Chapter 26
Went to grab coffee. Be back soon.
We need to talk.
Okay, so unlike me, Dominic hadn’t slept like the dead. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been up this early, let alone functioning.
I swung my legs over the bed and plucked an oversized, faded charcoal tee and fresh underwear from my closet before shuffling to the bathroom, my head floating on a fluffy pink cloud of blissful delusion and euphoria.
What was supposed to be a ten-minute shower swallowed up the better half of the hour.
I kept zoning out, slipping back into the liquid memories of last night, and smiling at the wall like we were in love, the tiles and I.
Dom still wasn’t back by the time I finally stepped out, and the thought of forcing myself to sit still and wait for him made my elbows itch.
So I pulled out Rosie’s recipe book, carefully flipped through the pages (which I’d had laminated a few years ago after I’d accidentally splattered coffee on it), took a picture of the brekkie bowl Dominic used to inhale every Saturday morning while we fought over what cartoons to watch (which was asinine, given the sheer number of TVs we had between our two houses; no one was forcing us to watch them together), gently slid the book back into its custom-made waterproof slip, and got to work.
I peeled, I chopped, I whisked, I boiled.
The potatoes were stripped of every bit of skin and seasoned both before and after they hit the pan, because he used to claim he could taste the difference.
The bacon was cooked to a wavy crisp and cut with wavy kitchen shears for nostalgia’s sake, the first two eggs were poached to a gentle soft, the second pair to a standard medium, and while the hollandaise took me three tries, I eventually managed to whisk through the wrist pain and wrestle it into perfection.
I went off script and added truffles, because I knew he’d appreciate the flavor, and even decorated the dish, wiping the sides of the twin ceramic bowls, and carefully sprinkling tiny edible petals and finely chopped green onions over the gooey golden sauce.
All in all, it took me just under two hours to make.
But he still wasn’t back.
I worried the inside of my cheek, nudging at my place settings, my legs restless as I watched the wisps of steam slowly fade from the untouched bowl across the table.
Another half hour ticked by.
I didn’t know why I continued to sit there. What I thought might happen if I kept waiting.
There were at least ten different coffee shops within a five-minute drive of my apartment. He’d been gone for at least three hours.
I blinked down at my lap, my throat thick with more emotions than I could handle at one time. Sniffling, I picked up my fork, gave myself a little pep talk about crying over men who didn’t deserve it, and stabbed into my brekkie bowl.
It took a few tries to convince my mouth to actually take a bite, but I eventually managed. The potatoes were cold, a firm film marring the sauce I’d practically sprained my wrist to whisk up. I took a sleeve to my wet cheeks, chewing.
It’s okay. You did a really great job. Hollandaise just isn’t meant to sit out for this long.
I shoved another forkful into my mouth, my leg shaking as I sniffled, dabbed at my cheeks.
It’s okay. Imagine what you would say to Rachel if she’d been stood up. It’s not you. It’s okay. He’s not worth your tears. You’re going to be just fine.
I’d finished half the bowl now, barely giving myself a chance to swallow before taking another bite.
It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.
You’ve survived the last eight years without him. You can do—
My fork clattered against the table, my chin wobbling uncontrollably as I reached for it again with trembling fingers. I speared another potato, tears streaming down my neck. Pins and needles poked at my shaking leg, and my stomach rolled.
I tried, I really did. But I physically couldn’t force myself to take another bite.
I put my fork down just in time for the front door lock to gently beep once. Twice. Four times.
Click.
A part of me was tempted to leap to my feet and whip around. It wanted to wipe away any and all evidence of my tears, steel my spine, and put on the tried-and-true, practiced mask of indifference.
Another part of me—a bigger, much louder part—was, to put it simply, really fucking tired.
Too tired, one could argue, to give a flying fuck.
So what if he sees? What would it matter at this point?
I didn’t have an answer to that, so I remained seated.
The first thing I noticed when our eyes locked was that my theory was correct. He hadn’t slept.
