Without the weight of homework, Keeley found her free time after the lab strangely empty, especially since Valentina was usually at the hospital. She binge-watched TV, explored quirky YouTube videos (like short documentaries on Parmesan cheese production), and often lay on the floor with Molly, staring at the ceiling fan. Busy people, she realized, don't always know how to handle less busy schedules. This was how she found herself spending nearly two hours on Pinterest, searching for the perfect recipe to thank Aaron for saving her paper.
He had been on a business trip with Cameron, texting the day before his return to request the dessert. No wonder he hadn't contacted her on her birthday; he'd been busy. The sheer number of options overwhelmed her. Thirty minutes were dedicated to the cookies-versus-cupcakes debate. The choices were staggering—who had time for this level of culinary effort?
After much deliberation, she chose strawberry shortcake cupcakes with a raspberry puree center and whipped cream frosting. It wouldn't be overly complex, but would look impressive. She put on music, singing and dancing around the kitchen in her socks as she gathered ingredients and mixed them.
Having the house to herself was liberating; she could indulge in her dorkier side without judgment. Valentina would have teased her mercilessly—Keeley was much goofier than she let on. She rarely showed this side of herself outside her family.
While the cupcakes cooled, she made the whipped cream frosting. When had she last baked? Before Christmas? Life had become so hectic since then. She still believed Aaron hadn't retained his memories from their previous life. It was surreal, making him a treat, but she felt she owed him. She hated owing people, especially him.
Once frosted, she carefully packed the cupcakes in a large container and left, determined not to overstay her welcome. This was a delivery, and nothing more.
The subway ride and walk to Aaron's apartment were challenging, requiring careful cupcake maneuvering. She didn't want the frosting to be smushed. She was mortified having to announce herself to the doorman; her last visit was still fresh in her memory. She hoped he'd forgotten.
He returned from calling Aaron with a stiff but professional smile, unlocking the elevator. "Go right up, miss." He clearly remembered. She wanted to disappear.
"Thank you," she mumbled nervously, scuffing her sneakers on the elevator floor. Why did Aaron live so high up? The ascent only amplified her anxiety.
He waited outside the elevator. Did he expect her to leave the cupcakes and flee? The thought had crossed her mind, but she owed him more courtesy after all his help.
"What did you bring me?" he asked, eagerly.
"Strawberry shortcake cupcakes."
"They sound delicious. Come upstairs, I'll get some milk."
Following him, she saw Dinah sprawled on the kitchen floor, a familiar sight reminiscent of Molly. The cat greeted them, rubbing against Aaron's legs. He petted her, a genuine smile on his face. The Aaron she remembered wouldn't have shown such affection. Had he simply grown used to the cat, or had she misjudged him from the start? No, she hadn't. He'd grown used to her constant presence.
Getting used to someone wasn't love.
"You two seem inseparable," Keeley remarked.
He scratched Dinah's ears. "I suppose we are. It's nice having someone waiting for me."
His words hinted at loneliness. She hadn't thought him capable of loneliness, despite his claims of missing her after her death. Yet, he seemed to drop everything for the few people he associated with—a lonely person's trait. Had he always been like this, unnoticed by her?
In their first life, she'd always been the pursuer, repeatedly rejected until his unexpected yes. Afterwards, he said yes whenever his schedule permitted. While dating, he only refused if school interfered. Even if he vetoed an activity, he still spent time with her. And once married…he always worked, but preferred working in the same room as her before completely ignoring her. He never admitted it, but did he need people?
She studied him. Was his coldness a mask for his true feelings? Yet, people clearly annoyed him—most of them, anyway. It didn't make sense.
Keeley had spent her first lifetime trying to understand Aaron Hale, believing she'd solved the mystery, only to realize she'd barely scratched the surface. Which Aaron was the real one—cold and unfeeling, or lonely and awkward?