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Unwilling to stand still for a moment longer, I spin around. It takes me a second to hone in on the pantry, another to walk over and fling it open. I take a quick inventory of what I have. I check there’s butter and eggs in the fridge. “Cookies,” I decide.
Because,of course, that’s the answer—cookies solve everything!
Led by a hysteria that’s impossible to handle, I pull out all the ingredients I need, and because I can’t decide what kind of cookie to make, I take out chocolate chips, walnuts, and sprinkles. Heck, I take it all out. I’ll just make one batch of each, I decide. No harm done.
And, when I still can’t find my calm, I do the only thing I know will bring me some small peace of mind.
I bake.
Aiden
I pull into the tiny alleythat runs behind the neat row of houses and park my Ford as close as possible to the garage door of the small Spanish-style home with the address Catherine gave me neatly plated on the wall. I don’t turn off the engine as I look at the back door. It is made from heavy wood, rounded at the top with thick brass hinges and a chunky knocker in the shape of a bow. I’m positive that I’m at the right house because, for some reason, I know Catherine would have picked out a knocker shaped like a bow.
My nav is telling me that I have arrived at my destination. There’s such finality in the worddestinationthat I turn off the engine, letting theGarminpower off as I sit in the driveway.
The neighborhood around me is quiet.
A bouquet of flowers sits in the passenger seat next to me, the white lilies and pink roses drooping slightly after waiting in my car all afternoon. They look so sad that I consider just leaving them there to die a slow overnight death. My options were between running late and fresh flowers and, when push came to shove, I didn’t want to be late. It seemed so thoughtless, so callous, to be late for a date I’ve eagerly anticipated for nearly a week.
Now…“Fuck.”This is a terrible idea. I repeat the words that I’ve been telling myself over and over again since I agreed to meet her here. Last night, I was awake until three a.m., listing reason after reason why this won’t work. Because, despite what I told Mani, I intrinsically know that this is not thewisecourse of action.
Panicked, I start the car again.What am I doing?
This isn’t me.
This isn’t what a responsible adult would do.
I should get as far away from Catherine Beauchamp as humanly possible. I should take myself off the case just so that I never have to stare into her perfect face ever again.
I shift into reverse.
And then she opens the door.
Time stops as I slam on the brakes. We stare at each other. Me, with my hands on the wheel. Catherine holding herself up with one hand on the door and one on the wall. Her long red hair falls down either side of her face in wild disarray. Her eyes, when she looks at me, are wide and full of panic.
And strangely, it’s her panic that calms me. This isn’t a small decision for either of us, I realize. She has as muchat stake,moreeven, than I do. But, still, she asked me to come.
And I did.
I came.
I came because the choice was between one potential mistake or the certainty of a lifetime of regret. I can live with this being a mistake, one small blip in a long life. But what if it’s not? If I hadn’t come, I know with absolute certainty that I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I had.
Slowly, my movements robotic, I ease the vehicle back into park, and turn off the engine. Although they’re a little embarrassing at this point, I pick the flowers up off the front seat because, even wilted, they’re better than nothing and I want her to know that I thought of her.
It’s only when I’m standing in front of her that my mind settles completely. Catherine’s as disheveled as I am, but where I’ve come straight from work, she is wearing a blue apron over black jeans and a baggy, white shirt that’s tucked in on one side and falls off her left shoulder. There’s flour in her hair and on the right side of her face.
“You came.” Her eyes flicker to the poor bundle of flowers in my hand. “And you brought flowers.”
“I did.” I thrust them into her hands, my erratic movements belying my voice, which is deceptively calm. “I apologize in advance for the state of them. I got them on my lunch break and then forgot them in the car.”Shut up.The little voice in my head is screaming for me to stop.
“Oh.” She looks down at the flowers. Raising one long, slender finger, she traces the delicate folds on one of the lilies. “No. They’re great.” There’s a small pause in time where she looks down at them again, and when shesmiles, I wish I’d just stopped and picked up a fresh bunch.
I’ll just…” she turns slightly, “put them in some water. Come in.”
I follow her through a small laundry room and into a kitchen with dark hardwood floors, white counters, sunny, pastel-yellow kitchen cabinets, and small window curtains in the same color. Rihanna’s hit ‘Disturbia’ is blaring from aniPodplugged into a speaker on the kitchen counter. It smells like heaven, like fresh-baked cookies and bread. The setting—the cozy interior, the sweet smell of baked goods, the dark pop music—suits her, I think, as I watch her rummage beneath the sink.
“You’ll have to excuse my appearance,” she says, pulling a huge vase from the cupboard. She waves towards a little alcove in the far corner of the room. “I was baking, and I lost track of time.”
