrible.”

He walks over to it and knocks on the side. It wobbles, and Archer shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like if I put mugs inside it, they wouldn’t topple to the ground or knock a patron on their head, effectively landing me with worse luck than I’ve been dealt.

“It needs a few more screws, but it’s good.” He walks over to the toolbox and pulls out a cordless drill and screws. “Come help me.”

Uneasy, I trudge over to the other side of the wonky shelf.

He shows me where to place my hands. “Let’s move it closer to the wall and I’ll screw it in.”

My eyes catch on the cords of his biceps tensing as he lifts the side. I tear my eyes away, confused by the weird flip inside my stomach. The moment we lift, the boards shift, slamming onto one another before the entire thing caves and comes apart.

Nervous laughter bubbles out of me. “See what I mean?”

Archer tries to stop himself from laughing, but he doesn’t succeed. His laugh is loud, hearty, but it’s cut off before I have a chance to really enjoy it, almost like he hasn’t laughed in so long that he’s truly surprised by the sound.

“Probably a manufacturer’s defect.” He gives me a half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he kicks around the boards.

“More like a user error.”

“Come on, Til.” He reaches out for me but must think better of it because he pulls his arm back as quick as he offered it.

He doesn’t know my body now craves the same touch he’s denying me. A touch I shouldn’t want from my husband’s best friend. It’s a headspin I’ve yet to understand, no matter how many times my therapist tells me it’s normal, that I can crave touch yet feel disgusted by the thought of it too.

I haven’t so much as batted an eye at anyone except Henry Cavill in his Witcher get-up, so why is Archer the first person I’vewantedto touch me?

My therapist urged me to try cuddle parties, which are popular in the grief community for those with touch starvation, but I couldn’t go. Laying down with someone for a certain amount of time just to curb the skin hunger didn’t sound fun to me. If I couldn’t even deal with familiar touch, how would I respond to a stranger holding me without bursting into tears?

I blow out a breath and rub my arms for comfort. “Yeah, maybe the screws they sent weren’t long enough.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says, neatly piling all the boards onto one another. “Now let’s get this shelf back together.”

I nod but can’t find the motivation to start again. Spending all night split between missing Jessie and wishing it was us doing this together and watching how-to videos zapped every ounce of energy. What happens when we inevitably butt heads again? Will we be able to play nice? Or is our deadline going to come quicker than we’re able to hash out the issues between us?

Chapter thirteen

Archer

Present

There’s nothing better on a rainy day than Nora’s country fried steak and mashed potatoes with gravy. When she asked me to come fix a few busted wall panels in her garage, I knew I could sweet talk her into making my favorite meal. After the way the past few days have gone, her comfort food is my only saving grace.

I didn’t think it’d be this difficult to be around Tilly on a regular basis.

The more I work with her, listening to her hum songs and dance (something I haven’t seen her do in years) and arguing with her over shelf space and décor, I realize I’m in hell. Not the college version of hell where I longed for her sunshine and peppiness after a grueling week of football three-a-days, but genuine hell where I’m burning up—in equal parts anger and longing—for something to change between us.

Closing her out is a knee jerk reaction, a coping mechanism I’ve developed. I push her away when all I want is to pull her closer, and it’s bitten me in the ass. I so badly want to beg her to forgive me for all the shitty things I’ve said to her and the distance I created, but I know there’s no excuse. I have to prove to her I can change, and helping her get her bakery opened is the first step to becoming friends again.

“Do you want a second helping?” Nora asks, sliding her reading glasses up her wide nose. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun and she’s got a light smattering of blush on her umber skin.

“Nope.” I pat my stomach. “You’ve spoiled me already, might have to roll me out like an Oompa Loompa.”

She laughs, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen. “I’ve gotta take care of my boy. You, Shantel and Malik, and Tilly are all I have left.”

My stomach torpedoes into my throat at the honesty in her voice, the longing for how things used to be. The backs of my eyes burn with tears. I rise from the chair and clean off my plate in the sink. “You’ve taken plenty care of me. It’s time someone takes care of you.”

“We all need someone to take care of us, son. Even when we think we’re doin’ just fine on our own.”

I chuckle. “You gonna let Mr. Hawkins finally take you out?”

---