Chapter Twelve
Lily
T he smell of fried spring rolls hits my nose with a tantalizing burst of toasty fragrance when I’m still a few doorways away from my destination. I’ve been dreaming of eating at Amara’s Sunshine Thai Kitchen for days. Sparrow’s Beret is closed for the afternoon, and it feels like the perfect time to satisfy this craving, especially after feeling as if I’ve been struck by a hangover that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with hoping too much lately.
Determined to fully appreciate this moment to myself and regain a sense of normalcy, I reach for the door handle and swing it open to receive an immediate assault on my senses. I’m greeted with smiles from the owners and their family members. The sound of food being cooked in scalding hot woks hits my ears all the way from the kitchen. The comfort of spices, chilis, and lemongrass mingles in the air. The sight of Graham sitting in the corner feels like a relief until it hits me that he isn’t supposed to be there. Clarification: His handsome figure is currently occupying my booth like he plans to eat dinner there .
As if my presence triggers a silent alarm, Graham’s eyes lift to meet mine. I feel the frustrated growl tickle the back of my throat. My body and mind are immediately in conflict. The soles of my shoes cement themselves to the floor while my heart tries to rush me forward. I look like I have stopped mid-motion, a freeze frame of a reel I must’ve seen before.
Narrowing my eyes, I will my body to move and finally get my feet to walk. Graham stiffens at my approach, his tall frame pressing his spine farther into the back of the booth. If he felt relaxed before, he certainly isn’t now.
“This is my booth,” I say sharply and without greeting. I hover near the edge of the table. I’m not proud of the catch in my voice at the start of my announcement, but here we are. If we have any chance of being normal with each other again—especially after that nightmare of a town meeting—then we need to get back to fighting. Pretending to be at odds is the only way to protect my heart and avoid crushing him again, especially with all the confessions I seem to be making of late.
His eyebrow lifts. He searches around the booth as if looking for something he can’t quite seem to find.
“Funny. I don’t see your name on it.” Graham has the audacity to grin as he locks gazes with me again. Suddenly, we’re in a stare down. “Good to see you again so soon, Lily.”
I wish that I didn’t love the way his eyes flash with a hint of the playfulness of old or the way that I can’t quite articulate why, but it feels like a win every single time I catch him off guard.
When we first met, it was like I had an X-ray machine to see right through him. Despite our breakup, this superpower has never left me. Even in the subtlest of ways, I can still tell which remarks hit his composure at its core. It serves him right for knowing the same about me.
The worst part of running into Graham all over town is that he’s still infuriatingly handsome. How I will ever get through the wedding is still a mystery to me.
“Is this now a table for two?” Amara’s sweet voice breaks the spell of Graham’s staring contest.
He looks between us, his attempt to look casual thwarted by the shake of his hand as he adjusts the silverware. “It seems that I’ve taken her booth.”
Amara’s eyes widen as she looks between us. She is the daughter of the couple who own this restaurant. I remember attending her first birthday party. Fast forward to now. She’s been away at college but just recently decided to come back to Birch Borough. I’ve missed her.
Crossing my arms, I give her a smile that sets her at ease.
“Ah, yes. This is her booth.”
I stifle a laugh as Graham’s eyes widen. Without making eye contact, he shifts to the edge of the seat before I feel a crack in my heart. Because this is Graham. He fights for what he wants. I may have teased him about not playing fair, but when it comes down to it, he is fair in every way. Of course, he will move if he thinks he’s in the wrong. Even when things inconvenience him, if it doesn’t hurt him, he does the right thing. And he does it willingly.
“Stop,” I insist.
Graham awkwardly shifts forward then leans back. His hands brace on the table to leverage him up in the uncomfortable position.
“Sit, George,” I continue with a grin. “We’re adults. ”
Cautiously, he looks at me. His eyes shift to Amara, who gives him a nod.
“Besides,” I continue, “it’s not like we’ve never shared a meal before.”
At this, his eyes flash, and I know the exact memory he’s thinking of . . . the one in which we got takeout from an Italian restaurant in LA and tried to recreate the scene from Lady & The Tramp . Let’s just say we didn’t end up eating much pasta. We gave it a few tries, and then it turned out we were much more interested in sharing kisses than cold Italian food.
He clears his throat. I was right. Got him .
“Of course,” he says quietly, his blue eyes laser-focused on me. “We’re adults.”
The room feels infinitely warmer, like I’ve just taken a bite of the spiciest curry.
“Lily, are you okay?” Amara asks as I feel the flush breaking out across my skin.
“Fine. Just warm. Ran here.”
Graham looks at my shoes, which are high-top wedge sneakers that are as clean as the day I bought them. I have a thing with my shoes not looking scuffed or messed up, so he knows it’s a lie. But it’s not one directed toward him, so he smiles. The side of his mouth infuriatingly reveals a dimple I’ve tried to forget and couldn’t.
