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We came out here with glasses of iced tea after we heard the shower shut off upstairs. I figured Scarlett needed a little space when she came downstairs and ate some dinner and caught up with her family.
But she and I are going to talk.
Henry knows I’m barely holding things together.
Nothing about this is the way I imagined it.
I certainly did not expect there to be an exact replica of Scarlett. I didn’t expect my best friend to have fallen for her sister. I didn’t expect Scarlett to be a mom, rather than the cool aunt, and for her daughter to be a pretty greatteenager.
But most of all I didn’t expect Scarlett to not want to see me.
Henry stretches to his feet, giving up his spot next to me.
I don’t know if they exchange a look or a smile, but they don’t say anything to one another as Henry passes Scarlett on his way back into the house.
“Hey,” she says softly.
I look up at her, dragging my gaze up her long, smooth legs on my way to meet her eyes. Fuck. She’s so beautiful. She’s barefoot, and is wearing denim shorts and a black tank top with spaghetti straps. Her long hair is wet and twisted up into a messy bun on top of her head. She smells fresh and sweet, and I tighten my hand around my glass to keep from reaching over and running my hand up her calf and tugging her closer.
If this was the woman I’d spent the weekend with, I wouldn’t have hesitated. She would’ve welcomed my touch. But, as everyone keeps reminding me, this isn’t her.
“So, I have to make some bars for a friend tonight. But I thought maybe we could talk while I do that?” she says.
“Sure.” I get to my feet.
We’re almost eye to eye with her on the porch and me on the first step down. We just stare at each other for a moment. Then she turns and heads back into the house.
I follow, trying to gather my thoughts. Where do I start?
Probably not with ‘will you marry me?’ but that’s what’s on my tongue.
She rounds the center island where three boxes of cereal, a bag of marshmallows, and a rectangular glass pan are already set out.
I take a seat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Maybe it will be good to have distance and big, solid objects between us. “What are you making?”
“Marshmallow cereal bars,” she says. “Like Rice Krispy treats, but with three different types of cereal. Turns out kids don’t care if you use generic brand cereal if it’s coated in melted marshmallow and butter.”
I smile. “Do kids care if you use generic brand cereal anyway?”
She shrugs. “Okay, themomsdon’t care. They can’t even tell.”
I don’t say anything to that, but what moms are nitpicking what kind of cereal is used in sugary treats like this?
“Are these for Mariah?” I ask, watching her dump butter and marshmallows into a saucepan on the stove.
“Mariah makes her own stuff if she needs something,” Scarlett says, stirring everything together. “These are for a friend’s daughter. Harley, the little girl, has to bring treats to school tomorrow and her mom is working at her salon until nine tonight.”
Ah. “Is she a single mom too?” Scarlett jumping in to help another mom makes complete sense to me. And makes me even more certain Ididget to know her in New Orleans. At least important things about her.
I’ve realized I don’t really care about what she likes on her burgers. I can find that out going forward. I know what I need to about this woman. I’m sure of it. I didn’t fall in love with a lie.
“No,” she answers. “But her husband works at the tire factory on the third shift so he’s not at home tonight to do this. Harley didn’t tell Amber she needed these treats until after school today. Amber called me in a panic.”
“Is she paying you to do this?” It’s none of my business and I wouldn’t ask anyone else, but I’m planning to make an important point, and this goes along with it.
Scarlett looks over at me. “No. We trade for this kind of stuff.”
“Trade what?”