Chapter 17 Now
Now
@ainsleygreenwrites: Meet-cute attempt: grocery store edition. Rammed my cart into a toilet paper display hoping this cute guy would help me pick it up. He kept walking. ??
Comments:
@xogossipgirl: crashing a toilet paper tower for a man who doesn’t even LOOK BACK is villain origin story energy
@zacefronswife: I’d simply never step foot in that store again
@stephiecakes: if he won’t help with TP, he won’t help with taxes either
“Spread it thinner,” Julia says, standing beside me at the kitchen counter. I can tell she’s trying to be patient, but her voice carries the same intensity Lucas’s does whenever he tries to explain the art of graphic design.
“I thought I was!” I look down at the corn husk in my hand. The masa is clumped in the middle like a thick smear of peanut butter. I try again, smoothing it out like she showed me, but it still doesn’t look right.
Julia laughs, reaching over to help. “If it’s too thick, it won’t cook through. You want a nice even layer. Here, like this.”
Across the kitchen, Lucas’s abuela Elena stirs a pot of beans on the stove, and his abuelo Daniel leans against the fridge with a glass of red wine, watching like I’m a contestant on Chopped.
“Not bad for a first timer,” he calls out, clearly entertained.
“Mr. Rivera, be honest. These are a disaster.”
He lifts his wine in a casual toast. “You put in effort though.”
I glance over at Lucas in the next room. He’s setting the dining table—folding cloth napkins, rearranging silverware, adjusting the centerpiece, even though it looked fine to me. He catches my eye and raises his brows like he’s asking, Hanging in there? I roll mine in return but can’t help smiling.
I look back down at my station, determined to make this one look edible. Julia walks over to check on the rice, finally giving me a bit of breathing room. I let out a slow exhale.
“How’s the apprentice holding up?”
Lucas’s voice is suddenly close to my ear, and I startle. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
He grins and leans against the counter. “I wasn’t sneaking. I was surveying. Very different energy.”
“And what’s the verdict?”
“I think you’re doing great,” he says, pausing just long enough to smirk. “For a first timer.”
I shoot him a look. “Bold words from someone whose biggest culinary achievement is microwaving Trader Joe’s soup dumplings.”
“Hey,” he protests, holding up both hands. “Those dumplings have gotten me through some dark times. Don’t disrespect them like that.”
“Fine, then why don’t you grab a husk and put your skills to the test?”
He shakes his head solemnly. “Sorry, I’m on napkin duty. It’s a sacred role. If the corners aren’t crisp, the whole meal collapses.”
“Convenient excuse.”
“Smart excuse,” he counters. Then, in a softer tone, he adds, “But seriously, you’re doing better than I expected.”
And just like that, he pushes off the counter and disappears back toward the table, probably not thinking twice, while I try to pretend that wasn’t weirdly nice to hear.
* * *
Julia calls for everyone to wash up, and Lucas claps his hands together like he’s just been promoted to official head of household and Thanksgiving general.
“Tamales to table, people. Let’s move, move, move.”
We fall into a kind of playful parade toward the dining room, each of us balancing a piece of the feast—steaming bowls, bottles of red, napkin stacks Lucas insists he folded with “military precision.” It’s only five people, but the air is thick with overlapping chatter, the clatter of dishes, and the kind of anticipation that makes the room feel twice as full.
The food is flavorful, and the conversation flows even faster than the wine.
Daniel starts telling a story about his weekly dominoes group and how one of the guys accidentally brought his son’s weed brownies.
Fifteen minutes later, he was convinced the dots on the tiles were blinking at him.
Elena groans. Lucas rolls his eyes. Julia laughs so hard, she chokes on her wine.
I feel like I belong. Which is strange, because I don’t usually feel this way at other people’s family tables.
Back home, Thanksgiving is much more formal.
Polished silverware, assigned seats with name cards, polite questions asked with overly cheerful smiles.
There’s always a table centerpiece that looks like it came from a catalog, and someone inevitably brings up politics or marriage or both.
But here, no one’s asking when I’m getting engaged.
