Chapter 17
FELIX
Cyrus is not thrilled with me for whisking his sister away against his express wishes.
In my defense, the kitchen is almost totally clean by the time I remove the rag from India’s grip and steer her out the door. Many hands make light work and whatnot. But Cyrus still scowls at me while Poppy looks on with interest.
She can take that look right off her face. There’s nothing to see here, and I don’t like the knowing glint in her eye.
“I won’t lie to you, Sunshine,” I say to India, glancing over at her in the passenger seat as we get buckled. “You look pretty rough.”
“ You look pretty rough,” she mutters.
She’s not wrong. I probably don’t look good. I didn’t run to her parents’ place after the phone call that cut off with a scream, but it sort of feels like I did.
I was on my way to the gym when she called, only here in Lucky it’s not a gym, it’s a rec center. All thoughts of exercise flew out of my mind the second the line went dead. I pulled a definitely illegal U-turn, drove over in record time, and sprinted up the lawn because I had to park on the street.
Do thirty-one-year-old men have heart attacks? Would I know if I’d had one?
Yeah. I’d probably know.
“Where are we going?” India says with a sigh. “I’m not in the mood to visit any romantic spots or whatever.”
“I know,” I say. I could tell the second I bolted into that kitchen that she was in a bad way; even now, when the panic in her eyes has abated, her features are still tense and drawn. “I’m taking you for a run. I know some people don’t like running,” I add quickly in case she protests, “but there’s nothing like it if you need to unwind. Just trust me.” I pause. “Unless there’s something else you’d rather do?”
Her lips tug into a private little smile, one I don’t understand. “No,” she says, her gaze darting to me and then down at her hands in her lap. “I’ll trust you. A run would be great, actually.”
I nod, starting the car. “It will, you’ll see. Let’s go.” I hesitate, trying to remember what she said she was baking this weekend. “Why were you over there in the first place?” Then it hits me—“Were you doing your carrot cake?”
“Yeah,” she says sadly. “Juliet was going to help me. We wanted to use our parents’ kitchen. I guess we won’t be able to now.”
“And why carrot cake?” I say.
“Because it’s delicious,” she says, “and I want to learn how to make it. And I thought—there’s no reason not to bake my favorite cake just because. ”
“No reason at all,” I murmur, forcing myself not to smile. I don’t want her to think I’m teasing.
“So where are we going running?” India says, and I’m relieved to hear a little more pep in her voice. “Can we swing by my place and grab some tennis shoes?”
“Sure can,” I say. “You’re in charge today, Sunshine, darling?—”
“Darling?” she cuts me off, her ponytail flicking as her head whips toward me.
“I debated for half a millisecond, but it rolled off the tongue so nicely,” I say with a grin.
“You are the most incorrigible flirt that ever?—”
“That ever took you running on a bad day?” I cut her off. “That ever agreed to play the part of your humble chauffeur?”
She snorts at this—possibly at the word humble— but from the corner of my eye, I see her sit up a little straighter. “If I’m really in charge, you should probably also have some snacks in here for me, right?”
Ah. Dang it.
“I’m kidding,” she says, probably at the look on my face. A brief twitch of her lips lightens her features as she glances over at me. “I just want to go running. Let’s do it.”
I head toward her place, and when we get there, she darts in for tennis shoes; she’s back in less than two minutes. I pull away from in front of her house as she fastens her seatbelt and start for our next destination.
I guess I’ll end up at the rec center today after all, even if not to lift weights.
It’s a nice building, one a lot of money was poured into, based on all the things it offers. There’s a pool and a basketball court, and around the top of the basketball court is a track.
“I’ve never come running here before,” India says as we exit the stairwell and emerge onto the track, the spongy red surface springy beneath our feet.
“Be free,” I say, gesturing at the stretch of track ahead of us. “Go.”
And I feel like a complete idiot then, because it only takes thirty seconds of watching her to realize that this girl is a runner—not like me, someone who runs from relationships when they start looking serious, but an actual literal runner. Her strides are long and sure, her pace is great, and—more than either of those things—her face and body visibly relax the further she goes; I can see it even from where I stand.
I give her a little salute as she passes, but she either doesn’t see or doesn’t want to respond, and I’m actually glad. I’m glad she’s absorbed in what she’s doing rather than dwelling on her worries. She goes for twenty minutes at an impressive pace I definitely couldn’t keep before she finally slows to a walk when she rounds the track and reaches me. I’ve been taking a leisurely stroll, and when she joins me, it isn’t long before she adapts. She walks with her hands clasped behind her head, her chest heaving, her face red.