He hums but doesn’t say anything as I slide into the seat across from him. Even though we aren’t saying much aloud, there’s still so much being communicated in the silent current of air between us. I feel like a white flag has been raised. We’re sharing the same air and the same booth, and for now, that’s enough .
Amara walks back and forth with menus and water glasses, even though she knows exactly what I’m going to order.
“Do you know what you’d like?” she asks Graham after she and I exchange a nod. She knows it’s the usual for me.
“Did you want to order first?” he asks me.
“I just did.”
“You just what?”
I shrug. “Ordered. I just ordered.”
“When?”
“The head nod, George.” He bristles at my tone. “You must’ve missed it.”
He shakes his head before turning toward Amara with a calm expression I know he doesn’t feel.
“I’ll take the Massaman curry, please.” He smiles.
Immediately, I know it’s sincere, but it’s not the smile he gives to me. Correction: The smile he gave to me. I haven’t seen that smile in years. Lately, I’ve observed a thin veil of it creeping back in. It’s like something is a little off with it, though, as if someone has aligned a photo over an old image and hasn’t matched it up quite right. I can’t tell him how much I miss his old smile.
It’s weird that we can sometimes be jealous of a memory. We want so badly to relive it that we’re almost irritated at our old selves for not recognizing the last time we’d ever see something so we could commit it fully to memory.
“And do you want it spicy?”
I realize Amara is still taking Graham’s order. I try to hold back a smile of my own. “Oh, he doesn’t do spicy, do ya, George? ”
The look he gives me could melt the silverware between us. “Oh, I can handle some heat.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly closing, even though there is plenty of air.
“I’m sorry. Is your name George?” Amara asks him, confused as to how she got it wrong.
“No! No,” Graham replies quickly, motioning with his hands toward me. “She just seems to have trouble calling me by my real name.”
“It’s true,” I interject and talk myself into looking directly at him again. “So, here’s the deal, George . . . there are five spice levels for the food here. A rating system just for Birch Borough that Amara and I brainstormed. I enforce them, of course.” I hold up my hand and start listing off the levels with each finger. “One, weakling. Two, recreant. Three, respectable. Four, confident. Five, brave. I’ve only gotten to a four, and trust me, it has taken me years.”
“Are those really the levels?” He turns to Amara, who simply points to a sign near the front door spelling out exactly what I just said, including an asterisk at the bottom that instructs diners to take it up with Lily (me) if they have a problem.
“Noted,” he says. “Ok, well . . .” He looks at me, his nose scrunching in a delightful (I mean, in a terrible and couldn’t-be-worse) way. “Good thing I feel brave today.”
My mouth drops open in shock.
“Are you sure?” Amara says in a tone of wonder. “Only my family and Liam ever eat at that spice level.”
He gives her a pleasant look, as if he’s about to go on a vacation and not about to get a plate of food that could easily destroy his insides .
“George, even I have to draw the line here,” I start to protest.
“I’m fine, Lily.” He pauses, his light eyes filled with intention. “I’ve never been a coward.”
One point: Graham.
My jaw tightens at the reference to our past, but I push it away. I have heard those exact words before, delivered once, just moments before he kissed me into oblivion. Graham seems to be playing a game where he says things intended to take us back to the moments I’ve tried to forget. It’s grating on me, and I wonder if my games are having the same effect on him.
“So, George . . .” I emphasize the nickname I’ve given him in a singsong voice. Amara walks away with the unused menus. “Here’s a challenge for you. Why are you here alone tonight?”
“Pass.” He answers so quickly I don’t think I even had time to blink.
“You don’t get a pass.” Lifting the water glass to my mouth, I take a sip. His eyes watch the movement. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat.
One point: Lily.
“Okay, fine. This isn’t a challenge,” I continue when he doesn’t speak.
“Isn’t it?” he replies, his voice rich and deep.
Just as I know I’ve challenged him in every interaction lately, I know this is another. I’ve made this man run the gauntlet since fate reunited us in this little town. Though, I must admit, I’m still waiting to be convinced this isn’t all an elaborate setup to throw me off my game just before Ashton appears. Whether I’m being punked by the universe or not, for some reason deep within, I keep making Graham meet my demands. I keep pushing him, perhaps only to prove to myself that he’s still here. I should play my hand carefully. I pushed him a little too hard a couple of years ago. And he didn’t follow me . . . until now.
“If you want to turn this into a challenge, here’s a question for you. Lily, why won’t you use my name?” he continues when I don’t reply. The words fall on my ears so casually, as if hearing them doesn’t shoot a sharp dart of pain through my ribs.
“I’ve used your name.”
