Page 110 of How to Kidnap a Fake Date
No.
Not with Maggie.
There is a sincerity to her that can’t be faked.
She never asked me to tell the world, and I can’t hold it against her if it doesn’t change our outcome.
Maggie may be the catalyst for pushing me over the edge, but I was teetering there anyway. Reluctant to let go of the financial tether and afraid of what happens when I let go. I have to believe that there’s more after this chapter.
The question is whether she’ll want to stand next to me now that I’ve burned my world down.
I sit there until night falls, having nowhere else to be, and little else to do. Outside, people carry on with their lives, the city never ceasing. In that, I find a kernel of peace. While my immediate problems feel huge, give it time, and they’ll shrink to just a blip in my story.
I reach for my phone and scroll to my message with Maggie.
My thumb hovers over the digital keyboard. What do you say when you’ve already left the ball in the other person’s court?
I type.
And delete.
Type again.
Delete again.
‘Shit,’ I say, hitting the tap and sticking my finger under the lukewarm water.
The burn isn’t bad, but it stings like a motherfucker. How can baking cookies be so bloody stressful?
I’m on batch number six, because I need them to be perfect. The smell of burnt sugar and butter fills the air, and I’m thankful that the fire alarm hasn’t started screaming.
They’re for her.
Which is probably utterly ridiculous, but it’s a last-ditch attempt to close the chasm that the hall between our flats feels like.
My phone is on speaker on the counter. Gran’s voice crackles out. ‘You’ve gone quiet. What have you done now?’
‘They aren’t perfect.’
A pause.
‘Did you burn them again?’
‘No, but there aren’t enough chocolate chips on the surface.’
‘Roman, stop stalling.’
‘I’m not stalling.’Maybe I am.
‘Yes, you are. This girl won’t give a flying fuck whether the cookies are perfect,’ she says. ‘It’s about the gesture, not impressing Mary-bleeding-Berry.’
‘It can’t hurt for them to be perfect.’
Gran sighs. ‘Oh, you’re in deep, love.’
I lean back against the counter, flexing my abused finger and staring at the tray of treats. ‘I am. And I’m nervous.’
‘Good.’
