28. Bash
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BASH
Gwen spends the rest of the day at the studio teaching. Which is fine, because I spend the rest of the day rushing around planning a birthday party for her.
One that doesn’t end with her getting a fucking treadmill.
I stop in at the Bighorn Bistro and beg Tabitha to make a cake or cupcakes or anything that Gwen might like.
I call West and tell him to invite everyone to my place tomorrow evening.
Then I grab a bunch of groceries and head home, marveling over the fact that Gwen’s yoga class really did make me feel a bit better. A little less stiff. A little less stressed. A little more open.
When I get home, Clyde is sitting on the front porch, tucked into a shady corner. Thank fuck all of his clothes are on because I need to talk to him. I stride out the patio doors and fold myself down into the chair next to him.
“Back for more of Maya’s medicine?” he asks, staring out over the water with a grin on his face.
I can’t help but chuckle. “Not today.”
He grumbles like I’ve disappointed him.
“Did you know that Gwen’s birthday is tomorrow?”
Clyde nods. “Yeah.” He’s so casual about it. Like I’m an idiot for just now realizing it.
“How did you know?”
“She told me. We talk and don’t just make googly eyes at each other from across the room.”
I slouch back, already regretting bringing this up with him.
“Or make out on the back deck.”
“What the fuck, Clyde?” I throw a hand over my eyes, wanting to hide from this conversation. “Were you watching us?”
He giggles a raspy little giggle, getting way too much enjoyment out of this.
“No, I got up to check what was going on because you were barking at her like a police dog who’d found a stash of drugs.
Did you forget I live on the main floor?
My sliding doors lead out onto this deck.
If you guys kept your trysts to the upstairs balcony, I wouldn’t have to be subjected to?—”
I groan and tip my head back, pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. “Please tell me you were not just hanging out watching us.”
He scoffs now. “I’m weird, not a creep.” I peek at him from the corner of my eye and his head tilts like he’s considering what to say next. “I won’t lie. I was pretty pleased with that development. You two are perfect for each other. Remind me of myself and Maya when we were younger.”
I keep my face impassive because as much as I love Clyde, I do not want to be like him. The world can only handle one Clyde.
“But.” He sighs the word heavily, shifting in his chair. “It seems as though in your mission to be Mr. Good-Guy Hero Man, you’ve plunked yourself squarely into the friend zone.”
“I have not. We’re just… We’re being mature. It’s complicated.”
Clyde scoffs. “It’s not complicated. You look at her like she hung the moon, and she’s the only woman in the world who finds your shitty attitude to be endearing.”
“I don’t have a shitty attitude.”
He turns in his chair to face me. “Kid, you are one big shitty attitude. When I close my eyes and try to envision you, I see a frown floating in the abyss. Except when you’re around Gwen.
So stop pretending this has to do with that prissy little goofball you made when you were too stupid to use a condom. ”
He reaches forward, one gnarled finger poking me in the bicep. “Because it’s about you . You’re scared.”
My mind reels with his assessment. It seems insane that Clyde, one of the least rational people I know, should be the one to see this all so clearly, while I’m stumbling around in the fog.
“I’m not scared,” I retort, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
Clyde responds by fitting his thumbs into his armpits and clucking at me like a chicken.
“Ugh,” I reply dramatically, pushing to stand. “Forget it.”
“I can’t! It’s burned into my mind! You’ve scarred me.”
Shaking my head, I move toward the door, wishing to escape this conversation as quickly as humanly possible.
“I’ve been playing matchmaker for months with you two. Don’t squander it! And don’t be a chump and forget to buy her a present!”
His words strike a chord as I enter the house. Months? Has he been playing the long game with this shit? Meddling and playing innocent?
I decide that’s too wild to fixate on. Instead, my brain fixates on a present for Gwen. Or rather something for Gwen. Because I understand Gwen well enough to know that simply buying her a present won’t cut it. She’s not hung up on material items or expensive gifts.
No, Gwen lives for new experiences. And I know which one I’m going to give her.
I wake up early, hoping to get a head start on Gwen. I may not be great at talking about my feelings, but I am great at showing them.
With the kitchen to myself, I get to work prepping an over-the-top breakfast—one that says what I can’t.
I don’t know specifically what she likes, so I make everything.
I want her to have it all, everything and anything she likes.
