Page 77 of The Fix-Up

And I had no idea what to make of what Oliver’s announcement or thesefeelingsabout Gil. Time to avoid, and deal with it later.

“I think it’s time for dessert.” Without waiting for a response, I stood up and took up my plate and Oliver’s and practically sprinted to the kitchen.

I took the lid off the container of brownies I’d made last night. That was after searching for a low-sugar, chocolate-but-not-real-chocolate recipe. I cut it into squares and piled them on a plate. With a flourish, I set it in the middle of the table.

“I made banana walnut brownies. No added sugar and made with carob instead of chocolate.”

Oliver’s nose scrunched. “Why didn’t you make the fudge brownies? Those are my favorite.”

“Just eat it, okay?” I set one on his napkin and took a seat, nervous to look over at Gil. Nervous he’d read into these brownies more than he should. They were just brownies. That’s it. They didn’t mean anything significant. I was being kind. That’s all. Because he had changed my oil.

“No sugar, no chocolate,” Gil said quietly. He took one for himself.

I shrugged. “I know you said sugar and chocolate give you migraines. No promises though. It could taste terrible.”

Judging by the expression on his face after the first bite, they didn’t taste terrible at all. His eyes slid shut as he chewed slowly like he was savoring every bit.

Then his eyes opened. His gaze met mine, his eyes soft but no less intense. He didn’t say a word, but my mouth went dry. Hastily, I chugged down the rest of my water.

“Can I have another one?” Oliver asked, brown crumbs marching down his chin to his shirt.

“One is enough for now.” I stood and picked up the plate to take back into the kitchen. As I moved away, Gil’s hand wrapped around my wrist.

“Wait,” he said. His thumb stroked gently on the inside of my wrist where the skin was delicate and extra sensitive. I wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it. But I knew. A zing of longing hit me in the chest, and it was hard to breathe for one beat, then two. “Thank you.”

With a nod, I tugged my arm from his grip, feeling like I’d been bowled over by a tornado in the last fifteen seconds. Because I’d just made a discovery.

I liked Gilbert Dalton.

Not just liked, butliked.

Panic prickled the back of my neck. In the kitchen, I set down the dishes and pinched myself. That was easier than pounding my head into the nearest hard surface. I could do that later in the privacy of my own room. My mind raced at breakneck speed toward the worst possible scenario.

Catastrophizing Level: Expert.

We allknewmy feelings could not be trusted when it came to men. Just look at my record. I was guilty of attracting every red flag man in continental USA and probably Canada, too. Europe most likely lived in fear I’d come for a visit.

If I were feeling any sort of soft, fuzzy feelings toward Gil, I needed to get my head on straight.

No, I should not be making meaningful glances at Gil over the dinner table. I should definitely not admire his toolbelt. I should not be a little turned on by the school principal energy he gave off when he was annoyed. I should not be replaying a simple, innocent touch. I should not be recalling the sound of his voice singing “Amazing Grace” when I laid down to sleep at night.

Lest we all forget, my man picker had picked wrong so many times before. And the one fact I couldn’t escape…the two of us had very different ideas about what would happen to Ollie’s property in a couple of months. If he got his way, I’d lose everything I’d worked for during the last three years. And he’d made no qualms about the fact he was leaving as soon as his six months were over.

Gil Dalton could break my heart in so many ways.

Nope. For once in my life, I would not be relying on my man picker.

And that was that.

THIRTY-ONE

I don’t know, it means you love them.

—LAUREN S., AGE 4

“I’m going to see the kittens,” Oliver said the second we stepped in the house. We’d gone for a long walk after dinner. It had been an especially beautiful day with lower-than-average humidity for the beginning of April.

Oliver shot out of the kitchen without waiting for me to reply. We’d moved them to our laundry room when no one was home and let them out when we were. Oliver still hadn’t decided on names although he was workshopping Cinnamon and Sugar.

---