The second thing? He looked like he’d been run over by a tractor full of angst, regret, and palpable self-loathing. It was etched into the soft skin underneath his eyes, loomed over him like a black and bruised cloud.
He stopped short when he saw me, the fatigue and remorse in his expression deepening as he clocked my blotched skin, the accompanying tears.
The door shut.
“You’re crying.”
“No,” I deadpanned, crossing my arms, “I’m not.”
A cold tear tickled at my chin, and my fingers itched to scratch at the spot. But I waited it out, relieved when it finally fell.
Dominic went to kick off his leather lace-ups but thought better of it. Apparently, this wasn’t going to take long.
“You made breakfast.”
“Great observational skills, Dommy,” I cooed with a wide, sarcastic smile, pitching my voice close to something one would use while dealing with a toddler. “What else can you spot?”
His lips pressed together. His chin dropped in acknowledgment. He deserved that.
“I made breakfast because that was our deal,” I pointed out, lowering my tone to my usual pitch. I pushed to my feet, tossing my used cutlery into my bowl. “You gave me a ride yesterday, I owe you three meals today.”
“Right.”
I threw everything in the sink, deciding to worry about it later. He was still lingering a few feet away from the door, holding two lidded cups of what I assumed was the coffee he’d trekked across the continent to fetch.
His shirt was missing two buttons.
It looked ridiculous.
“Here.” He held one out for me, his gaze snagging on my tearstained cheeks before he forced himself to look away, jaw flexing.
“Gee, thanks.” I grabbed it from him, immediately tossing the lid so I could take a real sip. It was hot, tasted fresh. I took a moment, savoring the first hit before I asked, “How’d you manage to keep it so hot for so long?”
He couldn’t even look at me.
Fucking coward.
“I mean, a ten, fifteen-minute delay I could understand—a proper double sleeve or a built-in warmer in your cup holder would carry you through that—but three hours, now that’s impressive.
” I took another big gulp, one hand braced on my hip as I started pacing.
“How about another deal? You spill your temp-control secrets, and in return, I won’t put spider eggs in your—”
“You win.”
I paused midstep. “Excuse me?”
“You win,” he repeated gruffly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “I’m done.”
Wait.
What did that mean?
“I win, as in…”
He let out a long, defeated breath. “As in I’ll draft a public apology for your brother, admit to the smear campaign, and I’ll… we can go see my mom tomorrow so the two of you can chat. You win.”
My heart gave a heavy, warning thunk.
“And then what?” I asked stupidly.
His jaw worked, his weary eyes meeting mine again.
“Then we do what you said. No more of this… whatever it is. I can’t keep track anymore.
” He looked down at his coffee, thumbing the lid.
“We leave each other alone. Permanently, this time. I won’t have anything to do with you.
You won’t have anything to do with me.” He hesitated.
Swallowed. “We might as well be strangers.”
What…
What the fuck.
“No.”
The refusal sniped out of my mouth, running ahead of my brain, which was too busy spinning incoherent, panicked thoughts to mind the filter it was supposed to be monitoring twenty-four-seven.
Dominic buffered for a few seconds, his mouth twitching wordlessly. Then, “What?”
Don’t say it again.
Do NOT—
“No. I don’t accept.”
“You… you don’t accept,” he parroted out of sheer disbelief. “I’m forfeiting. And you don’t accept.”
I took a lengthy drag from my coffee despite the alarming speed of my pulse.
“No, because here’s the thing, Dom. You and I still have a shit ton of unfinished business.
You know why? Because we still haven’t sat down and talked.
We’ve been driving each other up every wall, in every possible direction, but we still haven’t talked.
We’re not eighteen anymore. You’re an adult; I’m an adult; so why is it that we can’t shut the hell up for five fucking minutes, get our heads out of our asses, and actually talk?
“Because here’s the other thing, bud: something’s not adding up.
And if you’d been here this morning—if you’d answered a single one of my phone calls after you up and left me without so much as a fucking goodbye—I would have brought it up like I planned, and we’d have sat down over a nice cup of coffee, figured our shit out like normal human beings, and called it a day.