Hell, I even picked up some more lavender from the florist and added a couple of pots to the space.
Partly because I know Gwen likes them, and partly because I do too.
They remind me of her.
The counter slowly fills with dishes, each one covered in foil to keep it warm.
Bacon, ham, and sausage.
Waffles, toast, and hash browns.
Eggs—Benedict and scrambled.
Fruit salad and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Overkill? Absolutely. Do I care? Not in the slightest.
I care even less the second she pads into the kitchen.
She’s wearing a matching pajama set—shorts and a long-sleeved, collared shirt.
Her face is scrubbed clean, and her hair is piled in a loose, messy tumble on top of her head.
She still has imprinted lines on her cheek from where it was clearly pressed into the pillow.
She’s fucking breathtaking. And the fact that she didn’t roll out of my bed is downright criminal.
“What is all this?” Her voice is still thick with sleep, and it makes me wish I had been there to wake up next to her. It makes me wish I had told her I wanted her in my bed again. I’d been bold enough to ask her that night when I first came back and too shit-scared to say more ever since.
What I should have been brave enough to tell her is that I didn’t want that to be a one-night thing.
I wanted it to be an every-night thing.
“It’s a birthday breakfast. Happy birthday.”
She clasps her hands at her chest, and I watch her cheeks flush a light pink as she takes in the spread. “It’s too much.”
I scoff. “Nah. I enjoyed making it. You eat whatever you want. If there’s leftovers, then whatever.”
She blinks a couple of times. “No, I meant that you didn’t need to do this.”
I’m pouring her a cup of coffee when I stop, look up at her, and say simply, “But I wanted to.”
She swallows, looking more moved by an over-the-top breakfast than I expected. “Thank you.”
I nod and round the island toward her, coffee cup outstretched in her direction. “You’re welcome. Take a seat. Tell me what you want, and I’ll serve it up.”
With a soft smile, she wraps her palms around the coffee cup and makes her way to one of the stools at the island’s counter, gazing over the options.
“Honestly, I kind of want some of everything? It looks amazing.” She sounds bashful admitting she wants it all, whereas I’m just thrilled she doesn’t hate what I made.
“Coming right up. What my girl wants, she gets.”
The term slips so easily from my tongue that I don’t even have the time to prevent it. My eyes flit to hers, to see if there’s any negative reaction there. Instead, I find her watching me curiously, head slightly tilted as though I’m a puzzle she can’t figure out.
And who could blame her? I haven’t exactly been straightforward.
I decide not to explain the my girl thing away and just carry on plating her food. When I set it down in front of her, she beams. And I can’t help but feel like I’d make her breakfast every damn morning to see that look on her face.
I hand her cutlery. “I have a surprise for you after you’re finished.”
Her lips press together, but I can tell by the way her cheeks bulge that she’s pleased—if a little overwhelmed. She then takes a bite of the syrup-drizzled waffle, moaning softly like it’s the best thing she’s eaten in her life. I puff up a bit, getting off on how satisfied she seems.
I’m standing there making “googly eyes” at her, as Clyde had called it, when he appears in the doorway. He takes one look at the food laid out and then pulls up a seat beside Gwen. “I wish Bash were in love with me. Then maybe he’d make me nice breakfasts too.”
I spray my mouthful of coffee into my hand right as Gwen barks out a shocked laugh and thumps a flattened palm on her chest.
At the sink, I shake my hand off, looking down over my plain gray T-shirt and noting the splatter of coffee droplets. I’m about to give Clyde a piece of my mind for being such a meddlesome shit-disturber when the doorbell rings.
All three of us freeze. We’ve lived together for long enough to know that sound doesn’t go off much. And last time it did, it brought along an unexpected visitor.
Both Gwen and Clyde stare at me with wide eyes.
“You guys, eat—I’ll go get that.”
I head toward the door with a growing sense of dread pooling in my gut. Now and then, a fire starts, and everything just feels different. It’s like this sense inside me, one that knows when things are about to go bad.
And I feel that now.
Dread creeps up my throat as I flick the dead bolt and pull the door open.
Then I come face-to-face with Tripp.
He’s dressed to the nines, hair neatly gelled. In one hand, he’s carrying a massive bouquet of red roses and, in the other, a small gift.
I should say something, but I stare at him, dumbfounded. How the hell does he keep showing up just when it feels like Gwen and I are making some progress?