“You let me lecture you about the benefits of running,” I say, shooting her a grin. “You should’ve told me you’re a runner.”
The corners of her lips lift, an easy expression that doesn’t seem quite as forced or tight.
“You’re feeling better,” I go on. It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” she says, still short of breath. “I needed this. Thanks, Felicia.”
“Mind feeling calm?”
“Calmer,” she says. “I didn’t kill that guy, and he’s not pressing charges. I was really freaked out.”
“So was I,” I admit. “You screamed. ”
“And you came running—aww,” she says, drawing the word out, her hands still clasped behind her head as we walk. “Felix, you were worried about me!”
“Only because you made a sound like a banshee,” I say with a snort, but I can’t keep a smile from curling across my face. “You would have come running too if you heard a noise like that.”
“And you wanted to make sure I was okay,” she coos, reaching over to pinch my cheek. “You were so worried ?—”
“All right,” I say, swatting her hand away. She’s half-pretending, I can tell, acting like everything is okay, but I play along, because I don’t know what else to do.
“You thought you might never see the most handsome woman of your acquaintance ever again ?—”
“Little hooligan,” I mutter, knocking her arm out of the way with my elbow. I rub my hand over my mouth so she won’t see my smile.
But she laughs, finally giving up on her attempts to pinch my cheek. She lets both arms drop to her sides and resumes walking normally. “Thanks for caring, Felicia.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just shrug. “Where to now?” I say. “Are you done running?”
“I am,” she says. “Are you done running?”
And it feels like she’s suddenly talking about something besides physical exercise. I look over at her, but her expression is simply curious, inquisitive. There’s nothing knowing or accusatory there.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “I’m done”—I gesture at the track and clarify—“here. I’m done here. We can go.”
Are you done running?
The question echoes in my head all the way out of the rec center and through the parking lot, playing over and over. Am I done running?
A small part of me bristles defensively, tries to claim I’m not running, but it’s a lie.
Mama Caine didn’t raise no liar, and as tempting as it is to lie at least to myself…I can’t. Not about this, anyway. I don’t even know what I’m running from. Love? The future? Change? Adulthood in general?
I don’t know. And how can I stop running from something if I don’t know what I’m running from in the first place?
I sigh, rubbing my temples with one hand as I open the car door. India slides into the passenger seat with a little nod of thanks, and I return her nod, closing the door behind her. Then I go around to the driver’s side and find myself wondering vaguely if I have any ibuprofen in the car.
All this thinking about running and not running is giving me a headache.
“All right,” I say when I get in the car. I look over at her, tired and pink-faced but definitely looking better than when we arrived. “Where to now?”
“Mmm,” she hums, the sound thoughtful. Then she shrugs. “I’m kind of hungry.”
I’d be hungry too if I ran as much as she just did. “In that case,” I say as an excellent idea springs to mind, “I’ve got the perfect thing. Buckle up, Sunshine.”
“Where are we going?” she says, and I swear I can feel my eyes twinkling as I respond.
“Wait and see,” I say, grinning at her look of confusion. “You’ll love it.”
“I wasn’t worried until you said that,” she says with a groan.
I just laugh.
“You’re scaring me.”
“Oh, stop. Have I ever led you wrong before?”
India snorts from the passenger seat, where she has dutifully covered her eyes with her hands. Still, she seems a little more relaxed now.
“Um, yes?” she says. “Let’s see. You blackmailed me?—”
“That was one time?—”
“And you threatened me?—”
“Excuse you,” I say, outraged. “I have never threatened you in my life. Just be good and keep your hands over your eyes. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait,” she says as I open my car door. “You’re leaving me here?”
“Yes,” I say severely. “So don’t peek. Do you want me to crack a window?”
“Yes,” she says, and although the word is grouchy, she slumps down in her seat and keeps her hands over her eyes. “So I don’t cook alive.”
I roll down both of our windows all the way and then say, “Still no peeking. Got it?”
“Just go,” she says, but I can see the little smile she’s trying to hide.
Progress.
I grin and thump the window opening; then I turn and hurry into the store where we went shopping together before.
Lucky, Colorado, isn’t big enough to have a giant shopping center. We have a little King Soopers that’s actually part of a gas station—you have to go to Boulder if you want multiple options or anything halfway exotic—but for the basics, it does the job just fine. I head straight to the back corner when I get inside, crossing my fingers in hopes that they’ll have what I’m looking for.
