Page 17 of Waiting for Gilbert

Yes, it’s good money. My publisher is fantastic. They seem to love me and my work. They would most likely still work with me if I missed some deadlines. But with each contract I die a little on the inside. I want to write stories that matter.

“Mark?”

“You know I’m right here. You don’t have to keep saying my name like there’s someone else I might think you’re talking to. Man, you’re annoying sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah…” I pull myself from the floor and heft an old milk crate to my glossy countertop.

“Sorry, that was a jerk thing to say. You’re not annoying.”

“It’s fine. Someday, I’ll marry my dream Gilbert and I won’t be in your ear all the time.”

He snorts. “Sure thing, Anne-girl.”

“When did I tell you about pledge week?” I leave my ten-inch skillet on the gas range and carefully stack the other three in a lower cabinet to the right of the stove. I grip the edge of the counter and work the muscles in my arms and back. My head falls between my outstretched arms, my back flat as an extension of the countertop, and I dig into the warm stretch in my calves. Oh, it feels good. I packed and ran up and down stairs in my shared apartment all morning before the drive.

“Hmm… pledge week. You spilled it during one of our movie-phone nights when I was working in Chicago.The American PresidentI think.”

“Eww, I did not like that movie.” I stand and rip the tape from the top of the next box. Stainless steel pans. “Who even picked that one? Worst choice. Boring, dumb movie. No wonder I fessed all my secrets.”

All I hear is the obnoxious clicking in my ears. “Mark, you can hang up, I have more boxes to lug around anyway. My car is still packed with my life.”

“You’re not going to bed, are you? If I leave you, you’re going to open a bag of Cheetos and stand in the corner wondering what to do with your life.”

I laugh. My cousin knows me too well. “I won’t! I promise.”

“Are you out of Cheetos?”

“I’m out of everything.”

A cold breeze brushes the back of my neck. I turn to open the next box and there’s a man standing in my open doorway with his arms crossed.

“Ahghaaa!” I jump, crash my back into the little table, and knock over the chair. My hands fly over my face and chest, not knowing if they should shield or attack.

The man’s eyes grow wide, and he steps back. His mouth moves. I can’t hear him, because noise-canceling earbuds. The earbuds that Mark is frantically trying to communicate with me through. “Cordy, answer me. What happened? Are you okay? Hey! Why did you scream?”

I flick one out of my ear, shove it in my pocket, and stare at the imposing stranger in my kitchen. Except… he’s no stranger. It’s the cello man, Aunt Jewels’s nephew, my landlord. It’s Gilbert Conner in a grungy outfit covered in sawdust.

“Hi.” He nods to the door where icy wind rushes through. “I knocked, but I could see you through the window and it was clear you couldn’t hear me.” He twitches a nervous smile. “Sorry, I live in the big house over there. I asked Nickie to take care of the paperwork.”

He doesn’t uncross his arms. Maybe because I’m still trying to catch my breath and I probably resemble a baby rabbit cornered by a fox. “Um, yeah. Hi, Cordelia. I’m your landlord I guess. She didn’t tell me it was you. Hi, again.” A corner of his mouth tips in a sweet smile. “I wouldn’t normally come in like this, or ever. I would never walk in on you.”

Mark, who’d gone quiet, speaks in a harsh whisper. “Want me to call 9-1-1? You don’t have to stay there with a creep for a landlord.”

I cover my ear with my hand. “Shhh.” I clear my throat. My heartbeat has reduced to a simmer and I fold in the full picture of Gilbert. Leather work boots, military camo pants, thermal shirt layered under a thick red flannel, crossed arms that highlight his large biceps. Wind reddened cheeks with a long day’s worth of stubble, hazel green eyes, and a shaggy head of tarnished bronze hair escaping from a black sock cap.

A gust of wind sends shivers through me. “Shut the door. It’s freaking cold.”

“Yeah, sorry.” He stares—right into my soul—and I don’t move as he swings the door with his boot heel.

“Hi again, I guess. I’m CJ Thompson.”

He looks like he might smile but doesn’t. His eyebrows dip, and he nods once. “Gilbert Conner.”

I strikeLet’s get hitched.orWill you be my boyfriend?from my list of conversation starters. My gut impulse is to fall into my standard princess curtsy in the middle of the kitchen with a hand to my ear.

“Bye, Mark.” I fumble with the earbud. In my haste, I drop it and it rolls under the table. While crawling to retrieve it, my mind buzzes with hamsters running their treadmills. Nothing useful comes to mind.

Nice night we’re having.No.

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