Page 33 of Waiting for Gilbert

CORDELIA

LEA MICHELLE—IT’S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR

He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it,I chant down the stairs. Besides, there will be more opportunities to see him. It’s not like that was my one chance of a lifetime to invite Gilbert to dinner.

As John and I step outside we both suck an instinctual breath of self-preservation when the blood-thirsty Nebraska wind bites our exposed skin. This deep cold shocks my system—even when I think I’m prepared for it. This is frostbite-in-fifteen-minutes and farmers-losing-the-tips-of-their-fingers kind of weather. This is can’t-build-a-snowman-because-the-snow-is-too-cold kind of weather. This is me asking, “Why do I live where the air hurts my face?” kind of weather. We slide past Gilbert’s truck and John sprints to his little blue car. I nod my head to acknowledge his wave as he drives away.

The sun has about an hour of juice left. It heats nothing but tortures us with a squinty, blinding reign of terror against the white ground. I take slow breaths through my nose to heat the air before it burns my lungs. One of those thermal monkey cap ski masks would be nice about now. A balaclava. I could make baklava and eat it in my balaclava. And then of course I wonder if Gilbert could play a balalaika guitar thingy in the corner of the kitchen while this happens. I snort as the silly image pops into my mind as I scurry home.

The distance to the cottage has doubled since my last trip, and I barely make it to shelter before I die from the elements. I slam the door and lean my forehead against the cold kitchen wall. I’ve invited John to dinner, and I’m not sure how I feel about this.

Here’s the thing about me, when I decide to do something, I do it. And when I discover it’s not the best idea—perhaps not even a remotely good idea—I clean up my mess and get out.

I wanted to be in Australia, and somehow I landed in Svalbard, Norway. Of all the places I’d love to tour, it ain’t Svalbard!

My cheeks bulge with the breath I hold, and I turn my back to the wall and slide to the floor.Think, CJ!

This is fine. I can work with this. John Brader is clever, talented. Fairly good-looking. He’s got this blond hair that curls along the top and is trimmed short on the sides. We played a few games together yesterday—How was yesterday a week ago?—and got along well. He beat me once at Jenga.

The floor is cold beneath my leggings. I kick off my boots and haul myself to my feet. Sue me, I’m giving Svalbard a chance. I hear there are poisonous snakes in Australia. Spiders. Sharks. What kind of crazy person wants to swim in shark-infested waters? Deadly jellyfish? Not me!

I push away from the wall and march to the refrigerator. I’m not desperately looking for a boyfriend, ok? Especially not a rebound. But John requestedpermissionfrom Gilbert to ask me out. We’ll not think too deeply on why he felt the need to do that and if it speaks to a lack of confidence or some inappropriate bro-code of prior claim, but their conversation hung like a neon orange pinata that had been hitjust enoughto break open the sides and needed one more swing before all the candy fell out andnobody reached for the bat.

When nobody moves you can count on me to take one for the team. Every time. It is my innate sense of duty to step up to the plate when others don’t.

I put it out there. I filled the silence. I broke the pinata, and we can move on.

There. I’ve come to terms with it. I’m not worried at all about this evening because Iliketo hang out with people, Iliketo go on dates, and Ilikefood.John is people, dates, and food.I even and especially like first dates because Svalbard might be a fun new experience!

My internal debate coach does a roundoff triple back-handspring. I smile at her appreciatively. She has skills.

Why am I staring into the refrigerator? I’m not even hungry. I slam the door and turn a circle, unsure what I’m supposed to be doing.

Before I stumbled upon the world’s most awkward conversation, the time tripped along merrily while I did ALL THE THINGS.

In town earlier I checked on Diana’s crew. She says they’re fine now, but tired. So I stealthily delivered a few grocery bags of new crayons and hot wheels, ginger tea, fuzzy socks, and a dozen other fun things I tossed in while shopping. I dropped a “You’ve been elfed” note in one of the bags. She’ll know it was me because we used to “elf” people all winter long when we were kids.

Hmm. Gilbert would love that game.

Once home, I shuffled half the boxes from the kitchen to my room. Set up my kitchen, camera and accessories. Baked, staged, and photographed eight pies. I now have 1,083 shots to sift through. After I delete, adjust and edit, I’ll have the handful I need for the final spread of the cookbook and five hundred to upload to the stock photo websites where I have accounts.

My publisher wouldn’t love to find their copyrighted photos in a stock photo collection. But a butcher block countertop with flour dusted across the surface? The star of David drawn into that flour? “Happy Holidays” spelled out with chocolate chips? Those are all mine.

My master plan for tonight is to pull out easy-peasy deli sandwiches for dinner with John and serve him the photographed pies as our main course. In the meantime, I could be unpacking, setting up house, or washing dishes.

Nope. I am a potato.

I plop my rear into a chair at the cluttered table with my head cradled on one arm while I scroll Instagram.

Two hours later my phone buzzes.

Bing!

John: Have you seen the weather?

Cordelia: I see snow?

John: I feel like such an adult to bring this up. But I don’t think it’s smart for me to leave town. They’re predicting high winds and blizzard conditions starting anytime and up to three feet by morning.

---