No one’s offering “notes” on my career. No one is making me explain for the fiftieth time what exactly it is that I do or how I pay the bills.
Instead, they pass the sides, tell stories, and genuinely want to know how my book tour went.
Julia even remembers every city I went to.
“I think Raleigh was the best crowd. Minus that girl who made me feel like I was in an interrogation room obviously,” I say, spearing a piece of roasted sweet potato.
“I still can’t believe she brought up the dedication,” Julia says, wide-eyed. “Like, sweetie, read the room.”
“I’m just glad it’s all over,” I laugh.
Lucas lifts his glass. “To Ainsley getting through her book tour. And to me, for being the world’s best sidekick.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say. “You came to two events.”
“Two is better than none,” he shrugs.
We all clink glasses, and I can’t help but smile as I look around the table. There’s no performance here. No quiet judgment. Just comfort, chaos, and second helpings.
“It’s nice that you two always have each other,” Julia says casually, topping off both our glasses.
Lucas smirks. “Have you seen her comments section? Half her followers already decided I’m her perfect match.”
I choke on a laugh. “Oh my god. You cannot be serious.”
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s perfectly at ease. “I’m just saying, I’ve seen the polls. Team Lucas has a very vocal fan base.”
“You’re delusional,” I mutter, but my cheeks are warm, and Julia is grinning like she knows exactly what she’s done.
And that’s when I realize I haven’t thought about Cole all night.
Not once. Not during tamale prep. Not when we passed the cranberry sauce.
Not even when Daniel brought out Cole’s favorite bottle of pinot noir.
For the first time in months, I feel like myself again.
Not the sad version of me who got left for someone else.
Not the girl stuck in a creative rut, desperately chasing meet-cutes for content or writing about her last relationship because she has nothing else. I’m just me.
I glance across the table at Lucas. He’s already looking at me. Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way. He’s just watching me, expression unreadable, but something about it makes me pause.
What did Julia mean by that? Was it just a throwaway comment—it’s nice that you have each other through your breakups—or was there something else layered in there?
Something like a you two should really take a look around and see what’s been right in front of you all along?
That would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it? Julia thinking that Lucas and I should be a couple?
I’ve never thought of him that way. Not seriously.
Not in a maybe we’re meant to be kind of way.
But now I’m wondering if he’s ever looked at me like that.
I spin my glass slowly, watching the wine catch the light as my thoughts race to catch up.
It’s Lucas. He’s my best friend. Nothing more. I try to let it go. To brush it off. Still, I can’t help but overthink just a little.
The rest of the night slips into that post-dinner blur where everyone’s too full to function but not quite ready to leave.
Julia insists we play a game—some unhinged hybrid of charades and Taboo she swears makes sense once you start.
It absolutely does not. Julia’s had just enough wine to cry-laugh when Lucas tries and spectacularly fails to mime midlife crisis.
In his defense, pacing the room pretending to check his imaginary receding hairline and then fake driving a sports car is a pretty nuanced clue, but no one gets it, which only makes him double down until he collapses in defeat.
I opt out, claiming a deep personal vendetta against party games, and end up curled on the arm of the couch with a cup of tea and a front-row seat to the Rivera chaos.
Eventually, Thanksgiving comes to a close. Elena heads to bed. Daniel offers me the mac and cheese without even asking, just wraps it in foil and hands it over like a badge of honor. Julia hugs me twice. “Seriously,” she says, “come back anytime.”
When Lucas offers to walk me to my car, I say yes before he finishes asking.
It’s colder than I expected outside, the kind of brisk fall air that smells like firewood.
The quiet hits immediately. After all that noise and laughter, it feels oddly intimate, just the two of us and the crunch of fallen leaves under our shoes.
“I still think I was robbed,” he says after a beat. “My mime skills are top-tier.”
“You were miming a midlife crisis.”
“Exactly! I gave them the sports car, the hairline, the whole package. If that’s not commitment, I don’t know what is.”
I laugh softly, tucking the foil-wrapped mac and cheese under one arm. “You’ll get your revenge at Christmas.”
He kicks a leaf as we walk. “If you come back.”
I glance over at him. “You want me to?”
