The delivery guy is different this time. Older. Carrying a box that I recognize before he even sets it down.
Dark chocolate. Gold ribbon. The same brand that arrived at the bakery two weeks ago and made me cry into my macarons.
“Zoey Carter?”
“Still me.”
He leaves. I open the box.
Inside: two dozen chocolates, arranged in perfect rows. Dark chocolate. Salted caramel. Raspberry. Hazelnut.
The card this time:
I remember everything. - D
I eat three chocolates before I realize I’m doing it. Stress eating. Emotional eating. Dario Marchetti remembers my favorite chocolates eating.
Tom comes in for his usual bear claw. Sees the flowers. Sees the chocolates. Sees my expression.
“You okay, Zoey?”
“Peachy. Just self-medicating.”
“You’ve got chocolate on your face.”
I wipe my mouth. “It’s a medical condition.”
He bails. Nobody in this town is paid enough for my drama.
The third delivery arrives at 1:23 PM.
This time I’m ready. Or at least I’m standing near the door pretending to adjust the ‘specials’ chalkboard so I can intercept whatever’s coming before the entire town sees it.
The box is smaller. Flat. Wrapped in tissue paper.
I take it to the back, gut it open with my keys like a wild animal.
It’s an apron.
Not beige. Not practical. Not anything Beth Taylor would have owned.
It’s teal. Deep, gorgeous teal with copper buttons. The kind of apron you wear to host orgies on the Food Network. Patterned with wheat, which feels poetic and possibly a personal attack.
I hold it up. It’s perfect. The exact color of Saul’s blanket. The exact color I told Dario I loved when I was drowning in beige and needed something real.
He was listening. When I sat in his kitchen wearing his shirt, babbling about Beth Taylor and disappearing, he was listening.
The card:
You were never meant for beige. - D
I put the apron on.
It fits perfectly.
I cry a little. Just a little. Into the teal fabric that somehow feels more like me than anything I’ve worn in months.
Congratulations, Dario, you win emotional terrorism, round four.
