Page 7

7

T he next day, I’m walking through the supermarket with a shopping cart when my phone rings. Even before I look at the display, I know it’s my mom. Somehow, the phone rings more insistently when it’s her.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, swiping to answer the call.

“Hey, sweetie! Sorry, I haven’t been able to reach you for the last few days. I wanted to wish you a happy birthday! But you haven’t called me back, either.”

“Sorry, Mom. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“But it was your thirtieth birthday. That’s such a big milestone!” she says cheerfully.

“Because I’m old now?”

“Because it’s the start of a whole new decade!” she continues, ever the optimist. “Who knows what the next ten years will bring!”

“Well, thanks,” I say.

“How’s the fog?” she asks, turning to a reliable source of small talk.

“Not too bad at the moment.”

“Well, just wait five minutes,” she jokes.

She’s so damn right. The weather in San Francisco sometimes changes by the minute. What did Mark Twain say again? “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”

“How hot is it there? Eighty degrees?”

“Closer to ninety! But there’s usually a breeze off the sea. You should come visit soon! We can go swimming with manatees!”

“You’re tempting me with all the right things, but it’s best in winter.”

“Okay, so you can watch dolphins?”

I grin. “That’s true, you can do that all year round.”

“So, when are you coming? Sun, beach, and your mom, who fulfills your every wish?”

“Really tempting. But I can’t come until semester break.”

“That’s two more months!”

“Wow, Mom, you’re well-informed.”

“Don’t act so surprised. I always knew all your important dates. Okay, except that one time when we forgot to pick you up from the school trip. But we felt really bad about that."

“That was truly a traumatic experience.”

“I believe you, but it was only once. And all the times I was on time, you’ve already forgotten.”

Laughing, I put apples in my cart. “It was so incredibly awful that my own mom forgot me. I mean, you’re supposed to be the one who loves me the most…”

“You’re so mean. And now you won’t even come visit your poor old mother.”

“Mom, you’re sixty, and you guys are swimming in money. Otherwise, you’d be in a trailer park in Oregon right now instead of a beachfront villa in Bonita Springs.”

“We only own part of the villa,” she points out.

“Whatever, Mom. You step out the door and land in the ocean.”

“No, we have to walk three feet.” She laughs. “Can’t you at least come for a long weekend?”

“Alright, I can do that.”

“Oh, great! When are you coming?”

“I’ll check my calendar and let you know, okay?”

“Pah, I know that one already. Nope, young lady. You’re giving me a weekend right now.” I can hear the mischief that always lingers in her voice. All my high school friends only wanted to be friends with me because I had the coolest mom—and still do. That wasn’t great for my ego, but it did mean that I ended up with less than a handful of real friends, ones I can always count on. All the fake friends taught me that you can’t open your heart to just anyone, but that every now and then, someone comes along who’s worth throwing your principles overboard for.

“Fine. This weekend won’t work, but the one after that. Okay?”

“Okay, but for real. Promise? We still need to celebrate your birthday.”

I groan but can’t stop myself from smiling. “Okay, but nothing big and nothing embarrassing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve never done anything embarrassing in my life,” she says with a huff.

“What about when you made the clown cry at my sixth birthday party because you didn’t think he was funny enough?”

“Someone had to tell him so that he still had the chance to do something else with his life.”

“Or when you shouted super loud right before the start of my first swimming race, and I fell off the starting block and got disqualified?”

“I was just so excited because my daughter was taking part in a competition!”

“And when you told all my classmates that I got my period?”

“But that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she defends herself.

“I know that now. Now that I’m thirty. But it was a completely different matter when I was thirteen.”

“You are really unforgiving, sweetie.”

“Just promise, it won’t be anything embarrassing,” I insist once more.

“Okay, fine, there’s no clown and I’m not talking about periods. Although…” She pauses. “Am I allowed to talk about the periodic table of elements?”

“When have you ever brought that up in a conversation?”

She’s simply incorrigible. Half hippie, half yuppie. Completely nuts. But I’m still glad to have her. “But it could happen if I ever talk to Niels Bohr.”

“That’s not going to happen, he’s been dead for more than fifty years, but I’m impressed that you know he had something to do with the periodic table.”

“Come on, that’s just general knowledge. You’re acting like I don’t know anything.”

“You know a lot, just usually not about natural sciences.” Mom was a lawyer with her own firm until recently and taught law at Stanford. How she managed to preserve her hippie heart while dealing with such dry material is beyond my understanding. She sold the firm for a nice chunk of change. Not that she needed the money, since Dad, being a management consultant, made enough money to last ten lifetimes. They deserve to enjoy their retirement, even though I miss them. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But I especially notice it when we’re talking on the phone instead of me sitting at the kitchen table just chatting with them. Don’t think about it .

