All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [168]
She’d never make that mistake.
Fiona’s fingers brushed the envelope she used as a bookmark. Inside was Mitch’s letter. She’d never gotten a real personal letter before. (That card on the cursed box of chocolates earlier this year didn’t count.) She had it memorized.
Fiona,
Hope you’re having a great break. I’m visiting family, catching up with old friends, but wishing I was there with you.
What’s with Westin’s pop quiz? Check out Our Shadows Wander, by the way, for essays on the extinct Gypsy Clans.
It’s so obvious that she’s trying to make up for everyone on Team Scarab getting an A. Well, it’s Westin’s school and her rules, but if we stick together, she won’t be able to beat us.
I enjoyed our walk the other day. I hope we get to do it again.
M.
His letter was friendly, but not friendly in the way Fiona was hoping for.
Their walk around the world had ended in an embrace, but maybe it had been Mitch just trying to keep her from shivering to death in the chilled Gobi Desert night.
They’d watched the stars fade into the dawn. It was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her . . . but he hadn’t kissed her.
She was ready for it. Wanted it.
But he’d just taken her hand and then they’d “walked” back to San Francisco. There hadn’t even been any awkward abortive attempt to kiss her at the end of it all. Wasn’t that the way these things worked? She just didn’t know.
If she’d made the move, would he have gone for it?
Or was he too much of a gentleman to kiss on the first date?
Or was it a sign that he wanted to be friends? And just friends?
No way. All that talk about “looking into her soul” and “knowing she was the one for him.” That was not “friend” talk.
Maybe if they went out again . . . he’d kiss her. Really, what was the rush?
She fidgeted and sighed, exasperated.
The kitchen door swung open—kicked by Dallas as she entered with both arms loaded with plates. The sun broke through the Bay Area fog, and golden light filled the room.
Her aunt did know how to make an entrance.
She set the plates on the table.
There was wild mushroom quiche and crêpes suzette, steaming cinnamon buns with icing, fresh squeezed juices, croissants that smelled divine, artful arrangements of sliced fruits and cheeses, and for each of them—Fiona, Eliot, and Cee—their own steaming cups of cappuccino with heart shapes swirled in foam.
“It’s not much,” Dallas apologized, “but it was the best I could whip up in your dinky kitchen.”
Cee made a strangled coughing noise, poked a croissant, and then retreated back into her kitchen.
Eliot dug in.
So did Fiona. “M-thanks,” she said as she chewed fluffy egg and chomped drizzled cinnamon glaze.
Fiona’s stomach rumbled, feeling already full, but she forced herself to eat more. It was good.
Dallas sat cross-legged in the chair next to hers and grinned.
Fiona wanted to tell her that she could come over anytime, cook for them morning, noon, and night if she wanted to, but didn’t. It would’ve crushed Cee.
Eliot rolled his eyes. He was in the same predicament, not being able to thank Dallas properly—but not pausing in his feeding to do anything about it.
Fiona took a gulp of pomegranate juice.
“Thanks, Aunt Dallas,” she whispered.
Dallas nodded, but her attention was on the school catalog, reading it upside down . . . and her fingers touched Mitch’s letter.
Fiona wanted to snatch it away. But that would be rude, especially to someone who just cooked you the best breakfast ever. So instead Fiona gingerly tried to pull the catalog and letter across the table. “That’s nothing,” she told Dallas. “I was just worrying about classes this semester.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” Her tone indicated that she meant things more important than school. Dallas kept one finger on Mitch’s letter, as if she could discern the contents within the envelope through her fingertips.
Dallas considered, smiled, and released Mitch’s letter. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I was dizzy and confused the first dozen or so times I got married.”
Confused didn’t begin to cover how Fiona felt. What she