And if you think I’m letting you run away again before you give me a straight answer to every single one of the questions I’m about to throw at you, you’ve severely misjudged who you’re dealing with.
“Because here’s the other other thing, and get ready, because this one’s a doozy: you don’t hate me. Not really. And I’m not so sure anymore that you ever did, which… I know, mind-blowing, right? You might hate yourself because of how much you don’t hate me, but you definitely don’t hate me.
“And I know what you’re thinking—how the hell does that make sense?
Literally just how? Since you were ten? Ten, Dominic?
And all this bullshit about how I rejected you and broke your heart?
Did we go to the same fucking high school?
The only reason I hired that stupid sad clown to show up at your game wearing your stupid hoodie—the only reason I had him wipe his stupid sad clown tears with your letter—was because I knew, dumbass.
Rachel told me it was a prank, and you can be as pissy as you want about the fact that I managed to flip the tables and humiliate you instead of—”
“Wait, wait, hold on.” His palm was up, a spark of something other than sheer exhaustion and regret flashing across his eyes. A sign of life. “Back up. Repeat what you just said.”
I licked my lips, my lungs working overtime. “What, the clown? Yeah, I’m still not sorry. Tit for tat. You wanted them to laugh at me, and I beat you to it.” It would have been well worth the suspension had Dominic ratted me out when the teachers got involved and started asking questions.
For the first time in his high school career, he’d been the butt of the joke. And it’d been a big enough blow that he’d stormed off the field, but only after ripping his letter out of Sad Clown’s hands.
“No. The other thing.” He stepped forward. “You referred to a prank. What prank?”
My eyes rolled hard enough to strain muscles I didn’t know they were connected to.
The only reason I decided to humor him was because I couldn’t go on a rant about our lack of communication, then scoff when he asked questions.
No matter how badly said question warranted the aforementioned scoff.
“The one where you left your hoodie and a handwritten love letter in my locker, hoping to bait me into showing up to the game, only so you could humiliate me by kissing Harper instead.”
Though she hadn’t been wearing it at the game.
Otherwise, word would have spread.
My theory? He hadn’t wanted me catching wind of the plan, so she’d been instructed to pull it out closer to the end of the match. While I was distracted or something.
Dominic was staring at me with his mouth open, entirely dumbstruck, as though I’d switched to speaking in hieroglyphics midsentence. “You’re joking.”
“My jokes are funny. This is not. Ergo de facto, you’re a shithead, and you’re going to have to explain, very clearly, how you go from that to everything you said to me last night. Because it’s not adding up for me.”
The sudden dry laugh that burst out of him ended just as abruptly as it started. He straightened. Bent forward. Frowned. “Alice, this isn’t funny. Tell me—”
“Dominic, I swear to god, if you accuse me of lying right now, it’s going to end in, like, seven different life sentences between the two of us and a urinal planted on your early grave. I’m not joking.”
I had no patience left. None.
His eyes narrowed, zoning in and out as he sucked in a long breath.
He held up a hand when I opened my mouth, evidently needing another minute of silence to think.
Until, eventually, “Okay, so just as a quick refresher since my memory seems to be failing me rather spectacularly here… I pranked you with my promposal, Rachel clued you in, which prompted you to…”
“Hire the sad clown to go to the game on my behalf while wearing your sweater and wipe his tears with the quote, unquote, ‘love letter’ you left me.”
His left eye, still narrowed, started to twitch.
“And then… the party,” he said.
“You got your chance to humiliate me back when the bottle landed on me, and you took it.” I would have done the same. But that knowledge hadn’t made it hurt any less.
“And the rant afterward. When you told me to leave.”
I swallowed, my fingernails biting into my palm. You wanted to have an honest conversation, so have an honest conversation.
At this point, what did I have to lose?
He walked out that door, and chances were good this really was over.
“I didn’t want you to leave, Dominic.” I folded my arms over my chest, shrugging as though this next part wasn’t that big of a deal. “I just didn’t want to love you anymore.”
I’d never seen the color drain from someone’s face so fast.