For the Love of Donuts

3. What If?

Tatum

That last forkful of watermelon tastes like straight-up gravel as it tumbles down my throat.

“You said what ?”

I’m not mad. It’s almost impossible for me to get mad at Skye.

I am, however, utterly lost as to why she chose to use my name.

“I’m sorry!” she rushes to apologize, scooting closer to me. “It just slipped out! But don’t worry! Zoya didn’t ask to meet you or anything like that, so you won’t have to pretend to be my fiancé, because I know that would be super awkward and uncomfortable.”

Somehow, that makes me feel even more uneasy about this whole thing. Like her boss is going to call her up any second now and DEMAND that she gets to meet Skye’s fiancé, Tatum .

I squirm at the thought of Skye and me being engaged, even just in a fake way. We’ve never talked about us ever becoming more than best friends, but every once in a while, I find myself thinking: what if ?

I don’t talk about the “what if?” possibility with Skye, though, because she’s never expressed any similar feelings, and I don’t want to make things weird.

But the little detail of her using my name for her fake fiancé has “what if?” ringing LOUD and CLEAR in my mind right now.

“Tate?” she asks, poking my arm. “You’re being like, really quiet and it’s freaking me out. If you’re mad at me—which I would totally understand—feel free to express that vocally.”

I shove the “what if?” possibility as far down as I can, where it’s locked up and contained in a little box that says: DO NOT OPEN.

Then, I set my empty bowl on the coffee table before turning to face her. “How the heck am I going to be mad at my favorite model, hmm?”

When I first started getting into photography during our sophomore year of high school, I guilted her into posing for most of my pictures, so I could practice photographing people.

In return, I gave her the “my favorite model” title. One she carries proudly.

Usually, she’ll toss her pink layers over her shoulder with a sassy look, but this time she just studies me with worried brown eyes. “Tatum, I’m serious. I know I messed up. And if you’re mad at me—”

“I’m not,” I insist in all honesty. I can’t help but crack a grin. “Well, I mean, not about this anyway. But I’m pretty upset that you didn’t listen to the song I sent you.”

Anything to change the subject…

“Of course you’d say that.” She rolls her eyes before pulling her phone out. “Here, I’ll listen to it now, okay?”

“Good.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “And while you pull it up, I’m going to grab my tablet so you can see some of the shots I took yesterday.”

She waves me off, her attention now on her phone, and I walk over to my “photo studio.”

It’s actually the master bedroom, but the second room was too small for my equipment and everything else, so that room became my bedroom instead.

Eventually, I’ll have enough money saved up for the spot I really want as my photo studio. I just need more exposure—and I’m not talking about a lighting reference.

Gotta love photography humor.

But seriously, I have a decent-sized client base, and I’m selling some of my pictures to stock photo sites, but it’s never enough. Skye says I’m not consistent enough on social media, and that I use the wrong hashtags or keywords.

I guess she would know, but honestly? I just want to take pictures and be successful. That social media crap can be so draining sometimes. I don’t know how people do it.

I grab my tablet just as I hear Skye groaning from the living room. “Tatum! I don’t know why you keep trying to turn me into a rock music enthusiast ! I am in actual agony right now!”

“You’re so dramatic,” I laugh, going back over to her. “It’s not that bad, you big baby.”

“Yes, it is.” She wrinkles her nose before stopping the song, and then she pockets her phone. “Oh!” she exclaims as I sit across from her on the coffee table. “Don’t let me forget that I need to buy something for the twins while we’re out tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is Saturday, and Saturdays are our days.

It’s something we started during our senior year of high school, to make sure we’d always have at least one day of the week where we just hang out together. Sometimes we run errands. Other times we try out a new activity. Or we’ll have a low-key day, where we just stay in, and don’t do much of anything.

Kind of like the singing vegetable pirates from those movies I watched in Sunday School.

“Yeah, I’ll remind you.” I turn my tablet on. “Ya know, I already have their presents wrapped and ready to go, just saying.”

“Last-minute gifts are always more special,” she retorts with a smug look, “like your concert tickets.”

“Leave my tickets alone,” I tell her, opening the file with yesterday’s pictures. “You don’t get to talk about them after what you texted me.”

I add a fake sniffle for good measure, causing her to shove my knee. “Shut up and let me see these pictures already.”

I chuckle before handing her the tablet. And as she swipes through the different shots while oohing and ahhing , I find myself staring at her.

What if ? What if ? What if ?

My heart begins to race as my mind chants the troublesome question.

So much for “DO NOT OPEN.”

Honestly? This is twelve-year-old Tatum’s fault. At that age, I wasn’t very smooth with girls, so I never worked up the nerve to ask Skye out. And now? I can’t ask her out. Asking her out would be like crossing some kind of invisible line.

See? The “what if?” possibility only confuses things.

That’s why I need to keep ignoring it.

And maybe one day, it’ll decide to disappear forever.

Yes, I’m aware of how unlikely that is.

Also, is it crazy that I’m still expecting her boss to call?

“Okay,” Skye says, clearing her throat, “are you ready to see my top pick?”

I force a tight smile. “Lay it on me, Carson.”

“It’s…” Her voice trails off for dramatic effect, and then she turns the tablet so I can see it. “ This one !”

This time, I smile for real, followed by a brief snort. “You, uh, you went to the home screen.”

“Wha—” She cusses before whipping the tablet toward her. “Gah, stupid thumb. You better stop that snickering, Tatum, or so help me—”

“What?” I ask with a tsk. “You gonna sic Sprinkles on me?”

Sprinkles would be her pet bunny.

Yep, that’s right, Skye has a bunny named Sprinkles .

She definitely loves her donuts.

“Sprinkles has been known to have a mean streak,” she defends the little fluff-ball. “You remember the time she wouldn’t look at Anna for a solid week because she took away that disfigured piece of cardboard from her, don’t you?”

She’s not wrong; that was the first time I’ve ever seen a bunny frown. I didn’t know it was possible, but Sprinkles was mad as—

“Okay, I got it back up,” Skye says, turning the tablet to me again. “This is my top pick!”

I smile at the dockside picture I took as the sun was starting to set. “That one was my favorite too.”

“Great minds think alike.” She hands me the tablet. “It’s a really pretty shot, Tate.”

“I had to try like, eight different times before this one,” I admit, offering a slight shrug. “It was hard to get the lighting just right.”

She nods, and then licks her lips as her knee bounces up and down. “Hey, Tatum?”

Oh no, did something else happen?

I try not to seem uneasy. “Yes?”

At least my voice didn’t go up an octave.

“Are we okay?” Her eyes are laced with concern again. “I don’t want things to be weird between us because I screwed up.”

I mentally curse. Man, do I hate seeing her worried. It drives me crazy. Skye is one of the most carefree people I know, and I love that about her. There’s no way I’m going to be the reason she’s worried.

“Pink Stuff, don’t even sweat it,” I tell her, giving her knee a light squeeze. “We’re golden.”