Page 57 of Below the Shadow of the City

Two pleading blue eyes haunted my vision, his broken voice echoed in my mind. His face when he confirmed what I’d said with a whispered “you love me?” played on repeat.

My eyes scanned the rest of the crowd, Margo’s college friends, old roommates, a few coworkers I don’t know well, and some random strangers. I’d already bumped into a few of the blind dates she had previously set me up with. Their reactions varied from excitable (pink haired Celia, naturally) to strange. One had been fully convinced there was still a chance, despite having zero interaction with him since the ninety minutes we’d spent together back in May.

These run-ins were markedly easier now, I was entirely unflappable in each conversation. Celia was arm in arm with a stunning South Asian drummer dressed as coordinating witches in black silk and lace. I made plans to see her band next month.

Then, a tall flash of horns and a furry mane passed through the crowd. Maddox?

I thought I was unflappable. Now? Consider me flapped.

My eyes followed the mystery figure, from my distance it was tough to see exactly how large they were. Maddox is over seven feet, he’d tower over anyone here, I’m pretty sure his horns would ding the tops of the door frames. The figure moved again, and I followed. My heart sang a bit at even the prospect of getting to spend time with him up here with my friends. If he were here, I wouldn’t have been lurking in the corner, I’d have arms to curl up into. And he’d be thrilled that I ripped my fake mustache off thirty minutes into the party because I couldn’t stand the feeling of the facial fuzz dipping into my drink each time I took a sip. I wondered how he could stand dealing with such a predicament for himself.

I wove through groups to get to the maybe-stranger-maybe-Maddox when Margo stopped me. She was decked out in a “Not a Lot Going on at the Moment” t-shirt, red heart-shaped sunglasses, and a wide brimmed black hat. A curvy, fully tatted Taylor Swift. She looked good.

“You’re a woman on a mission,” she quipped. I stared past her and the figure turned. It was only a (humanly) tall guy wearing some fur covered hooded cloak with horns. Likely a character from a show I’ve never seen. I visibly crumpled with disappointment.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I thought I’d recognized someone here.” Of course he wouldn’t come, especially unaccompanied by me. Especially not after the way we parted a few hours before then. I’d confessed I was falling for him then bolted, immediately. He would have had to walk from my apartment, or worse, take the subway. It was an impossibility, a fleeting fantasy. And still, a part of me imagined that he’d be willing to do it.

“Clearly,” she snickered. “You looked like you were about to tackle the guy.” To be fair, I think I would have. “Mystery man didn’t secure an invite tonight?” She turned my focus back towards her.

It was a genuine question. At this point in any normal relationship, it would be reasonable to start including him at these kinds of things. I’d still been evasive regarding any questioning about him. On Monday I’d mumbled that I spent the weekend with him, mid-week Margo caught me smiling at a text as I swiftly stuffed my phone into my pocket, and Friday I’d discussed vague plans to see him before her party.

None of the beating around the bush or any of my other attempts to make us seem less real than we actually are mattered because I told Maddox I loved him.

I knew when I said it, exactly as I know now, that I really, really, do love him.

A lot had been left unsaid between Maddox and I after that last Saturday. Neither of us were acknowledging the conversation we had to hastily end. He didn’t know about my near miss at the party, he didn’t know how badly I wanted him there.

To avoid dredging up the raw nerve endings of emotion, I had managed to text him as though I didn’t tell him I loved him through tears after running off. He didn’t bring it up either. He knows me well enough not to pry at my hard, sharp edges. The ball is in my court, and I need to take my shot.

It’s not sustainable to live like this, avoidance has gotten me nowhere. For the first time, I’m initiating. I’m running to him instead of away from him.

My hand hovers over his door as I question how he’ll accept me showing up at his apartment unannounced. I rap a few knocks, soft at first, like I’m still hesitant. I’m about to knock harder when he opens the door swiftly. I give him a grin, and, unsurprisingly, he welcomes me in, but not without a quizzical glance. I rush past, my arms too full to properly greet him beyond a peck on his cheek.

“Can I ask what you’re doing?” He watches me from the doorway, maybe still anticipating that I’ll run off again. I certainly wouldn’t blame him for thinking it.

I whip my head around as I’m unpacking the overstuffed grocery bags onto his counter. “I’m taking you up on your offer. I have a month. And eight recipes I need to think up.”

“Seven,” he responds firmly. “You better include that cake from last weekend. Call it ‘romcom confession apple cake’ or something.” It’s cheesy, it’s something my cynical self would have scoffed it a few months back, but it’s exactly right. I know that every time I make that cake from this day forward I’ll think about the whirlwind of emotions I’d felt that night. How despite myself, I managed to finally admit what I’d already known deep down: I’m in love with Maddox.

“Perfect,” I smirk. “Seven, then.” Maddox crosses the kitchen, opens a drawer, and pulls out a notepad. He clicks the pen a few times, then in neat handwriting he writes out a list.

1. Romcom confession apple cake

2.

He looks up and gestures the pen lazily towards me, waiting to fill in the blank. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

“A key lime coconut cheesecake with bourbon vanilla whipped cream.” I watch him carefully write it down.

“I know a way we can use any extra whipped cream,” he winks after he inks the last letter onto the page. I’d thought the same, the idea of me placing a dollop on my nipples and pelvis sounds hot, but the cleanup sounds like a nightmare. Thinking about sticky sugary sheets makes me twitch uncontrollably, and not in a good way.

“You said you’d help me,” I put my hands on my hips. “Bake first, sex later.”

“Two desserts in one night, I’m a lucky, lucky man,” he growls.

I lean over and slide the notepad and pen over to my side of the island.

3. Chocolate torte