“Of course you’re right, sweetie. So, the weekend after next then. I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Nothing embarrassing.”

“Of course not.”

“Really. I mean it.”

“Like I said: I never do anything embarrassing.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I love you, sweetie. I’m looking forward to it!”

“Me too.”

When I hang up, I look at the display for a long moment as if expecting my mom to crawl through the phone and give me a hug. No matter how old you are, sometimes you still need a hug from your mom.

I continue shopping, deciding that I want to make tacos for dinner tonight. Roan is coming over to watch a movie. I found out that he hasn’t seen a single good movie, only all of the bad ones. Funnily enough, he thinks the same of me.

I test the avocados thoroughly, choosing just the ripest ones to mash into guacamole. I find two, then grab a pack of hard tortillas and a pack of soft tortillas—because who knows which Roan will prefer—then I head home to speed-clean my apartment.

It’s the only time I ever enjoy the fact that I have a tiny living space.

Afterward, I consider for a moment whether I should shower and put on makeup but decide against it. After all, this is just two friends hanging out. It isn’t a date.

And I also don’t need shaved legs and an alluring perfume that will give either of us the wrong idea. It’s already difficult enough to curb my libido in Roan’s presence. A messy bun, no makeup, and pajamas—that’s my defense strategy against his charms.

When he rings the doorbell, I greet him in comfy leggings and a tank top but judging by the look on his face, I could have worn a potato sack, and he would have found me attractive.

Which, of course, makes him ten times more attractive himself.

“Hey,” he says in that husky voice that goes straight to my core, kissing me on the cheek.

Every piece of skin he touches screams out for more.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I manage to say.

He shrugs, seemingly casual. “Everything’s fine with me. And you?”

I try to act as breezy as he seems. “Me too. I’m a bit surprised that you’re free on a Friday night. Don’t you have to work?”

He grins. “Cian doesn’t like it, but he also has to give his brother-slave an ounce of freedom now and again.”

I laugh as I head to the fridge, desperate for something to keep my hands busy, to keep them from reaching out and stroking the bare skin of his arm. “What would you like to drink?”

“Do you have beer?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“Then I’m happy with one!”

I pull two beers out of the fridge and crack them open. “Are you hungry?”

“Yep,” he says, taking his beer.

“You like tacos?”

He grins as we clink our bottles together. “Sounds great. How can I help?”

It’s so sexy that he knows how to cook. I raise the bottle to my lips. The bubbles tingle all the way down to join the butterflies dancing in my stomach. “You’re the professional here.”

“Your kitchen, your rules.”

“Alright. Cut the peppers into strips while I slice the chicken.”

He gives me a mock salute. “All right, boss.”

Grinning, I put a pan on the stove to fry the chicken. I get out another baking tray, because I want to cook the bell pepper strips fajita-style in the oven. Then I slice the avocados, grimacing when I see that one of the two little bastards is already a little brown. I hate brown avocados. I really do.

“What are you doing?” Roan asks me as I throw away the half of the avocado that’s beyond saving.

“It’s brown,” I explain with a disgusted face.

“Are you that fussy about your food?”

“With avocados, yes, but I eat everything else.”

“I’ve already told you about my passion for burgers. What’s your favorite thing to eat?”

I watch as Roan expertly cuts the peppers into strips, while I cut the chicken.

“My secret passion is pasta. In any form, in any condition, with any garnish. But my favorite is spaghetti cacio e pepe. It sounds so simple, but it tastes so delicious.”

“Have you tried toasting the spaghetti first?”

“How are you supposed to do that?”

“Just brown the noodles in a pan first. Then they taste nutty and go well with the cheese.”

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

He smiles. “I’ll do it for you sometime.”

“Don’t you get sick of cooking if you have to do it all day?”

“I think you mean that I get to do it all day?” He grins.

“Still passionate?”

“Every single day. The food in the pub isn’t the most sophisticated, so I like to experiment at home.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that about you,” I say.

“Why not?” He looks at me as I slide the chicken into the pan.

“Well, because your favorite food is burgers and roast pork. Sounds more like you’re into classic, homestyle cooking.”

He grins before taking the wooden spoon from my hand and taking over the frying.

“I like homestyle cooking, but I also like experimenting. I don’t like everything, but trial and error makes perfect,” he says, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

“So, do you cook for your mom at home?” I ask, wincing at how obvious I sound.