They do, but only just. I buy my single item and then head back to the car, where I find India with her eyes still closed, her nose wrinkling as she sniffs.
“Are we at King Soopers?” she says when I get back in. “I smell the gas station.”
“Did you really not peek?” I say, laughing.
“Of course not,” she says. “I keep my promises.”
After settling my purchase on the floor of the back seat, I turn to India. The only location I can think to take us is my place, but…I don’t bring women there.
She’s not that kind of woman, I reason. She’s India. There’s a difference.
I’m pretty sure I made fun of Cyrus not too long ago for the exact same logic, but I sort of get it now. She’s not in the same category as the women I date casually, and she’s not a friend like Cyrus or Poppy. She’s just…herself. In her own class, whatever that class is.
I nod, feeling more secure. We can’t go to her place, anyway, because I’m sure the girls are back there by now, and it would be weird to go to Cyrus’s.
“Onward and upward,” I say, starting the car. “To our next destination.”
“Can I open my eyes?” she says, and I grin.
“Yes. Open them and take a look at me. You’ve been deprived of my handsomeness for several minutes now, and it’s probably not healthy.”
She does open her eyes, but it’s only to roll them and look pointedly out the window instead, muttering something about unbelievable and ego under her breath.
“I know,” I say. “It’s unbelievable that my ego is so small when I’m this good looking.”
Her snort of laughter feels like a major win, and we drive in comfortable silence for the rest of the way to my place.
“Here she is,” I say, pulling into my parking spot. “ Casa Caine.”
She straightens up with interest. “Your apartment?” she says. She unbuckles and peers out the windshield at the townhome. “These are nice!”
“It’s great,” I say with a nod. “A place to lay my head and cook my food and whatnot. Come on in.”
It occurs to me roughly half a second before I unlock the front door that I don’t quite remember the state of the interior—specifically how tidy it is. I think back to this morning before I left; I don’t remember throwing any dirty clothes in the living room or leaving a bunch of moldy pans in the sink.
We should be good.
So I lead her inside, toeing my shoes off by the door and watching as she does the same.
“I’m worried my feet are going to stink up your place,” she says, her nose wrinkling as she looks down at her tennis shoes.
“I’m not concerned,” I say as I hang my keys on the little hook. My purchase swings from my arm, plastic rustling whenever I move. “Come into the kitchen.”
And I shouldn’t care that she’s here, in my space, where I never let anyone—it’s just India, after all. I shouldn’t care what she thinks. But I realize, as I watch her meander through the living room and into the kitchen, that I do . I find myself trying to look at my home through the eyes of an outsider. Is it dirty? Ugly? Stuffy?
Something uncomfortable prickles through my lungs as I force myself to take a deep, steadying breath.
She’s just a friend. She’s not judging me for my apartment—or anything else, for that matter. As much as we joke and tease, India is one of the least-judgmental people I know. So I shouldn’t care that she’s here, looking around.
“Felix,” she says, turning slowly as her bright eyes wander and then finally land on me. She smiles. “This place is so cute!” She pauses. “And so…normal?” Her red ponytail flicks back and forth as she turns her head. “I thought there would be a few giant portraits of you, you know?”
I nod. “Something to soothe my egomaniac tendencies, you mean?” I sigh dramatically. “I did have my eye on one, but it was too big to get through the front door.”
She gives me a small but genuine smile. “What a tragedy.”
“I’m in mourning,” I say, my lips twitching too.
And for a second, we just look at each other in the silence, our gazes locked. There’s a sheen to her skin that glistens in the overhead light, borne no doubt from her earlier run, and her cheeks are still faintly pink. Her hair in its ponytail is wispy around her temples, and there’s a light smudge of flour on her shirt.
Adorable. The word pops into my head as my lips try to tug into a smile. She’s adorable. Delightful. And I could pick her up and settle her on that counter, right there, and I could kiss her for being so cute, take her mind off everything that’s happened?—
Whoa.
My thoughts screech to a halt as I realize, with absolute horror, where they’ve gone. Way out of bounds. Out of bounds, the wrong way down a one-way street, barreling toward a dead end.
We could turn it into a through street , my absurd, out-of-control brain whispers, and I shake my head, giving my cheeks a few sharp pats.
