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And I mean that in the most romantic possible way.
I’m at her door, a dozen cheap gas-station roses clutched in my hand. I smell like sweat and dishwasher steam, and she’s in her pajamas, her eyes slitted against the brightness of the hallway.
I woke her up.
I woke Bridget up.
If I stand here long enough, I’ll probably wake up half the hall, and I don’t give a fuck.
“What do you want to know?”
“What?” Her voice is thick with sleep.
“Tell me what you want to know. Ask me a question, I’ll answer it. I’m an open book. ”
Her hair’s all snarled at the crown of her head. I want to smooth it down, kiss her, take her in my arms.
Too soon. Too soon, even if this works out. And if it doesn’t … I can’t think about that.
“You’re an open book,” she repeats. She must be waking up, because she injects some skepticism into the words.
“Anything you want to know. ”
“Let’s start with why you’re here at—what time is it?”
“Eleven thirty-five. ”
“At eleven thirty-five at night on Valentine’s Day”—and here she kind of eye-rolls at the bouquet in my hand—“when you haven’t called me or texted me or given the least sign you remember I’m alive in almost a month. ”
“Twenty-two days. ”
“You’re counting?”
“I can tell you how many hours if you want. ”
“Because …”
“Because when it comes to you, I’m a fucking moron. More than you know. Probably in a bunch of ways you don’t have a clue about. ”
That almost makes her smile. I can see her lips twitch. She decides not to allow it, but lip twitching is a good sign, so I barrel on. “Look, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I would’ve come sooner, but I was on at the restaurant, and there was this couple who came in right before ten and stayed for fucking ever, so this was the soonest I could get here. I guess I should have come tomorrow, but …”
… but I couldn’t stand it anymore.
… but I needed to see you.
… but once I made up my mind, I didn’t want to wait even four seconds longer than I had to.
“I brought you roses. ” I hold them out, the only gift I’ve ever given her, blood red and, I hope, so cheesy she has to like them.
“I see that. ”
I wait for her to say something more, give me a clue how I’m doing here. She scrubs her hands over her face—something I’ve seen her do a hundred times at the bakery to wake herself up.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, Mr. All-of-a-Sudden-I’m-an-Open-Book. Where are you from?”
“Oregon. ”
“What town, idiot. ”
