about the way he says that last one tugs at my heart. The feeling is similar to the nostalgia I’ve felt all day, except this is a nostalgia for something that never actually happened. There has to be a word for that specific brand of wistfulness.
Regret.
Maybe that’s what it is.
We could have had this. Four years of sparring when we could have had this: his awful singing voice, his hip bumping mine to encourage me to sing along, the scarlet on his cheeks when I attacked him with icing. While I was so focused on destroying him, I missed so much.
“It turns out I’m a bad friend, so maybe you’re better off,” I say, and immediately wish I could take it back.
I pass him a plate, but he just holds it under the water.
“Is that… something you want to talk about?”
“I’ve been holding on to the idea of my friendship with Kirby and Mara, but I haven’t really been there for them lately. I’m going to try to be better, but—I might do this with a lot of things, actually. I idealize.” I let out a long breath. “Am I not realistic enough? Am I too… dreamy?” I cringe when the word comes out. “Not dreamy as in hot, dreamy as in… dreaming too much.”
He considers this. “You’re… optimistic. Maybe overly so, sometimes, like with that success guide. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, though. Especially if you’re aware of it.”
“I’ve been aware of it for a whole three hours.”
One side of his mouth quirks into a smile. “It’s a start.” He makes a move to point, but since his hands are buried in soap bubbles, he gestures to me with his elbow instead. “But are you aware you have icing, like, all over your eyebrow?”
My face flames. His eyes pierce mine, and there’s an intensity there that pins me in place.
If we were in a romance novel, he’d run his thumb along my eyebrow, dip it into his mouth, and give me a come-hither look. He’d back me up against the kitchen counter with his hips before kissing me, and he would taste like sugar and cinnamon.
I’ll give my brain points for creativity. This shouldn’t be a romantic moment. We are scrubbing other people’s crumbs and chewed-up bits of food off plates. Still, the thought of kissing him hits me like an earthquake, the tremor nearly making me lose my balance.
“Are you… going to clean it off or wait until it gets all crusty?”
Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner for the word most likely to kill the romance. Congratulations, crusty.
“Right,” I say, swiping my wrist across my eyebrow. The moment is gone—because that’s how it always is, isn’t it? What happens in my head is better than the reality. “Hand me that towel?”
* * *
Once I lock the doors, Neil makes a strange clicking sound with his tongue.
“You know,” he says. “We’re actually not far from that open mic. We have time to make it, if you still want to see Delilah.”
The air bites at my cheeks. “We shouldn’t,” I say. But we have only two clues left, and the thought of this night ending, being done with Neil… it makes me unreasonably sad. The open mic would at least increase our time together.
“Okay.” He jams his hands into his pockets and turns down the street where my car is parked.
“Okay?” I have to jog to keep up with him. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”
He shrugs. “If you don’t want to see her, don’t see her.”
“Is this some kind of reverse-psychology bullshit?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
“I really hate you.”
“You don’t have to do it. We can get in the car right now. But you love her, don’t you? If not today, when will you get another chance? What excuse will you make the next time your favorite author is in town, or when someone wants to know what kind of book you’re writing?” He leans in, plants one hand on my shoulder. It’s meant to be encouraging, I think, but it’s incredibly distracting. “I know you can do this. You’re the person who revolutionized garbage collection at Westview, remember?”
Despite myself, I crack a smile at that.
“So hear me out,” he continues. “If you don’t just do it and rip the Band-Aid off—”
“Two clichés in one sentence?” I say, and he shoots daggers at me.
“—you might wish you had. All that regret you were talking about earlier, with the success guide—here’s a goal you can