The rest of my Monday night was spent messing with tissue paper and packaging and scanning YouTube for lessons on how to tie the perfect gift bow. It was better than ruminating. It was better than tying myself in knots, thinking about how Georgia’s thigh felt against mine. How she looked after she beat me at The Grumpy Stump. I couldn’t get it out of my head.
I can’t get HER out of my head. I know I won’t be able to move on until I come clean with her. Explain everything. But then what? Wish her well? Add her to the corporate greeting card list?
Yes, you idiot, I chastise myself. That is all there is to it. All there can ever be.
I know for sure that the electrician hand-delivered the box to Georgia early this morning. He dropped it off while he was there fixing her lights. So why haven’t I heard anything yet?
The breeze shakes loose colorful, stray leaves as I cross Holm Square. The path is littered with them. The Feed Co. Building forms an impressive silhouette, backlit by the neon sky. The lights are on inside Celestial Pets, even though it’s just after closing time. As I get closer, I can see Georgia and Kenna in there, and a very familiar-looking dog.
I watch as Kenna hugs Georgia, then pats Cookie—it really is Cookie—and leaves. Georgia locks the door behind her. The sign on the door says “Closed.”
I scan the store for any sign of the box. Had she just opened it and discarded the contents? Perhaps someone else took it? Finally, I spy it. The package that I so carefully and painstakingly packed was neither discarded nor stolen. It is sitting on the counter. Ignored and, apparently, untouched.
Frustration surges through me. The longer this charade goes on, the harder it’s going to be. Enough! I’d really hoped to avoid doing this face-to-face, but it appears I have no choice.
I rap on the window.
Georgia startles and squints in my direction. I can see the moment she recognizes me. She stops, draws herself up another inch, and takes a deep breath. Cookie runs to the door ahead of her and she unlocks it, cracking it open. Her eyes are a query. “What do YOU want,” they say. My eyes dart to the mural wall, recalling my fantasy of backing her up against it.
Just a fantasy. Have to put it out of my mind. Now and forever.
“So,” I say, “I’ve been waiting all day. Are you going to open the box already?”
She looks from me to the box, confused.
Cookie takes this opportunity to shove her head through the crack in the door to sniff me. Her big, pink tongue swoops out to lick my hand. Georgia grabs her collar to pull her back, and as she does, I slide into the shop.
“Come on in, why don’t you,” Georgia says.
She doesn’t seem threatened by my intrusion, but then, why would she be? She’s already demonstrated that she knows how to defend herself.
“Thanks for letting me in,” I say, noticing that the lights are on in the back room. “I see my electrician was here earlier.”
“Mm-hmm,” Georgia says. She’s sizing me up. Her eyes travel over my hoodie and sweats, sweep down to my athletic shoes, and then back up to my face.
“You out for a run?” she asks.
“No,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. I didn’t sleep much last night, and since I didn’t have any video calls today, I hadn’t really thought about dressing up. Did I even use a brush today? I rake my hand through my hair and take a step toward her.
She releases the dog.
Tail wagging, Cookie lunges toward me, and I have to swivel quickly to avoid getting knocked in the nuts. Georgia smirks.
“Hey, Cookie,” I say, kneeling down and letting her lick my face. “It’s so nice to meet you in person.”
Georgia taps her foot impatiently. She’s wearing Doc Martens. Lace tights. Her arms are folded across her chest, covering a close-fitting dress that appears to be constructed of upcycled concert tees. I see pieces of Kiss, Iron Maiden, and Lilly’s fave, The Cure. She’s corralled her hair into impish pigtails that beg to be tugged.
Georgia’s eyes narrow, taking me in as I check her out. I peel my gaze away from her, give Cookie a pat, and rise.
“Is there a reason you haven’t opened that yet?” I gesture at the box.
“So, that’s from you, then?” She looks curiously from the box to me, trying to work it out.
“Why don’t you open it and see?”
“Should I be worried?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
