Page 26 of Friends Don't Kiss

The rapping repeats, louder. Then, “Hey, Kiara?” Colton’s deep voice makes me feel guilty with how it’s touched with concern. “You there?”

I can’t decently ignore him. We always keep tabs on each other. I pull myself upright and get to the door, making no effort to look alert. “What’s up?” I say, my voice neutral as I open the door.

He’s shuffling on his feet, uncertain.

I open wider, not really inviting him, but not leaving him out either. If he wanted, he could come in.

“Grace said your migraine came back.” He speaks low, so as not to hurt my head further. “Need anything?”

I feel crappy for seemingly avoiding him. At least that’s how it feels to me. I don’t know if I’m trying too hard to not be more with him, or if the idea of being with him makes me feel bad because I haven’t gotten rid of the kiss effect yet. It’s all very confusing. “All good, captain,” I say, forcing a smile. “Migraine under control.”

He huffs, pushes a smirk. “Okay, uh… Wanna hang? This week?”

“Sure!” We never make plans. Why does he need to make plans? “Day after tomorrow?” I ask a little too quickly. Maybe too eagerly? When am I going to stop overanalyzing everything I do around Colton? It’s exhausting. “I’m testing a cream puff Christmas tree.”

His eyes brighten. “Cool. I’ll have pizza.”

“Great,” I say, giving him a mock salute with two fingers to my head as I push the door softly closed. We don’t agree on a time. We don’t need to. It’ll be like always. Whenever I’m ready, I’ll head over.

nine

Kiara

I’malittlenervousabout going to Colton’s tonight. I’m telling myself it’s because I’m testing a new holiday dessert on him that I’ll be making for Chloe’s Nook. It’s a tower of cream puffs filled with an orange spice cream, dipped in white chocolate, sprinkled with crushed candied ginger and pistachio, and arranged on a spiced gingerbread base to look like a Christmas tree.

I made a tiny one just for the two of us.

Colton is a discerning taster. Over the years, I’ve taught him to appreciate the balance of flavors and textures. Sweet and sour, soft and crunchy. Then I introduced unexpected ingredients without telling him—like a vegan chocolate mousse that uses avocado instead of eggs.

It’s been fun to see him open up his culinary expectations and horizons. I credit him for helping me perfect my almond biscotti by pointing out they missed a hint of bitterness, which prompted me to add a touch of espresso powder.

But who am I kidding?

The real reason I’m nervous today is not my Noel Puff Tree.

It’s Colton. More specifically, it’s me in regard to Colton and everything that in an alternate universe he could be, but in this life, shouldn’t.

I knock on the door and let myself into his apartment. He’s not sitting on the couch like he usually is, so I set my towering dessert on his kitchen counter. “Yo,” I call out. The smell of pizza heating in the oven hits me just right, like old times (those being last week and before), and I relax. This will be a normal evening.

A shuffling sound comes from behind me. “Hey,” he says.

I turn right in time to see him coming from the general vicinity of the bathroom, pulling on a T-shirt, his bare midsection showing. I glance away, pretending to check on the pizza. By the time I turn back he’s in my space, the scent of shampoo and clean laundry like a warm blanket around me.

He clears his throat like he’s a little tense. “Beer?” he asks as he reaches behind me to open the fridge.

Although I’m attuned enough to him to feel something’s bothering him, I’m also acutely aware of how good he smells right now.

I put some security space between us. “Sure,” I answer.

He passes me a bottle, pops his open, and takes a long gulp. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and I’m pretty sure at this point he’s making a conscious effort not to look me in the eye.

“Pizza seems ready,” I say.

He doesn’t answer, just takes another swish of his beer.

Something’s not right.

I take the pizza out of the oven, set it on the range, and grab two dinner plates from the cupboard right above. What’s up with Colt? He’s lost in his thoughts. I put three slices on one plate that I hand him and one slice on the other.

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