2. Leah
2
Leah
T he jagweed who made an already tortuous high school career worse is standing in front of me with the gall to not even remember who I am.
“You guys know each other? Because you kind of look like you know him,” Andrea says.
“And… hate him,” Mitch adds, blinking from me to tall, handsome, and stupid .
Well, at least my friends can read the room. I do know him. And I do hate him.
Abuelo would have told me that hate is a strong word, that I should use it sparingly and never toward another person. People change, people grow, people evolve, people deserve second chances.
If Abuelo knew Cooper, he might change his mind about all of that.
Cooper clears his throat and has the nerve to smile. He’s smiling at me. That dumb, award-winning grin is staring at me. Literally. His senior superlative was: best smile, and now it’s right in my face .
“Leah Bradford,” he says. Okay, so the chump does remember me, even my last name. Well, does he remember high school? Because if he did, he’d most definitely stop assaulting me with that smile. “I didn’t recognize you for a minute.”
“Obviously,” I say, rolling my eyes over to Andrea, silently asking, can you believe this guy?
But Andrea just looks confused. “So, how do you guys know each other?”
Cooper slides into the chair next to me.
Somehow that football-playing boy became an even larger man. And not large in the sense that he developed a beer gut in the last eight years, but large as in his shoulders decided to become boulders. And I suspect the muscles beneath that expensive suit jacket have doubled in size as well. He’s sporting a very non-boyish beard. And it’s possible he’s grown three inches in height since I last saw him too. How ? How is this fair, Universe?
“Leah and I went to high school together,” Cooper says.
“Phff.” I blow a puff of air through my pinched lips. Cooper Bailey didn’t even know my name until he ruined my prom and the rest of my high school career. I knew him, of course. He was Cooper Bailey , after all—captain of the football team, class president, and don’t forget that best smile award. I was a year younger than him, but that didn’t matter. Everyone in school knew Cooper. Everyone loved Cooper. He’d walk into the room and every single female, along with a few of the males, within a one-mile radius turned into a swooning pile of mush.
Disgusting .
He’s just a person. No better than any other. So, why all the fuss?
We even had a class together. French. He sat right in front of me, making certain with his giant chest, big head, and caveman shoulders that the teacher never saw me. We were in the second semester before Madame Florence could put a name to my face. And did Cooper Bailey ever turn around to say hello or ask if I could see the board? No. Way.
But that isn’t why I hate Cooper Bailey.
And he knows it.
“This is funny. Andrea’s been so excited to make introductions, and you two have known each other all this time.” Mitch laughs, and I’m starting to wonder what my bestie sees in her husband.
This is not funny, Mitch Conover.
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes slits. “ Crazy .” The thing is, I am not the shy, tortured girl hiding in the corner that I once was. I won’t sit behind Cooper Bailey and miss half our French notes because of his big fat head. Not anymore.
Andrea watches me and I give her wide, deer-in-the-headlight eyes—eyes that say, this isn’t a happy reunion.
“You know, you made my brother’s wedding cake a couple of years ago,” Cooper says, still looking at me.
I remember. My jaw clenches and I grind my teeth, but no words escape me.
“Two years ago?” Andrea says. “With Bites and Bubbles? Would I remember it?”
“You’d remember,” I say to Andrea. When we got the gig for Delaney Jones’ wedding cake—aka Lane Jonas, the rock star—it was big for our little catering company. When our boss gave me the job of baking and decorating the cake, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
Until I learned who she was marrying. It doesn’t surprise me that Andrea didn’t remember the groom’s name, that she didn’t put two and two together when she met Cooper just a few months ago. It was Lane’s name that stood out to all of us. Well, to everyone but me.
“Which job?” Andrea asks.
“It was for my brother, Miles,” Cooper says.
Yep. Miles Bailey. He’s a nice guy—or so I’m told. I have nothing against that Bailey. But when asked if I wanted to deliver my masterpiece to the venue, I decided against it. I built it. I loved it. I put my heart and soul into it. I didn’t need to ruin all that love just for a thank you—because I was sure if I ran into Cooper, it would taint the memory of making Lane’s cake. So, I let Howard, our overly excited boss, and PJ, my stupidly cocky boyfriend at the time, deliver the most beautiful thing I had ever created in my short time as a pastry chef.
