I don’t feel pretty when I do it. And I’m not talking about physical appearance. I’m talking about how it makes me feel on the inside. Weak. Broken. Like I have no control over anything in my life.
I should be able to control whether I cry or not. I should be able to control how someone makes me feel. I should be able to hold my head high and walk out a door without holding my breath, thinking that it will prevent the tears from falling.
And then the blurry ride home on my bike in the middle of the day. I couldn’t keep it together.
This one thing caused a domino effect, and here I am. One day later, standing in my kitchen, staring at the little sign thing sticking out of my lawn that the yard company left.
Oh, and crying. Again.
And to think, it all started when my lunch date walked into that café. I saw him at the door, waved from my seat, and that asshole cringed and then turned and walked right back out the door.
What the hell?
One look at me and he just left. Is that real life?
Yes, yes it is, because it’s mine.
The timer on my oven dings, and I swipe what I hope is my last tear of the day away and grab my potholders. Then I pull a tray of cookies out and set them on the cooking rack.
I couldn’t think of any other way to thank Simon for meeting the yard guy today. Food always seems to go over well.
I glance at my open trash and glare at the burned cookies inside.
This is how my day has been. I’ve let yesterday’s date, or lack thereof, control my emotions. I worked out with two different clients this morning to keep my mind busy and then I came home, saw that stupid sign in the grass, and cried again.
I should have rescheduled with them. To a time when I could actually make it. After all, I’m going to end up alone forever. I need to start planning my life, including stupid yard maintenance into my schedule.
I sigh.
So I decided to make Simon cookies as a thank-you and burned the first batch after getting distracted by deleting all the dating apps on my phone.
I need to just face it. The men on these apps aren’t right for me. If I keep using them,
I’ll be alone forever.
Ugh, I really need a new approach to my dating life. The right guy is out there. He has to be.
I give the cookies a few minutes to cool, and then I put them on a plate, cover them with plastic wrap, and place my little thank-you note on the top.
I don’t remember how old I was the first time I watched my mom do this for one of our neighbors. It’s a simple note of thanks, but Mom told me that it’s easy to just say the words, but something about looking at a note makes people feel different. You took a little extra time to recall how that person helped you. Plus, she’d leave them when she had to go to work early. It was her way of showing me she was thinking of me even when she wasn’t there.
It seems silly, but if I give anyone anything, I always include a note.
I pick up the plate and sigh again.
I miss my mom. She was the only family I had until she passed away a couple years ago. Now it’s just me.
I walk outside and cross the yard to Simon’s house, cutting across his driveway to the front door.
I knock twice then set the plate on his writing table. I’m turning to leave when the door opens.
“Greer.”
I spin and stumble back off the next step.
He’s standing in front of me shirtless, sweat running down his abs. He dabs his forehead with a towel and then readjusts the baseball cap he’s wearing.
Why is a backward cap so much hotter than when they wear them normally?
