Chapter 17

It rained the next day, interrupting the golden days of spring I’d been enjoying so thoroughly. Willa left before the storm became unbearable, deciding to spend the day at Wren’s. As the rain increased, it was just Echo and me in the apartment—accompanied by clashes of thunder and flashes of lightning.

Once afternoon approached, I padded into the kitchen to pull a bowl of egg whites from the refrigerator, setting them on the counter to bring to room temperature. Echo followed every step I took, weaving in and out of my legs with voracious meows. I scooped her into my arms and cradled her against my chest as I danced around the kitchen.

That’s when I heard it.

The crying. The sobbing.

I set Echo down and tilted my head, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. It came from outside and was almost drowned out by the rain. Curiously, I opened the front door, keeping one foot in front of the opening so Echo didn’t run out. Thankfully, the cat couldn’t care less and trotted into Willa’s room.

Closing the door behind me, I wandered down the hallway in search of the crying. I paused at the bottom of each staircase, ensuring it didn’t come from any of the apartments before I made it to the last door—the one that led outside. I wasn’t particularly in the mood to get wet, but the sobbing sounded louder than ever from down here, as if the brokenhearted soul was right outside the door.

Rain plastered me in the face the instant I opened the door, and I raised my forearm to shield myself, though it soaked into my pajamas within moments. Once my eyes adjusted, I searched the street surrounding the building until my eyes settled on the woman sitting against the stone wall with her knees to her chest. Her face was buried against her knees and her whole body shook with her sobs.

I let out a long breath and stepped out into the rain, walking barefoot until I stood in front of Eliza.

She raised her head to reveal mascara and eyeliner streaked down her face. Her hair clung to her face in soaking ringlets, and her white shirt was entirely transparent and saturated with rainwater.

I set my jaw. “Are you coming inside or not?”

“What?” She stuttered.

Crossing my arms, I repeated myself—a little harsher. She didn’t need me to ask a third time; she scrambled to her feet, clutching her backpack to her chest, and followed me inside. Annoyance coursed through me as we dripped water on the stairs, and all the way down the hallway to my apartment. She’d walked away from me—quite rudely—and had the audacity to show up at my building in the rain, sobbing like she was the one who needed consolation.

I opened the door and ushered her inside, disappearing inside my room to rummage out a pair of old pajamas. When I returned to the living room, she remained just inside the doorway, looking like a drowned animal.

I held out the towel and dry clothes to her, and motioned for Willa’s room. “You can use the bathroom in there to change.”

Eliza set her backpack on the ground next to the door and took what I offered, her shoes squishing as she walked into Willa’s room. I darted into my room and changed into clean clothes, laying my wet ones over the shower door. I wrung my hair out and braided it as quickly and haphazardly as I could.

Eliza was still changing when I finished, so I busied myself making two mugs of tea until she padded into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“What are you doing here?” I asked coldly.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times. “I woke up this morning feeling more lonely than I’ve ever felt, and I didn’t know where else to go.”

“And you thought I’d want to see you?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “That’s why I’ve been outside for two hours.”

I spun to look at her and—for the first time—noticed the details that revealed she had been out freezing in the rain for a while. Her lips were blue, her skin was white as a sheet, and her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Setting my jaw, I turned away and finished the tea, drizzling some honey over the top of each cup.

I slid one across the island to Eliza. She breathed a sigh of relief when she lifted the mug and cradled it to her chest.

“There’s a blanket on the couch,” I said, motioning across the room.

Eliza nodded and darted across the room, setting her mug on the coffee table while she wrapped herself in the blanket and settled into the corner of the couch. I perched on the other side, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought you didn’t want to be friends with someone who thought you were a charity case,” I said coolly.

Eliza winced and shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“Are you sorry for leaving? Are you sorry for making assumptions about what I was trying to say? Are you sorry for lashing out?” I growled.

She sipped her tea. “I’m sorry I’m not who you want me to be.”

Scoffing, I said, “I don’t care who you are, Eliza. I thought we were having a pleasant night out—maybe as friends, maybe not—and then you became a different person entirely.”

She stared into her mug. “I do that sometimes.”

Her lack of an apology left a sour taste in my mouth. I sipped my tea to smother it.

I sighed. “You might as well stay until the rain stops.”

“Thank you.”

Neither of us said anything else for a while.

After about an hour, the continued silence became unbearable. Neither of us talked, moved, or even looked at each other. My skin crawled at the discomfort permeating the room. Outside, the rain had not let up—not even for a moment.

I sat up. “Have you ever made macarons before?”

Eliza looked at me in surprise. “Macaroons?”

“No,” I corrected firmly. “Macarons, the little French sandwich cookie.”

“That’s what I said,” she said dismissively.

I smothered a growl that rumbled in my chest and took a deep breath. “Okay, get up, we’re making macarons.”

I stood off the couch and walked into the kitchen, grabbing my sweater off the couch. Eliza followed stiffly, her eyes darting around the apartment like she expected something to leap out and hurt her. I laid out all the macaron ingredients on the counter and set the oven to preheat.

“Okay, first, we need to process this almond flour and this sugar to make sure it’s superfine,” I said, handing her the separate bags and bowls and giving her the measurements.

Without a word, she started measuring the almond flower and putting it into the food processor. I pulled my stand mixer out from beneath the cabinet and poured the egg whites I’d set out earlier into it.

Eliza said nothing while we prepared the batter. She followed instructions and gave me a couple perplexed looks when I tried to explain the batter was done when it flowed like lava off the spatula and warned her not to beat all the air out of it.

“These might be the most complicated cookies I’ve ever made,” she grumbled as I took the bowl from her to continue cutting and folding the batter. “And there aren’t even any chocolate chips.”

I laughed. “We’re not even halfway done.”

Eliza’s jaw hit the ground. When the batter was ready, I moved it into my piping bag and bent over slightly to pipe it onto the silicone tray. The squeeze and flick motion was second nature to me—I’d made more than my fair share of macarons in my lifetime—and I filled one tray in no time. As I shifted my hips to move to the second tray, I glanced at Eliza over my shoulder.

Her eyes were very, very clearly fixed on my ass. A blush rose on my cheeks as I returned to my work, and I asked, “Like what you see?”

“Yes,” she rasped, clearing her throat. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the little macarons I made. “I have a spectacular ass.”

Eliza cleared her throat again. “I don’t mean to ogle you. It’s just—I think you’re beautiful, and I would like to know if you like girls.” She covered her mouth and groaned. “I could have asked that more eloquently.”

I laughed. “I am attracted to people regardless of their gender, but yes, I like girls.”

“Do you like me?” She whispered.

I straightened, having piped the last macaron shell. “Tell me why you keep pushing me away, and perhaps I’ll give you an answer.”

She shifted uncomfortably, then motioned for the baking tray. “Are those ready to go in the oven?”

Disappointed by her lack of answer, I shook my head. “No, they need to sit for a while to form a film.”

She snorted. “These better be good.”