Page 79 of Forked (Frenched 2)
On Tuesday, he had lunch delivered to me from The Burger Bar, complete with a slice of cheesecake from the Astoria Pastry Shop, a Corktown bakery. The note said, “Wish I were there to have a picnic with you.”
On Wednesday, he sent me a bottle of Auchentoshan Virgin Oak Scotch whiskey along with a card that read, “To my favorite virgin. Let’s go to Scotland someday. Distillery tour?”
On Thursday morning I arrived at my office to find a tray of cinnamon buns on my desk, huge and warm and scenting the entire floor. Next to them, he’d scribbled a note on a piece of white printer paper. Made these for you this morning. I miss you in my kitchen (and in my shower, my car, and my bed).
I sank into my chair, dropping my laptop case at my feet. I’d like to say I considered giving the buns away or even throwing them in the trash, but of course, I dug right into one, savoring every sticky delicious bite and licking the icing from my fingers when I was done. After that I took the tray across the hall.
“You bake, too?” asked Lindsay Burns, one of the two interior designers whose offices were on the second floor. Eagerly she picked one up and took a bite.
“No. They were on my desk this morning. A little surprise.”
“Oh my God.” She crossed her eyes. “It’s so good,” she said with a mouthful. “Who made them?”
“Actually, my ex. He’s trying to win me back.”
“With food?”
I smiled ruefully. “He knows me. And he’s a chef.”
“Is he hot?” She took another huge bite.
“Yes,” I said, sighing. “Ridiculously hot.”
“He’s hot and he cooks and he sends you food at work?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, listen.” She licked her fingers. “If you don’t take him back, will you give him my number?”
“Sure…although I’m thinking about taking him back. But I have to make him work for it.”
Lindsay nodded and polished off the rest of the bun. “Smart girl.”
After taking the tray up to the third floor and down to the first to offer all the employees in the house a roll, I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at my desk. Finding myself in a really good mood for the first time all week, I opened up my email inbox and started going through it. Mostly I had inquiries from brides, which were a good thing, but I also had a note from Linda, my real estate agent, with a few more listings in my price range. At the end of her email, she mentioned that the house on Iroquois had sold to the family who transferred here.
My heart fell. I’d known that would probably happen, but I still felt let down. Immediately I looked at my phone. I wanted to call Nick so badly—he was the only one who’d understand why I was so sad about it. I bit my lip…should I do it? I’d have to call Sitty and get his number, which was pretty pathetic. She’d probably gloat. But the phone was in my hand before I decided against it.
No. He has to come to me. Flowers and lunch and whiskey and cinnamon buns (damn, the guy understood me) were all well and good, but I still needed more. What is essential is invisible to the eye.
Still, on Friday morning, I woke up excited, wondering what today’s surprise would be. And would he finally show up with it himself? The delivery guys were a nice touch and all, but I was ready to see him again, especially since I was leaving the following morning for France. Did he realize that? While I was in the shower, I tried to remember if I’d told him when I was going, and I wasn’t sure I had. What if he was planning some big romantic dinner or something to cap off the week? Should I somehow let him know I wouldn’t be around? Undecided, I left the house, half expecting to see a horse and carriage in the driveway ready to take me to work.
All day long I waited for the next offering. Each time the phone rang, I jumped. Each time I heard voices down the hall, my ears perked up. Every hour that passed had me scooting a little closer to the edge of my chair.
But the day passed, and nothing happened.
By five o’clock, I had to admit that he probably wasn’t coming here. Maybe he was planning to come by my house tonight? Or maybe he’d already left something for me there. Smiling, I set up an out-of- office auto reply for the next week, tidied up my desk, and locked the door.
When I got home, though, there was nothing waiting for me. No flowers, no meal, no Nick. Well, it’s early yet. And maybe he had to work all day so he could get tonight off.
I began packing for France, called Erin to remind her I’d pick her up at three tomorrow, and around eight, I gave in to my growling stomach and stuck a frozen pizza in the oven. Four slices and just as many glasses of wine later, I fell asleep on the family room couch with my phone clutched in my hand.
At some point, Sitty must have turned off the television, because the room was dark when I woke up. I checked the time—after two in the morning. Groaning at the crick in my neck, I stretched and rose to my feet. The wine had my head a little foggy, but as it cleared, I realized that Nick hadn’t called. Or come over. Or sent me anything.
Well, fuck. What an anti-climactic finish to the week. And I was leaving in twelve hours.
After taking some ibuprofen, I went upstairs, brushed my teeth and fell into bed, missing him beside me like I had every night this week. Where was he?
Was he thinking about me? Was this stupid of me to wait around when I wanted to see him so badly?
