Page 36 of Until You

Not next to her. Across from her. One seat buffer. Enough distance to be respectable. Close enough to scent her. She smells of something warm and floral that I know isn’t Mimz’s lavender soap. This is Cora. Just hers.

She glances up when I sit. Those pale green eyes hit mine and hold.

“Hey,” she says. Casual and light. Like my presence is unremarkable.

“Hey.”

Damien offers her wine, and she declines. “I’m good with my water. Thank you.” Water with lime.

My brain files that away with all the other things I’ve noticed and don’t know what to do with. Like how I’ve heard her up getting sick in her bathroom every morning I’ve been there.

I look at her then. Really look. “You look—” I start, then catch myself. Because what I was about to say is you look so goddamn beautiful it’s making it hard to think, and that is not an appropriate thing to say to the woman you’ve been actively pretending doesn’t affect you. “—nice,” I finish.

Smooth. Real smooth.

Caroline snorts from across the table. I ignore her. She’s one of my sister Kelsie’s best friends. Together, they and my new sister-in-law, Gracie, own SugarBakers in town.

Cora bites the inside of her cheek. “Nice?”

“The dress,” I clarify, which makes it worse. “It’s—green.”

That gets a real smile out of her. “It is green. Excellent observation, Cowboy.”

My jaw tightens at the name. She hasn’t called me that since the morning I showed up in the kitchen. Where she stood wearing a towel and a temper and it took every shred of restraint I had not to⁠—

“You are bad at this, my friend,” Damien says.

Henry and Gracie join our table, both carrying plates loaded down with barbecue and all the fixings.

Cora doesn’t have food. Should I get her some? She’s been making sure I have meals every night. I stand quickly and make my way over to the food table and methodically build two plates. By the time I return, Cora is engaged in a conversation with Caroline.

I set the plate of food down in front of Cora without a word, then take my seat.

“That’s a little better,” Damien murmurs. “You need some tips? You’re acting like a damn couillion.”

“Damien, I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good. Is that a crazy Cajun thing?”

He chuckles. “It is Cajun. Means you’re acting like the fool.”

My father stands and gives a toast. He talks about Mimz and Pops, about their example, about fifty years of choosing the same person. He ends with happy wife, happy life, right darlin’? and my mother heckles him from the crowd.

Then Pops steps up.

The crowd goes quiet. That’s the effect Pops has. Always has. You don’t demand attention when you’ve earned the kind of respect that makes a room hold its breath.

He reaches back for Mimz. She fits into his side like she was designed for the space.

He keeps it simple, the way he always does. Years and luck and stubbornness. Loving someone isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it. Choosing the same person again and again.

I feel something tighten in my chest.

I don’t look at Cora.

I absolutely do not look at Cora.

Until I do. She’s watching Mimz and Pops with an expression I’ve never seen on her before. Open. Unguarded. Her lips are parted slightly, her eyes bright in the string lights, and there’s something on her face that looks like longing. The deep, aching, bone-level kind. The kind that comes from wanting something so badly you’ve convinced yourself you can’t have it because the wanting itself feels too dangerous.

I know that look.

I’ve been wearing it for three months.

Then Pops calls Henry up, and the moment breaks. Cora blinks. Takes a sip of her water. Puts her walls back up, brick by brick, so fast it’s almost invisible.

But I saw it.

I saw it, and now I can’t unsee it.