India quirks her brow at me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. I clear my throat a few times, but it doesn’t seem to help. “Nothing. Sorry.” I jerk my chin at the little table in the corner. “Sit.”
She shrugs and then deposits herself in one of my spindly chairs with ease, plopping down and continuing to look around my kitchen. “Are you cooking for me?” she says.
“Not today.”
“Next time?” she says, straightening up hopefully.
I hesitate for only a second before answering. “Sure. Next time I’ll cook for you. Now close your eyes.”
She does as I ask, and I pull the little cake out of the shopping bag. It’s the only carrot cake they had, a miniature one I could probably eat in one sitting, but I grab two forks from my utensil drawer and then go to the table.
I seat myself next to India and set the cake gently down. “Okay,” I say. “Open.”
Her lids flutter open, landing on the cake in front of her. Her eyes widen, and my lips tug into a satisfied smile—she’s genuinely surprised.
“It’s a carrot cake,” she says in a small voice, her gaze swinging up to meet mine.
But my smile disappears as those wide eyes fill with tears.
“Oh,” I say quickly, sitting up straight. “No?—”
But it’s too late. One tear slips down her cheek, and then another, and then?—
“All right,” I say as she bursts into tears. My initial concern fades into something warm, low-burning embers deep inside. I chuckle, leaning closer to pat her back, because she clearly needs to cry right now. “All right. You’re okay. You’re safe. Just get it all out.”
She slumps forward, her forehead resting on the tabletop with a thump as her shoulders heave, and for probably thirty seconds she just sobs while I rub her back.
“I thought I was going to die,” she says when she finally speaks, the words muffled.
“I know,” I say, answering on autopilot as I continue to pat her back. “But you didn’t. You’re just fine.”
“And it was so scary?—”
“I know,” I repeat, even though I’m not totally certain what she’s talking about now. So I try to tell her what she needs to hear. “It must have been really scary.”
“And it hurt, and I felt so stupid and so mad at myself?—”
Ah. I think she’s talking about the motorcycle accident. Something twinges behind my sternum, the desire to pull her close and tell her everything is okay.
But I don’t. “You’re allowed to be upset,” I say instead. “Get it all out.”
“And I love—I love Betsy,” she goes on. Her voice is barely understandable now, but something about the heaving of her shoulders and her broken words tells me that she’s been holding these tears in for too long.
“I know,” I say. I rub her back some more. “She’s a great bike. But you can take a break if you need to.”
“And I thought—I thought—” She stutters for breath, and then her tears renew. “I thought I killed that guy!”
“I know,” I say. “But he’s just fine.”
Her sobs are subsiding now, and I hear a little hiccup when she talks again. “He was really tall and he looked really scary?—”
“I know,” I murmur. “You did a good job.”
“And I didn’t want to go to jail either.” There’s a pause, and then she lifts her head to look at me, her face a mess of tears.
“No one is going to jail,” I say softly, smiling at her. I smooth her hair, pull away the strands that are plastered to her skin, stroke her cheek. “Okay?”
Her eyes are still glazed with tears, but she nods, sniffling.
“Want a tissue?”
She nods again, and I smooth my hand over her hair one more time before grabbing her a few tissues from the bathroom. I pass them wordlessly to her and resume my seat, waiting as she wipes her eyes and blows her nose.
“Was the cake a bad idea?” I say.
“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “No, it’s perfect. I was just—yeah. Still a little freaked out, I guess.” She sniffles again, her gaze darting away from mine. “Sorry. That’s super embarrassing.”
“Nah,” I say, turning my attention to the little cake. “Anyone would be shaken up after something like that. Next time I need to cry, I’ll let you watch. We’ll call it even.”
She gives a weak, watery laugh, hazy sunshine filtering into the room, and then she nods.
I hesitate and then speak again. “We don’t need to go on a motorcycle ride,” I say. “Now or in the future or at all, if you don’t want.”
Her answering sigh is like a deflating balloon, her body slumping further down in her chair. “I do want to go,” she says. “Even though I don’t. I don’t want to be so scared that I never ride again. I refuse to let that happen. So even though I’m a little nervous…” She gives a little shrug. “I want to at least try. I’ll probably take her around the neighborhood a few times before that, just to get my bearings again.”
I nod. “That sounds like a great idea.” Then I glance at the table. “Should we dig in, Sunshine Darling?” I say, prying the plastic lid off the cake. I gesture to the little cake, frosted white with a carrot piped on top in orange and green. “This cake isn’t going to eat itself.”