Page 89 of Just Friends

Sunset slants through the open windows, and the gentle breeze ruffles the gingham curtains. Wren’s tiny kitchen is one of my happy places, with its sage green beadboard and bee-printed wallpaper. There’s a table in the center that she uses as both a dining table and island, and a fresh bouquet always sits in its center. Today, it’s an assortment of daisies that I’m sure she picked from the farm.

At the sound of my footsteps, she spins around, a bright smile cresting over her face. “You’re here!” she yells, and I can’t hold back a grin.

“I’m here,” I say, setting a bottle of chilled white wine and a container of Mom’s homemade cinnamon buns on her scarred kitchen table.

“Stevie’s running late,” she tells me, turning back around to stir something on the vintage white stove, flames flickering under the pan. I can detect the faint scent of basil and garlic.

I walk over to where she’s standing and glance down at the stove. It’s some kind of pasta, with cherry tomatoes and bright green asparagus. “That smells amazing. What is it?”

“Pesto chicken tortellini,” she says, and I hum excitedly.

As I pull out three mismatched jars from the cupboard beside her, she says, “I’m sad you’re going back tomorrow.”

“Me too,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. As much as I miss Alex and the cozy comfort of my apartment and the bustling familiarity of Lucy’s coffee shop, this trip back home has felt like it’s existed outside of time. Back in Nashville, I’ll have to confront my fears about Alex, but here, I’ve been in a safe bubble.

Wren looks at me over her shoulder as I rummage through a drawer for a corkscrew. “Are you excited to see Alex?”

Butterflies swarm in my stomach, and I have to press a hand there. Iamexcited to see Alex. Missing him has felt like a physical ache beneath my breastbone. Things between us have seemed the same while I’ve been gone, but I have to wonder how long that will last when I’m back. When he’s flesh and blood in front of me, temptation personified. I’ve been waking each morning from dreams of what he’d taste like, how his lips would feel against the sensitive spot below my ear.

But I can’t deny the prick of anxiety that still lingers, even if it is fading. Being back home hasn’t helped that either. Not when I crawl into bed each night, haunted by memories of crying there when my ex-boyfriends inevitably broke up with me, or calling Sebastian when I was here for the holidays, only to have it go to voice mail because he was withher.

“I’m excited,” I say, finally finding a corkscrew.

Wren smirks. “You sound like it.”

I busy myself uncorking the bottle and pouring some in each glass so Wren doesn’t see my hands shaking. I’m so tired of saying I’m scared. I’m so tired ofbeingscared. But wanting something to go away doesn’t make it happen.

“Hey,” Wren says, turning around when I haven’t responded, concern etched in every line of her face. “What’s wrong?”

I set the wine bottle back on the table with a thud. My hands are trembling, and there’s no hiding it now, so I don’t bother trying. Wren watches as I wrap my arms around myself, hugging my elbows.

“I’m just so sick of feeling like this,” I admit, my voice cracking. I feel that crack go all the way through me, like I’m being cleaved in two. The part of me that’s happy and whole sliced clean from the part of me that’s damaged and hurting.

“Like what?” Wren asks softly.

“Like I’mbroken,” I say, and I feel the prick of tears at the back of my eyes, like I have so many times over the past few weeks. “I thought I was past this. I thought I was ready to get back out there, but I wasn’t ready to love him, Wren.”

She nods like she understands, her ginger waves bobbing. “But you do love him.”

“Yes,” I say, and it feels like equal parts relief and terror. “But then Sebastian won’t stop calling me, and every time I see his name on my phone, it feels like I’m back at square one, sobbing alone in my crappy apartment in LA.”

Her eyes widen, green as a spring meadow. “Sebastian’s been calling you?”

I sag against the counter, all the fight leaving me. “Yes, and I didn’t mention it to you guys because I’ve been trying to forget about it, but Ican’t. It’s always there at the back of my mind.”

“What’s he been saying?” she asks, leaning on the counter next to me, her shoulder brushing against mine.

I stare at the bee-printed wallpaper until it all starts to blend together and the bees actually look like they’re flying on a creamy white backdrop. “I haven’t answered him. I can’t talk to him.”

Wren is quiet for a moment. “Maybe it would help. It seems like not talking to him isn’t making you feel any better. What’s the worst that could happen? You can hang up at any point.”

I could, but the damage could already be done, tiny cuts that seem insignificant but get infected. Or it could be like alcohol poured over the wounds, painful in the moment but helpful in the long run. Cleansing.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and then the front door squeaks on its hinges, alerting us to Stevie’s arrival. “Let’s just have dinner and forget about Sebastian for a while.”

Wren picks up a mismatched jar, tilting it in my direction. “Hear, hear.”

It’slatewhenIfinally let myself back into my childhood home, using the back door since it’s quieter and won’t wake Mom and Dad. Muscle memory guides me around the creaky floorboards and into my old bedroom. I flip on the lamp on the bedside table, and warm light fills the space and casts shadows on the walls.

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