“You haven’t said it since the day I moved here, by the moving truck. Why?”
I shift on the seat, debating whether or not to rush out the door. I’ll text Amara that I’ll pick up the food later.
When I don’t reply, Graham says a single word. It goes straight to my heart. “Please.”
I take another sip of water. The condensation slips around my fingers and causes me to question if I have a grip on the glass—or this conversation.
“I’ve called you George since we first met.” I’m going to try to avoid this question for my own peace of mind.
“And then you didn’t.”
“And now I do.”
I say the last words with a firm finality. What I don’t explain is that the difference is whether I can call him mine. When I could, he was Graham. And when I couldn’t, it was safer for my heart to go back to pretending I didn’t love the way he used to bury his face in my neck as he hugged me, the scratch of his beard across my skin the evidence of how close he tried to get. Now, there’s more than a table in the chasm between us.
“Since I called a pass to your question, it looks like I owe you a challenge. What’s it going to be?” Graham’s hands are occupied with the fabric napkin he’s pulled up from his lap. The top peeks over the table as he fiddles with the corner without looking at me.
I swallow back the emotion in my throat and attempt to put a smug look on my face. “You’re right. I did challenge you. So, since you’ve asked for it, I dare you to eat at least three bites of the molten lava you’re about to get put in front of you. I think you’ll find it a worthy challenge if you can make it through the first bite.”
“Hm, I’ll accept. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you still haven’t answered my challenge question to you,” he says as the food is delivered to our table.
The anticipation of comfort food prevents (or saves) me from replying. The bowls are steaming, and my eyes are already watering from the spice that hovers in the air between us. Even Graham clears his throat. Amara brings two more glasses of ice water and a small ceramic bowl of coconut milk ice cream.
“To help with the spice,” she tells him, an apologetic look on her face before she rushes away. Even she doesn’t want to witness the meltdown about to happen.
I wrap my noodles around a pair of chopsticks, bracing myself for the heat I know is coming. My first bite is everything I’ve hoped for—sweet, sour, tangy, spicy goodness. Graham tracks my movements before he clears his throat and picks up a pair of chopsticks too.
I glance up, prepared to see him suffer, and suddenly, we’re locked in another stare down. I let the noodles slide from my chopsticks as he picks up a bite from the bowl before him. He doesn’t break eye contact. Show-off. Because of course he can use them skillfully too.
I throw the handle end of my chopsticks on the table, pointing them in the air like I am about to conduct a symphony or throw them like darts. My eyes widen as I see him open his mouth. I’m already feeling for him. He can’t say I didn’t warn him.
Slowly, with almost methodical precision, he takes a big bite. Mesmerized, I watch him, waiting for any sign of him internally combusting from the amount of heat I know was in that bite.
His eyes water as he chews. My gaze catches on his lips, which I know are now covered in a level of spice that would bring me to my knees. As if they are a heat indicator, his eyes change shades of blue, his chest calmly rising and falling with his breath. With a soft clearing of his throat, Graham swallows. I feel my lips part with a sense of admiration. He’s not even sweating.
My chopsticks clatter to the table, and I shake my head. “When did you . . .? How are you . . .?”
He picks up another heaping bite of rice and curry and opens his mouth, the scruff on his face catching the light from overhead and casting his jaw into a surreal glow. I think I’m hallucinating.
I try to brush a piece of my hair from my face—the one that continuously seems to enjoy sliding out of my ponytail. I jump back when Graham’s hand slides a bobby pin across the table. And not just any bobby pin. The curved ones that I like. Startled, my eyes flash up to his, but he continues eating as if he didn’t just have a bobby pin that I know for a fact he doesn’t use waiting in the confines of his suit pocket.
“So, Lily,” he says after swallowing the bite. He hasn’t even touched his glass of water. “Are you in love with me yet?” His voice is light, but I hear the challenge in his tone.
“Don’t ask me that.” He knows I’m not allowed to lie. And yet, I’m not willing to admit the truth. “Besides, we both know I like to keep you humble.”
We lean in closer to each other across the table, our gaze flaring with a daring heat. I break etiquette protocol to have my elbows on the table for leverage. Graham matches my movements. Forgetting the food between us, I realize this is the fire I was worried about when I made the decision to eat with him. I wouldn’t be surprised if I combust after this moment. As our eyes lock, my heartbeat accelerates, and my mouth goes dry. I lick my lips and watch his eyes darken as they track the movement.
Sharply, I inhale. It seems to break the spell, the sound kicking his gaze back to his food. Graham clears his throat. Only then does he reach for his water, downing the whole glass before setting it back on the table with a clink.
And gosh, if there isn’t something tantalizing about a person you think you know surprising you. It’s not even the halftime mark for our challenges yet. At this rate, I’m not sure I’ll make it to the wedding with a win.