I know the handwriting before I read the words.
I hope your door is unlocked too. - D
The croissants burn.
I don’t notice for three full minutes because I’m standing in the middle of my bakery holding a card with seven words on it, having what can only be described as a complete cardiovascular event.
Dario sent me flowers.
Dario’s coming here.
I’m pretty sure I just had an out-of-body experience. My body’s in the bakery; my soul is breakdancing in traffic.
The smoke alarm goes off.
“Shit. Shit shit shit.”
I shove the charred croissants into the sink, flip on the fan, wave a towel at the alarm until it stops screaming. The flowerswatch me from the counter, smug and beautiful and completely unhelpful.
I hope your door is unlocked too.
What does that mean? Is he asking if he can come? Telling me he’s coming? Is this a metaphor? Is the door my heart? Is my heart a door? Why am I spiraling about architecture when Dario Marchetti knows my address and is apparently romantic now?
I need to call Saul.
I grab my phone. Put it down. Pick it up again.
What would I even say? Hey, so, the mobster I’m in love with sent me flowers, just thought you should know?
Saul said he talked to Dario. Said they were going to try.
But I didn’t expect trying to show up on my doorstep before I’d finished my first cup of coffee.
The bell chimes again.
Martha materializes, clocking the flower explosion and my face, then beams like a cat who found cocaine in the catnip.
“Well, well,” she says. “Someone’s got an admirer.”
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s not a nothing arrangement, sweetheart. That’s an I’m sorry arrangement. Or an I love you arrangement.” She peers at the card in my hand. I shove it in my apron pocket. “Maybe both?”
“It’s complicated.”
“The good ones always are.” She settles into her usual seat. “I’ll take a scone and the story.”
“You’ll take a scone and silence.”
“You’re no fun, Zoey.”
No, I think, pulling a scone from the case with hands that won’t stop trembling. I’m too much fun. That’s the whole problem.
The second delivery arrives at 10:47 AM.
I know the exact time because I’ve been watching the clock like it’s hiding something from me, counting minutes since the flowers appeared and trying to convince myself that one arrangement doesn’t mean anything.
Rich people send flowers all the time. It’s probably just a ‘welcome to your new life’ gesture. A ‘sorry I complicated everything’ gift. Not a ‘I’m driving across the country to see you’ declaration.