“Miles?” Andrea says, eyes squinting. She doesn’t remember.
I clear my throat. If I don’t tell her, Cooper will. “ And Lane Jonas.”
Andrea pulls in a sharp breath. “Lane Jonas!” Her wide eyes turn from me to the man beside me. “Cooper! We’ve been friends for three months; you never said you were related to Lane Jonas!”
Cooper lifts one of those annoyingly perfect eyebrows. I bet he has a standing salon appointment every other week to get them manicured. “I didn’t realize I needed to.”
Andrea scoffs. “You are related to Lane Jonas, and you aren’t leading with that?”
“Hold up,” Mitch says. “That chick from that band... The one that left?”
“Don’t say chick, honey.” Andrea smacks his arm, but her eyes don’t leave Cooper.
“Sorry.” Mitch bobbles his head in a shake. “I’m just confused.”
Cooper slips his arms from that navy suit jacket and rolls his sleeves up one quarter. I’m pretty sure he is purposely showing off those forearms. Who has forearms like that anyway? Arrogant, boastful people who spend way too much time at the gym, that’s who. “Delaney Jones is my sister-in-law. Yes, she was a former Judy. No, she won’t sing at your next party.”
Andrea’s face softens. “ Oh . Maybe you get that a lot?”
But Cooper just smiles. “It’s not how I begin most conversations. I don’t know your sister-in-law’s name,” Cooper tells her.
I cross my arms over my favorite polka-dot top, completely wasted on Cooper Bailey, and wait for Andrea to circle back to why we don’t like Cooper. She was my friend first and must take my side. That’s how this works. Those are the rules. They’ve known Cooper for three months. Try two years, buddy. Andrea and Mitch are mine.
“So, what’s your history?” Mitch says, looking from his ‘hot gym buddy’—as Andrea referred to him—over to me.
Our history. That’s something I don’t revisit. And I won’t be today—not with Cooper Bailey and his shoulders and forearms and stupidly handsome smile right next to me.
But I won’t have to because a waiter comes to the head of our table, and the chatter amongst my friends and Cooper dies out. The waiter pulls out a tablet. “Hola. Welcome to The Cactus Cantina,” he says in a clear and beautiful accent. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Hola,” Cooper says to the man. And then, in overly confident and quite broken Spanish, he asks for a coffee. His expression is so smug, you’d think he just found the cure to the common cold. “Un café con leche . ”
The man nods, unbothered by Cooper, though our waiter speaks fantastic English. Why order in Spanish, Cooper Bailey? What’s the purpose? To show off. That’s why. It’s Cooper Bailey’s world—and he is making sure you’re watching.
So, he completely deserves it when the waiter asks, “?Quieres azúcar con eso?”
Cooper’s brows pull together before he says, “ No , un café con leche,” as if he’s attempting to teach this Spanish-speaking man a little espanol.
The waiter blinks, long and slow. “Anyone else?”
The cockiness. The audacity of that man. “No escuches a ese tonto,” I say, calling Cooper Bailey a dummy and letting each word roll off my tongue. I may have an English-speaking American father, but I also have a bilingual Puerto Rican mother who speaks to us in English and Spanish. I spent almost every summer of my life playing and cooking with my abuela and abuelo in Puerto Rico. I applaud anyone who learns a language. But showing off when you only know how to ask for a coffee, Cooper Bailey? Not today. “We’ll all take a coffee with milk,” I say, translating Cooper’s simple sentence.
“Um.” Andrea holds up her hand. “I’d like a lemonade—not coffee.” She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t see him showing off and exerting his giant I’m-all-glorious ego right into our meal. She just sees that handsome face. That charm. She only knows that he’s Mitch’s buddy when there’s actually whole lot more to his pretty face and charming words.
“Fine,” I mutter to myself. I guess it’s time to revisit high school, after all. “You want to know how we know each other? Really? Let me tell you.”