“Where are we going?”

“Chess and hot beverages, duh.”

“I thought I lost those privileges.”

She smiles over her shoulder. “You’ve earned chess and tea provided the winner gets to decide if I come to the birthday party.”

I glare at her as she tugs me through the crowd. Bea’s a good chess player. There’s a distinct chance I’ll lose and then have to suffer subjecting her to my family.

And then she’ll have seen me at my worst.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. Because then the far-off, foolish chance I’ve entertained in weak moments, the possibility that she might actually like me, might actually one day want this odd friendship to become something more, would be entirely wiped away.

“Fine,” I tell her.

Spinning and backtracking, she shakes our hands up and down. “That’s the spirit.”

—

Bea’s phone clicks with the sound of a photo being taken. I lower my tea. “Was that really necessary?”

She snorts as she stares at her phone. “You looked just like Cornelius when he’s blissed out in a bath.”

I nudge her foot under the table. “Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry! It’s cute. I swear I’m not laughing at you.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” I sip my tea and exaggerate whatever expression I was already making. Hell if I know what it was; I just know it entertained her.

“Stop it!” She laughs harder, clutching her side.

Now I’m laughing, too. Boulangerie is mellower than it was when we were last here, perhaps because it’s a weekday afternoon, so our laughter easily echoes around the space. We earn a few amused glances before we quiet down.

“Oh man.” Bea wipes her eyes. “So good.”

I stare at the chessboard and shake my head. “You slaughtered me.”

She grins. “I did. And now you’ve got a partner in crime for the awful party.” She tidies up the pawns, setting them into their drawers. “Do you want to talk about your family?” she asks, eyes on her task.

I swallow my tea and set down my cup. “Not really.”

But maybe I should. Maybe getting it out is better than bottling it up where it builds like a pressure cooker right beneath my sternum.

Bea says nothing, eyes on her task. It’s almost like she knows it helps, when the whole weight of her focus isn’t on me expectantly as I search for words to explain.

“My father’s a world-renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. My older brother’s a surgeon, the younger ones are surgeons in training. That’s what you do when you’re a Westenberg. As the only pediatrician in the family, I’m a disappointment.”

Bea shuts the pawn drawer and peers up at me. “A disappointment? You save babies, Jamie.”

“Generally, I just make sure they grow up healthy.”