Really nice.
Not a mansion, I don’t know what I expected, maybe something with columns and a fountain and hired goons patrolling the perimeter, but definitely the kind of house that says I have money and taste and probably a wine collection.
Two stories. Brick. Well-maintained lawn. Landscaping with actual flowers that someone actually takes care of.
I wonder what his bedroom looks like. Second floor, probably. That window with the curtains. Does he sleep in pajamas or nothing? Does he bring women here?
Stop it. You’re having a breakdown, not planning interior decorating.
He gets out of his car. Carries the containers inside.
My containers.
My cookies are going into his house. My little sugar-coded love confession. My flour-dusted war crime.
I circle the block because I don’t know what else to do. Come back around. Park down the street under a tree that offers exactly zero cover but the illusion of moral superiority. Like the branches are gonna vouch for me in court.
This is his home.
Dario Marchetti lives here.
I stare at the house like it’s going to reveal his secrets. What his life looks like. Whether he’s happy. Whether he eats my cookies standing at his kitchen counter or sitting at a table like a civilized person. Whether he thinks about me at all, ever, or if I’m just a weird footnote in the story of his trial.
The witness who sent me cookies twice. Came under oath. Strange girl. Anyway.
I should leave.
This is insane. This is stalking. This is exactly the kind of behavior that got my old high school friend Delilah a restraining order and court-mandated therapy.
I wonder if she ever found someone who appreciated her particular brand of devotion.
I’m becoming Delilah. I’m sitting outside a man’s house memorizing the color of his front door, dark blue, almost navy, and the type of tree in his front yard, oak, I think, and the pattern of the bricks on his walkway like any of this information matters.
Dark blue door. Like Saul’s pillows. Why am I collecting men who come in shades of blue? Is that my type now? Emotionally unavailable and color-coordinated?
But I can’t make myself start the car.
I just sit here. Engine off. Windows up. Watching his house like something might happen if I wait long enough.
Maybe he’ll come outside. Maybe he’ll eat a cookie on his porch and I’ll see his face when he tastes it. Maybe he’ll look down the street and somehow know I’m here, and he’ll walk toward my car, and he’ll tap on the window, and he’ll say, what?
What would he even say?
“Hi, I’ve been waiting. Did you bring cookies again?”
And then I’ll explode like a can of Pillsbury dough and ascend directly to horny stalker heaven.
Or, he’ll say, “Hi, I see you followed me home. That’s not creepy at all. Want to come inside and explain why you keep leaving me baked goods?”
Actually, yes. Yes, I would like that very much.
My uterus is writing fanfiction in real-time.
Chapter one: Dario opens the door shirtless.
Chapter two: I stop being able to form sentences.
Chapter three: [REDACTED FOR CONTENT].
