Making room.
For him.
So I totally forget the yearbook.
After speeding across town, I race through check-in, and scurry past the well-monitored doors straight into Havenwood’s cafe. Sayla is waiting for me at a bistro table. She’s wearing a visitor’s badge on her sweater, and she’s already ordered us two cups of tea.
“Sorry!” I collapse onto a chair and hang my bag on the hook under the table. I’m sweaty and flushed, and my brain is completely preoccupied by an imaginary slideshow of what Bridger Adams must have looked like in my shower.
Sayla’s brow furrows. “Are you good?”
“What do you mean?” I blurt.
She pushes a cup of tea toward me and says nothing.
“It’s just that good is so subjective,” I choke. “I’m not sure answering that question accurately is even possible.”
She leans back, appraising me a moment. “This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Nobody expects that,” I say, forcing a laugh.
She’s quiet for another stretch. “It’s just that you’re always on time. Like, always. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
I blink. “Punctuality?”
She studies me a bit longer, but offers no response.
“I … just … I had a thing,” I manage.
“Well, that’s very unspecific.” She squints. “Also, you’re very red.”
“Red? Like my hair?”
“No. Everywhere.” She nods to indicate my face and neck area. Possibly my throat and chest, too. Then she rips open two packets of sugar with her teeth before dumping them into her tea. She stirs, stirs, stirs, her spoon causing a whirlpool in her teacup. I press a hand to my cheek, and she’s not wrong. My skin does, indeed, feel red. And by that I mean hot.
Also, Sayla still isn’t talking.
I lean over the table. “Areyougood?”
She stops stirring. “What doyoumean?”
“It’s just that you always talk,” I say. “Like always. Talking is one of my favorite things about you.”
She sets down her spoon. “I’m fantastic, thanks.” She exhales. “Married life is the absolute best. A dream come true for me. I’m basically obsessed with my husband. So my answer isn’t subjective. It’s yes, I’m good. Objectively. Yes. Yes.”
I tilt my head, pinning her gaze. “Yes … and?”
“Awwwwww.” Her eyes go soft.
“What?”
“You know I’m a sucker for improv speak.”
“I know most things about you.”
Yes, this is me, turning the focus back on Sayla, without sharing that I just caught Bridger singing love songs in myshower.Ourlove songs. Or that he’s been acting like an attentive husband, and I’ve kind of enjoyed being his wife.
More than kind of.