He smirks at me, not missing a beat. “You’re asking if I still live with my mother?”

I shrug sheepishly. “Kinda, yeah.”

He shakes his head. “Eoin and I share an apartment. Cian lives on the same floor, so he hangs with us when he’s not at the pub, which is most of the time.”

“That’s pretty cool,” I say.

“What is?”

“Having so much family living so close, everybody getting along.”

“Why, what about you? Brothers or sisters?”

“No, my birth wasn’t easy. Mom almost bled to death, so they didn’t try again after me. Mom says it was because they already had the perfect baby. Dad says it was more a first-pancake situation.”

Roan looks at me with amusement. “The first pancake?”

“You know, the first one usually doesn’t work out, and you have to throw it away.”

He laughs. “I think I like your dad.”

“He’s always saying things like that. He’s a big joker.”

“But I bet you give as good as you get, yeah?”

“Of course. He’s also good at taking jokes and doesn’t take any offense. At least not against people he likes. Everyone else should watch out. He’s not squeamish about that either.”

He nods slowly. “Do your parents live here in San Francisco?”

I shake my head. “In Florida. They moved there last year to enjoy their life as retirees.”

“You miss them,” he says, his gaze looking right through me.

I have to take a deep breath before I answer. “Yes, I do. I wish they still lived closer, but it’s their life. I don’t have the right to keep them here, after all I would have moved halfway across the country for a job.”

“That’s true, but feelings aren’t rational, so I can understand why it affected you. I’m sorry.”

I shrug, trying to brighten the conversation. “It’s not that bad, really. We talk on the phone all the time, and I think I’m going out there the weekend after next.”

Roan smiles. “Nice. You can escape the foggy climate here and get some sunshine.”

I nod. “I’m looking forward to that. I love the city, but it could be a bit sunnier.”

“Have you ever been on a harbor tour around the Bay area?” he asks.

“As a child at some point,” I answer with an offhand shrug.

“I was there at a promotional event the other day. It was so fascinating. If you were on the side of the boat facing Marin, you could feel the heat. On the city side, it was freezing cold.”

“You just have to love this crazy city, don’t you?”

I go to the fridge and take out the corn. I quickly remove the leaves before cutting down the kernels. “What’s the best way to do this?”

He glances over at the golden yellow corn. “I would suggest sautéing it in the pan.”

“Ooooh, fancy,” I tease him.

He chuckles. “That’s probably the only fancy word I know.”

“I doubt that.”

He shrugs, not looking at me. “I’m just not as educated as you, Miss College Professor.”

I pause. His words sound bitter, but his body language doesn’t suggest that he’s upset. “I’m sorry,” I say, worried I’ve hurt his feelings.

He looks up at me, confused. “For what?”

I immediately feel even more awkward. “I didn’t want to…”

He laughs. “It’s all good. It was just a fact, nothing more. It’s just the way it is.”

“But that doesn’t make you any less intelligent,” I return, feeling oddly defensive.

“I love that you say that, but you’re definitely the smart one in this friendship.”

My brow furrows. I seem to be digging myself in deeper. “I didn’t want you to feel bad.”

Roan pulls the pan off the stove, then moves toward me, overcoming the few steps between us in half a second. “I don’t feel bad. I really don’t. I don’t think I’m stupid either, but it’s perfectly okay if you’re better at something than I am. As long as you don’t mind that I only know one fancy word.” He grins down at me.

I can’t help it. I wrap my arms around him, put my face against his chest, and breathe him in. He smells like simmering spices and something else I can’t quite identify but that I instinctively like. Something uniquely Roan.

He leans his cheek against my head, his hands going around my waist to hold me tight. But it’s still a friendly hug with no wandering hands. I’m relieved that he understands how important it is that this remains platonic.

Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Nothing about you bothers me,” I whisper.

“That’s good,” he murmurs back, “because nothing about you bothers me either.”

It would be so easy. It would be so incredibly easy to lift my head, look at him through my eyelashes, and hope that he would kiss me.

But no. There’s no way. Because kisses are not platonic. Kisses are the gateway drug for completely different things. Things that don’t work, because then we wouldn’t be friends anymore. We would be friends plus , and that just complicates everything.

Better not to enter that territory. Even if I’m really dying to test it out right now.

As if Roan is thinking the same thing, we quickly pull away from each other, both of us chuckling nervously before we return to our tasks.

Should I say something? What should I say? Clueless, I decide to endure the silence for a moment.

But to my surprise, it isn’t an awkward silence. Instead, it’s comfortable. Almost intimate.

Like the distance has been closed between us.