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“You kept a couple here.”
I grin.“Yeah, I love croissants.You can make them savory.They aren’t desserts like your cakes.”
“Interesting, I’ll remember that,” she comments, smiling.“Likes croissants.I make a good cheese croissant.I’ll have to whip some up for you to try next weekend or something.”She pulls her phone off the table.“I should go shower, probably.God, I still can’t believe you don’t like cake.What do you do on your birthday?”
“Sometimes I have pie, I do like pie.Sometimes, we just don’t have dessert.”I hesitate before adding, “Tomorrow’s actually my birthday, so I just won’t have it.You don’t have to have cake to make it a good birthday.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.“Tomorrow’s your birthday?Bryson!Why didn’t you say something?”
I shrug and hold my hands up.“I don’t know!It isn’t a big deal.”
“So, are you going home to Jersey?”
I nod.“Yeah, but not ‘til the weekend.Then my sister can be there with her kids and all that.”
Carleigh chews on her bottom lip.“So, big plans for your birthday in the city, then?”
“Not really.A couple of friends might meet me for a drink later, like eight-ish.But nothing wild.”I snap my fingers.“You should come out.Meet some of the gang.I think it’s Quinn and maybe Bishop-”
“That sounds fun, but I actually work tomorrow,” Carleigh says apologetically.“And today, actually, I should get going.”She gets up from the table and takes a few steps toward the hallway.“Thirsty Thursdays, we have good deals on pints of the house lager.But, if you have nothing major going on for supper, try to save some room - I’ll leave you a birthday pastry before I go to work.I promise you’ll like it.”
I grin again, curious what it’d be.Still, I politely decline.“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.It’s your birthday!”Carleigh sets her water glass in the sink.“Anyway, now I definitely need to hop in the shower before I go to work.Hope you left lots of hot water!”
“No promises!”I call after her retreating figure, waiting for the bathroom door to shut, then look back at my fermenting garlic, grinning.
The next day, I go out for a post-work birthday drink with a couple of the guys from my crew.By the time I get home, Carleigh is already gone, but there’s a note on the table that says look in the fridge.
In the fridge is a small pot pie, less than six inches across, made with Carleigh’s perfect flaky pastry.It’s wrapped neatly in plastic with another note on top.Guinness and beef,the note reads.Reheat in the oven at 350 for twenty minutes.
It’s the best pie I’ve ever had.