“Yeah. Of course.” He shrugs, but his voice is quieter when he says, “You know, it is nice.”
I glance over. “What is?”
“That we have each other.” He kicks at a stray leaf. “Even if it’s mostly for emotional damage control.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m emotionally thriving.”
“Sure you are.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I made a new friend recently.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“At the dog park,” I add. “Her name’s Maddie. She’s a therapist, a reader, and she has a dachshund Winston’s basically engaged to.”
He laughs. “Wow. Sounds serious.”
“It is. You should be jealous.”
We reach my car, and I open the door but hesitate before getting in.
“Thanks for letting me tag along tonight,” I say. “It was really nice.”
He nods. “It was. I’m glad you came.”
Something flickers between us. Something small, maybe nothing, but now I’m not sure. We don’t name it. We don’t acknowledge it. I climb into the car, shut the door—
And then hear him call after me. “Ainsley, wait.”
For a split second, my breath catches, like maybe he’s about to say the thing I’ve been pretending not to wonder about all night.
But then he says, “I was thinking we could hit a Christmas tree farm this weekend for your next meet-cute video. Something tells me lumberjacks are prime grumpy-sunshine material.”
I can’t help but smile, even as a tiny part of me deflates. “Fine. But only if you promise not to steal my airtime again.”
He smirks. “No promises. Text me when you get home.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling as I watch him walk up the driveway like everything’s the same as it’s always been.
* * *
When I get home, I tuck myself into bed with Winston curled at my feet like a weighted blanket. The apartment is quiet, lit only by the glow of my phone screen as I open the Ferris wheel video for the hundredth time. We’ve officially hit a million views.
The comment section is as unhinged as ever:
@taysty1313: Okay but why is narrator man actually HOT
@rolemodelstan: not me rewinding to see his face again
@hails_yeah_: Who gave him permission to look like that??
@ratherbereading: girl forget the meet-cute plan—GET YOUR MAN!!
@ginabobina84: Jawline. Hands. Voice. I fear I’m in love
@pastaprincess0: The way he picks up the phone??? Soft but sexy
@delusionalandthriving: if you don’t wife him, i will
I laugh quietly to myself, then pause. Because okay—objectively, yes, Lucas is attractive. I’ve always known that. But it’s a fact in the same way you know the earth is round or that said is the most useful dialogue tag. It’s background noise, not something I really pay attention to.
I scroll to a comment that says:
Is it just me or does he have main character face?
Main character face?
My thumb hovers for a second before I flip to my camera roll and scroll through years’ worth of photos of Lucas and I.
Fraternity parties, formals, beach trips, birthday dinners, book events.
And suddenly, I see it. Not just that he’s attractive but the way he’s grown into it.
The messy-haired skinny guy from down the hall freshman year is long gone.
He still folds his sleeves too precisely and overexplains how Adobe Illustrator works, but his jawline showed up sometime around graduation and decided to stay.
And the stubble? That’s new. And unfairly even.
I blink. Am I attracted to Lucas?
I close the camera roll and lock my phone like it just betrayed me.
Okay, Ainsley. Let’s not get weird. It’s been a long day.
You’re overtired and probably dehydrated.
You’re overthinking your career, your love life, your entire internet persona.
This is not the time to romanticize the one person who still picks up your calls on the first ring.
You’re not catching feelings. You’re just delulu.
It’s time to focus on what actually matters: keeping your job, meeting your deadline, and not losing your mind over the internet calling your best friend hot. Tomorrow, I’ll dive back into my meet-cute mission. Tonight, I’ll sleep.
Probably.
My mind spins—restless and tangled, ping-ponging from the Ferris wheel video to my meeting on Monday to Cole’s new girlfriend’s Instagram highlight titled the boy. Gag. I flip my pillow to the cold side, hoping that’ll help, but I’m still wide-awake.
Fine. If I’m going to be doing mental gymnastics at 12:43 a.m., I might as well make it productive. I sit up, reach for my laptop, and open it up. The glow of the screen fills the room as I double-click on the document titled UGH.docx.
Okay heartbreak, let’s try this again.