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Yeah, I’m kind of a mess.
My parents haven’t asked too many questions. They just know that I quit my job and need a week to get myself together. At least I have my own bedroom, but I still can’t bake anything in their tiny kitchen.
I miss Cookies (even though the name is terrible). I miss the incredible kitchen. I miss baking with Mason.
And I miss Mason.
But I still can’t forget the way he treated me. All of those excessive tests, knowing full well that I’m a great baker. His unfair possessiveness over this bakery that I had no desire to take over. I’m not a business person. I just want to bake! But he was so wrapped up in his past experiences that he couldn’t see me for who I really was.
So here I am, five days after quitting, lying on my parents’ couch and wrapped in a marvelous fluffy blanket that’s doing nothing to soothe the ache in my heart. My parents are out for a walk, and I’ve cranked Jim’s voice up to max volume to turn off the thoughts that keep screaming at me to find another job.
A knock sounds on the door.
My eyes go wide, like a deer in headlights. Maybe if I stay still, they won’t know I’m here.
“Madeleine, I know you’re there.”
Mason?
“I can hear Jim Croce.”
Oh, shoot. I quickly turn down the music but still don’t come to the door.
“And now I know you turned it off. Please, come open the door.”
Dang it.
I stand, keeping the fuzzy blanket wrapped around me, and shuffle over to the door. I look awful, with my hair up in a messy bun, and I’m still wearing my pajamas, but I don’t care. I’m not opening the door.
“What do you want?” I finally say through the door.
“I want to apologize.”
My heart rate picks up a little. No, Madeleine. Don’t be too eager. He took things too far.
“I don’t know if I want to hear it.” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds.
“I deserve that,” he mutters. “Please? I have…a peace offering.”
That piques my curiosity. But I still don’t want to open up. “No.”
“Madeleine, please. I don’t want to do this through the door.”
“Too bad.”
I hear him sigh. “Fine. I’m sorry. I took everything too far. I let my past experiences affect the way I saw you and…I was wrong. I promise I’ll do everything differently next time.”
It’s pretty good, as far as apologies go. I feel the walls around my heart softening, but I can’t accept his apology that easily. “There won’t be a ‘next time, this time,’” I say.
I hear muffled laughter on the other side. “Are you quoting Jim Croce to me?”
“Maybe.”
He laughs out loud. “Please open the door.”
With a sigh, I finally unlock the deadbolt and open the door. And there in front of me is Mason, smelling like chocolate and holding a small box from the bakery, along with my notebook that I’ve been missing for the last few days. But not enough to call and ask to have it back.
“What are those?” I ask.
