Page 38 of You're So Vine
I see Ava tense. She’s not looking forward to this part, and she doesn’t even know what I’m going to say.
And, suddenly, I can’t go there. Can’t go back to that time, back to that version of me I’ve spent years trying to leave behind. Back to those emotions: the anger, the shame, the guilt. The fear that I’d ruined everything through my stupid, thoughtless impulse. Again.
“Oh,” Ava breathes. She reaches up and cups my face, gently, in her hand. Her bright blue eyes search mine, and it takes every bit of willpower I have to hold her gaze.
“You know what?” she says, and I see a small, so very welcome smile. “I think we’ve both had enough upheaval these last twenty-odd hours. Weddings, medical emergencies, disturbing cocktail ingredients, hot sex. Why don’t we just chill for the rest of the day? Lie here, have another beer. Talk about, I don’t know, trussing. Or geese. Or how funny you look on a horse…”
She’s giving me an out. I shouldn’t, but I’ll take it.
“I look funnier sprawled on the ground beside the horse,” I say.
Ava laughs. I like the sound.
“I couldshare some personal stuff about me in return?” she says.
“Such as…?” I know it’s good to share, but Ava’s right. Last twenty-odd hours have been full-on.
“Such as … I like metal music?”
That I can handle.
“More of a classic rock guy myself.”
“I would never have guessed,” she says with a grin. “Um … what else? You already know I drive fast, and that I’m impatient, competitive and hate sharing.”
I nod. “But you’re also kind,” I tell her. “And you’re honest. I admire that.”
Ava’s smile fades and her expression grows thoughtful.
“Actually,” she says slowly. “I have something waymore important to share with you.”
“Okay…” I’m wary again.
“I’m starving,” she says. “What’s for dinner?”
ChapterThirteen
AVA
Iknow, I know. That wasn’t real sharing. Not after everything he told me … and almost told me. It took a lot of courage on his part, which only highlights the lack of mine. But we’re in a good space right now, a lighter space, which is more what I need.
Trouble is, I do have one more reallyimportant thing to tell him, and it is this: I do not like pumpkin. I do not like it in festive pies, nor in a latte with cream and spice. I do not like it in a soup. I think it looks like baby poop. I do not like it baked or boiled. If a meal has pumpkin, then it’s spoiled. (Channeling my inner Dr Seuss. You’re welcome.)
Cam’s been looking in his fridge and pantry for dinner ingredients. He’s pulled out a pumpkin. The time to speak up is now.
“I was going to make a jack-o’-lantern with this,” he says, “but Halloween has come and gone.”
“Shelby and Nate’s pigs’ll love it,” I suggest. Firmly.
Cam gives me a look. “Not a pumpkin fan?”
“If Nate had a plate of pumpkin, I’d let him keep it. Tells you all you need to know.”
Cam grins and puts the world’s worst vegetable back in the pantry where it can stay until it rots.
“Okay, so I’ve got macaroni,” he says, “and some Monterey jack.”
“Milk? Flour? Butter?”
