“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I forced a smile. “Nothing,” I said, before I moved closer to him and let him wrap his arms around me.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he said as he stroked my hair.

“Yeah.” I looked up at him, certain he could feel my heart pounding against him. “Thanks for, um, letting me hang out.”

His mouth curved up into a soft, sensual smile that made my cheeks flush. “Thanks for coming over.”

I was paralyzed, frozen as I stared at him. Part of me wondered if he’d kiss me. Almost all of me wanted him to kiss me. But when he lowered his head closer to mine, I cleared my throat and wriggled free.

“Tell your mom I said ‘hi,’” I said over my shoulder as I unlocked the door and let myself out. I congratulated myself on my hasty retreat, but I doubted it could’ve been more awkward. Tell your mom I said ‘hi,’ I repeated silently. Not my most subtle moment. I hurried to my car and lifted a shaky hand after I climbed inside. I waved again as I pulled away from his house.

During the short drive home, all I could think of were his arms holding me close and how much I really wanted him to kiss me again. And he would have, and I knew it, and I hated myself for wishing I didn’t break away. But whether or not they were having problems, whether or not he’d set an expiration date for their relationship, he was still Clover’s boyfriend. I couldn’t ever let him know I was falling in love with him.

The realization scared me. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t take a deep breath. My stomach tightened into a tiny knot, and I felt like I was going to throw up. I pulled my car to the side of the road because I couldn’t keep from shaking.

Love was for fools and hopeless romantics. Love was a myth designed to lull people into some false sense of happiness so they’d spend money on stupid frivolity. Love was an illusion, something delusional people only believed because they wanted to.

And I was having a panic attack because I’d realized I was well beyond “falling.”

I was already there.

Chapter Thirty-Four

A whiff of something with garlic, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, lots of oregano greeted me when I got home that night. I set down my backpack at the bottom of the staircase and peered into the kitchen to find my mother pulling something out of the oven.

“What is that?” I pointed at the dark brown lump resting on a foil-lined baking sheet from which greasy stalagmites rose. It oozed a clear liquid when she stabbed it with a meat thermometer. “That’s not dinner, is it?”

“Yes,” my mom said with a confident smile. “Jake’s mom came over earlier today to walk me through some recipes.” She checked the thermometer and beamed. “Perfect!”

I stared at the misshapen lump. “What is it?”

“Meatloaf,” she replied as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought meatloaf was supposed to be in a loaf pan. You know, hence the name?”

Mom shot me a side-eye glare as she lifted the misshapen glob onto a cutting board. “If you must know, Isabelle suggested using a loaf pan to shape the meatloaf but said it cooks better when it’s cooked outside the pan.”

“And the wire rack?”

“So drippings go directly into the pan instead of collecting around the meat.” She sliced off a little piece and speared it with a fork. “Here. Try it.”

I took the fork and sniffed the chunk on the end. It smelled okay, but it was also something my mother had cooked. I was skeptical.

“Oh, quit making faces and just try it,” she said. “I don’t think one tiny bite will kill you.”

I grimaced as I put it in my mouth, bracing myself for the worst, but it wasn’t what I’d expected.

“Well?” Mom was watching me with hopeful eyes.

“That tastes like the meatballs Mrs. DeSantos makes,” I said, “except better.” I was pleasantly surprised. “What did you do to it?”

She beamed. “I added a little more salt, one more garlic clove, and some sun-dried tomatoes.” She took my fork and cut off another piece for me. “It’s not bad, is it?”

I slid onto the barstool and propped my elbows on the counter. “Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?” I said, my eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Mom shook her head, disappointed. “So unoriginal, Talia. I’m sure you can come up with something better than that.”

I tilted my head but didn’t say anything. Instead, I watched her move around the kitchen, opening cabinets as if in search of something. She pulled out a pot and began filling it with water.

“You’re home early,” she said with a nod to the clock on the microwave. “It’s barely five. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged. “Sure.”

“You want to try that again? Maybe this time like you mean it?”

A smile stubbornly lifted my cheek. “What are you making now?” I said as she put the pot on the stove.

“Egg noodles,” she said. “They’re from a bag, though.” She paused. “Do you remember how your dad let you help him roll out dough for pasta every Sunday?”

I nodded. “He said the boxed stuff wasn’t the real thing.”

“He was such a food snob.”

I smiled. “Oh, hey, remember that time he let me stuff ravioli, and the filling was uneven and didn’t cook right at all?”

We laughed at the memory of it. There were some good times in the house with my dad. It felt good to focus on the better days. That was the father I knew, the man my mom fell in love with. When I remembered stuff like that, it was easy to understand why my mom was so devastated by his death.

Maybe those were the only memories she kept of him.

“You know, I came across his recipe for egg noodles,” Mom said, “but Isabelle says making pasta and baking are all about precision and, let’s face it. Precision in the kitchen isn’t quite my thing.”

I laughed again, and she smiled.

“I’m glad you’re home early, though. Rob’s five o’clock canceled, so he should be home soon. We can eat dinner as a family.”

“Yay.”

Mom gave me a knowing look and rounded the counter to sit beside me. “You never answered my question,” she said. “What’s going on?”

I paused, not sure how much I wanted to share. Too much and I’d might as well open myself up for a full interrogation, but too little and she’d think I was hiding something. I held my chin in my hands and said, “Ally’s ex-boyfriend was making out with another girl in his car yesterday.”

She furrowed her brow. “But didn’t she say she found him with…?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” My mother had been rendered speechless. That was a first.

“Anyway, he and this new girl are constantly joined at the lip now, so Ally’s….” I didn’t have to complete my thought. She understood.

“How’s she doing?”

“I don’t really know.” I studied the ends of my hair. “Okay, I guess? I mean, she says she’s fine, but she’s still kind of mopey and all.”

“That’s to be expected.” She made a clucking sound. “Poor thing.” After a long pause she said, “Is everything okay with Jake?”

I sat up straight. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re usually not this somber when you come home from his house.” She got up and began wiping down the kitchen counters.

“Oh.” I slouched back in my seat and watched her. “Well, it was hard to concentrate on homework. His girlfriend kept calling him, and then some of the stuff he was saying about her….” I let my words trail off again. “I don’t know. It was weird.”

“I didn’t realize Jake was seeing anyone.” She folded up the dish towel and set it aside.

“Yeah, he’s going out with Clover. You know, that girl you met at the club.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Malcolm Davies’s daughter?”

I nodded. “He doesn’t talk about it, though. I only found out a couple of weeks ago.” Or I never would’ve kissed him, I added silently.

“At least he trusts you enough to talk about her,” she said with an encouraging smile. “What was he saying? Good stuff? Bad stuff?”