“Sure didn’t sound like it when you kicked me out.”
“That was about me and my issues,” she said.
“And are those issues magically gone now?” I asked.
She paused. “No.” She glanced up at me. “But I want to work on them. And I think, whatever issues you’ve got, it would be a good idea for you to work on them, too.”
“You sound like a therapist.”
She gave me a small smile.
“You said that before,” she pointed out. “That first night we met in the alley. If I recall, you were talking about how you repress all the bad things like everyone else.”
“I was joking.”
“I don’t think you were.”
We fell silent.
The storm raging in my chest almost made me throw up the snacks I’d been eating all day. I didn’t do this. I didn’ttalk. Anything I had to say, I said through my lyrics. Shit, if she wanted to know all about me, all she had to do was listen to the songs I’d written. I’d overshared to the extreme.
But of course, songs were one thing. You were supposed to take poetic license. You had to massage the words in just the right way to make it work with the melody. You had to make the lyrics sound appealing to the masses.
And besides, Grace wasn’t the rock music type, she’d said so herself. Telling her to go download my album would be pretty obnoxious of me.
From the sincere look in her eyes, she clearly wanted to have a serious conversation.
But was I ready for one?
I nodded to the carton of eggs sitting on the kitchen counter. “You said you wanted to try making a tart again?”
“If you’re up to it.” She looked disappointed at the change in subject, but didn’t protest.
“I guess if we don’t want to embarrass ourselves at the bake-off, we better figure out how to nail this thing,” I said.
I hopped off the bar stool and picked up the carton.
“Do you really think we need a dozen of these?” I asked her. “You probably could have bought a half-pack.”
“It takes two eggs per batch,” she said. “That only gives us six chances to get it right.” She looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should have bought the double pack.”
“If we can’t get this right after six tries, I’m giving up,” I told her. “I’ll quit baking for good.”
“I never took you for a quitter.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the saying that insanity is doing the same thing expecting different results.”
“We haven’t even given this a try yet,” she said. “Let’s at least make a few attempts before we bring insanity in the picture.” She pulled up the recipe on her phone. “Let’s set out all the ingredients first, then start the mixing.”
She reached for the eggs. I took her hand, stopping her. She turned to look at me inquisitively.
“Thanks,” I muttered. It was hard to look her in the eyes.
“For what?” she asked.
“For coming here,” I said. “For offering to listen.”
I hadn’t thought I was ready, but maybe I never would be. Maybe I’d never feel ready to open that box I’d buried deep down inside me.
