I go into the kitchen to find a glass and get some water, taking in my surroundings since they were only a blur when we came in earlier. It’s a compact house but it has a homey feel to it—like it’s been lived in but loved. After I drink my water, I wander back into the living room where a plush leather couch and worn recliner take up most of the space. It would’ve been a perfectly nice couch to sleep on. I’m glad neither of us ended up there.
The pinkish-blue glow peeking through the front windows tells me it’s almost dawn. My birthday adventure will be over soon. And so will the magic of tonight. But I’m okay with that. I have no regrets.
Yesterday, I woke up thinking I had everything in place. Like that board game Life. My little car was on the set path, my peg person happily riding along in the passenger side to a predetermined destination. Today, all the game pieces have been thrown into the box, shaken, and then dumped out completely. I should probably be freaking out. Instead, I feel . . . relieved.
There’s something oddly freeing about not having a plan.
I let my fingers trail over the back of the couch as I make my way to the wall of bookshelves on the far side of the living room. One seems to be packed with a hodgepodge of novels, encyclopedias, and knickknacks. But the other is impeccably neat and organized. I scan the spines. Cookbooks. Of course.
There are so many of them—brightly colored new ones, faded older ones with worn spines, fat ones, skinny ones. I touch one labeled From Canapés to Casseroles. It looks more well-loved than the others. I imagine it having splatters on its pages and notes in the margins, marking the evidence that the recipe was tried.
“That one was my mom’s favorite.”
I jump, startled, and turn around. Monroe is leaning against the doorway to the living room, wearing only a pair of pajama pants, his hair sticking out three different ways. He smiles and nods at the shelf of books. “You’ve discovered my dirty addiction.”
I grin. “The truth is out.”
“I have three more boxes in my closet. Hoarders will be here any minute to interview me for the show.”
I look back at the shelf. “Have you cooked from all of these?”
“Nah, not all of them. Half of those were my mom’s. She suffered from the same addiction.”
“She’s recovered, I guess, if she gave them to you?”
He walks over and wraps his arms around me from behind. He sets his chin on my shoulder. “No, she died when I was nine. My dad held on to her stuff for me and my brother.”
My chest constricts. “I’m so sorry.”
I can feel him shrug against me. “It sucked. But I’ve made peace with it. She was a great mom. I was lucky to get nine years with her.”
The comment makes me sad all over again. “So was she a chef?”
“She loved to cook, but no, not a chef. She got pregnant with my brother too young and kind of got locked into the mom thing. So, she taught herself the old-fashioned way by cooking every recipe she could get her hands on. The month she worked her way through that casserole cookbook scared me off of cream of mushroom soup for life.”
I laugh, then put my fingers to my mouth. It seems wrong to laugh while we’re talking about his dead mother. But when I turn in his arms to apologize, he’s got a warm smile on his face.
“She always talked about one day opening a restaurant and how me and my brother could work in it with her. She wanted to name it the Bluebird Cafe because bluebirds are the symbol of happiness, and the kitchen was where she was happiest. But she got sick before our family ever had the kind of money to do something like that.”
I look down and put my hand over the bird on his chest. “So this is for her?”
“Yeah. And a reminder for me that dreams don’t wait for us. You have to chase them. Take your chances at happiness when you have them or you may not get more.”
I wrap my arms around him and lay my head against his chest, this melancholy feeling sweeping over me. “Your mom would approve of your summer road trip.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Well, all except the motorcycle part. If she was still around, she’d kick my ass if she knew I rode one of those ‘death traps’ and would be ticked that my brother is so obsessed with them, he opened his own shop.”
“You mom sounds very smart.”
He sniffs. “Yeah, you two would’ve gotten along well.”
I sigh and lift my head. The room is already brighter than it was a few minutes ago. “The sun is up. Time for things to start turning back into pumpkins.”
He tucks my hair behind my ears and cups my face. “Is the princess calling last night a fairy tale? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to star in one of those.”
“So you usually just stick with starring in porn, then?”
He laughs and kisses me. “Well, there was some of that, too.”
“True. But seriously, thank you. I had an amazing night.”
“Back at ya, gorgeous. But before you give me my send-off, how about some breakfast? I cook a kickass French omelet.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” he says and plants another kiss on me. “I’m cooking for you. No way you can trust the food at your place. The Evil Roommate probably sprinkled it all with rat poison.”
“You just want to show off your mad cooking skills.”
“True that,” he says, herding me into the kitchen. “My ego needs feeding. Prepare to be stunned and amazed.”
I smile. Because I’m already there. Stunned. And amazed. And a little sad now.
Because he’s not mine.
And this is good-bye.
At least it’s a really good omelet.
Chapter 9
Monroe
There’s a BMW in the driveway when I pull in front of Natalie’s house. She lets loose a slew of colorful language from behind me. And I know immediately whose car it is. I want to cruise away and take her back to my house. Keep her from this. Keep her with me.
But, of course, I can’t. I’m leaving in a few days, and she has her own life to live. I’m not supposed to want to keep her. That’s not what this is about. And she made that clear when I asked her to spend the day with me today. I could already feel her shutting me out, closing that chapter of her life where my name appears on the pages. I was her wild-night adventure. Now it’s done.
I park at the curb. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
She releases a breath and presses her forehead against the back of my shoulder. “No, that’ll just make it worse. Maybe he just slept here with Rebecca to rub it in my face. As if I give a shit.”
“You don’t have to go in there, you know. You can hang at my place until he’s gone,” I say, hating that I’m probably coming off as clingy. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t cling.
“Thanks. You’re sweet¸ but I’m going to have to face this eventually. And I need to start packing. I’ve only got a few days to figure out if I’m finding a new place or heading home.” She gets off the bike and hands me the helmet.
“What do you think you’ll do?”
She gives me a half-smile and slips out of her heels on the sidewalk. “I have no idea. Maybe I need to be like you and say fuck it all and find a beach somewhere.”
“Or you can just come to mine.” The words are out before I realize it.
She stares at me for a second, looking a little dumbfounded, then seems to shake free of it with a quiet laugh. “Right. And interrupt the slew of bikini-clad girls that will be lined up for your entertainment? Even I’m not that mean.”