“Oh hey, babe.”
I turn around at the approaching footsteps, my mood instantly lighter when I see my uncle’s face.
“Hey.” He leans over the bar to give Francesco a kiss.
They are so dang cute together.
Francesco immediately fusses over him, his gaze roaming over his face, his hand fluttering along his cheek. “Stressful day at work?”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to make you your special drink?”
“Yes, please.”
Francesco smiles widely at him. “You got it.”
“Thanks.”
“Always for you.” Then he nods into my direction. “You take care of this one while I make your drinks.”
Cody plops down on the wicker barstool next to me and gives me a solemn look. “Your date didn’t go well, huh?”
“You know it wasn’t a date.” I let out a long breath, trying to get rid of all these mixed emotions that have been pestering me ever since Noah left me at the restaurant. Who am I kidding? This roller-coaster ride of feelings has been an ever-present shadow since my mom’s announcement about moving back to Berkeley. “And no, it didn’t go well.”
I really didn’t have any expectations when it came to the dinner. My mission was clear and simple: apologize to Noah. And that’s exactly what I did.
So why do I feel like it didn’t go well? Why don’t I feel relieved like I thought I would? Wasn’t that the whole point of meeting up with him? To not carry around this crazy amount of guilt and regret that has been with me for so long, it’s become a part of me? A living, breathing fragment of myself that feeds off me, happily dancing along with a smile on its face while I succumb to its darkness a little more each day.
I groan and plop my head back on my arms.
Talk about being melodramatic.
That’s what Noah Winters does to my heart. My poor, poor heart that didn’t know what to do when it saw that vision of a man. With his short, slightly wavy light brown hair, his five-o’clock shadow, and those eyes . . . the stunning blue gray I remember so much, the ones I dreamed of so often. There was an instant reconnection with a part inside of me that no one and nothing else has ever reached.
I’m officially screwed. So, so screwed.
My uncles’ voices are muffled as Francesco fills in Cody on what happened while I try to drown out the noise. And my thoughts. Not sure what’s louder right now, but it’s exhausting.
Where’s that off-switch button when you need it?
“Give him some time, Scribbles,” Cody says.
It’s impossible to keep the corners of my mouth from tilting up at the use of his nickname for me. He gave it to me when I was little because I was always drawing, scribbling on whatever surface or material was available.
Today, I choose my surfaces wisely, but I still don’t shy away from a napkin or other unusual material if nothing else is available and inspiration hits.
I look at him, at his adoring smile and my mood lifts. Slightly. Maybe by one-ninetieth.
Let’s yank that up a notch because Francesco has perfect timing, finishing up our colorful drinks while swinging his hips to the exotic music coming from the hidden speakers.
“A zombie for you, babe.” He places one of the orange-red drinks in front of Cody, and the other one in front of me. “And a hurricane for you. Virgin, of course.”
“Thanks,” Cody and I say in unison before taking a sip.
The sugary taste hits my taste buds immediately, and I sigh in pure fruity appreciation when the passion fruit flavor hits my tongue. There’s nothing quite like it, and it will be worth having to drink about five green juices to counteract all these calories and sugar. Even though Francesco already makes me a healthier version.
Cody bumps my knee with his. “I bet it’s a lot for him to process. You’re like a ghost from his past.”
I stop mid-sip, trying hard not to choke on the juice concoction that’s halfway down my throat.
“Yeah. You probably gave that poor guy the shock of the century.” Francesco leans against his side of the bar. “I mean, you had time to mentally prepare yourself for seeing him again, while he went in there like a blind man. Maybe he was expecting an old, lonely woman who was going to try and hump him. This date was bought after all.”
I blink and turn to Cody.
He shrugs and scratches his neck. “As much as it disturbs me to say this, he does have a point.”
“Ugh.” This time, I take several sips. Maybe I can fall into a sugar coma for a little while and escape this madness.
“Hey.” Cody’s voice is gentle, and he gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy, but it’s done now. You did what you wanted to do. Maybe things will be better when you see him next time.”
“Next time?” My eyes widen when I look at him.
“Berkeley isn’t a small town, but it’s not a metropolis either. You both live and work here, so it’s possible you’ll run into him again, right?”
“Oooooh, this will be so juicy. I can already taste it.” Francesco’s voice is the opposite of Cody’s. He sounds like he’s already looked too deep into the cookie jar, ready to bounce off the walls from excitement like a five-year-old on a sugar high.
“Checco, not helping.” Cody gives him a look that makes Francesco raise his hands in defeat.
“Fine, fine. I’ll go make sure the stage is ready for tonight’s karaoke session. You two talk about whatever boring, non-juicy stuff without me.” He sighs and leaves.
His theatrics make me chuckle. “Gosh, I missed this. It’s never as good in text or any other form of electronic communication.”
“He’s one of a kind.” Cody smiles his special smile that’s reserved for when he talks about his partner in crime. Then he looks at me. “Speaking of work though. How are things going?”
I welcome the change in topic and try to push Noah out of my mind.
At least, for now.
Plus, I love talking about my work. I love thinking about my work. The doodles I did as a chubby toddler have matured and developed to the point where I became a children’s book illustrator—with the occasional dabble into other areas like middle school or young adult if the job sounds interesting, and the pay is fair.
It brings me a joy I don’t think any other job could ever match. There’s just something about the sweetness and innocence, not to mention the pure joy that practically jumps off the pages, and I enjoy being a part of it.
I shrug. “It’s going okay. Good. Between the publisher and my indie authors, my schedule is full.”
“So the freelancing is working out, then?”
“It is. I wasn’t sure if anyone would hire a random illustrator for their books online, but they do.” The pride is easy to hear in my voice, and I wear it like a crown because I’m proud of myself. I worked incredibly hard for what felt like a gazillion years, and it paid off.
After taking another lazy sip from his drink, he tips his head to the side. “And what about the competition?”
I draw a breath before speaking. Now that’s a totally different topic. “I really want to win it because I just know it would make such a big change in my career, but . . .”