Page 2 of The Fox

I move in my kitchen, AC/DC blasting from the speakers as I gather my supplies to make cookies and my weekly sourdough loaves. Lennon is perched on the counter, watching me with precision as he awaits a treat. My hair is thrown up in the messiest of knots, the sweats on my hips are several years old, and the shirt I am wearing has more holes than is what most would deem publicly acceptable. Not a single stitch of clothing is tight and there is a freeing feeling knowing I am cozy.

Today I have my glasses on instead of putting my contacts in because the home version of me is not put together at all. My day has been full of running errands, stopping into Parker’s coffee shop, and making sure that all my tasks are finished before taking a little time for myself. I stand at the counter, my bare feet warm against the cool hardwoods, and I sigh.

My kitchen is nothing fancy. I painted the walls a deep forest green when I moved in a few years ago and added wood shelves, bringing warmth into the space. There is a wall of mugs beside the pantry door; as someone who consumes a fair amount of caffeine, I find joy in cultivating my collection. I don’t have much on the counter top, just a jar of sourdough starter and a random assortment of appliances. I think some people believe that since I present a facade of being put-together, I must be fancy in all aspects of my life.

Joke’s on them—I love a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I shop at the farmer’s market on Thursday nights, and I do not remember the last time I bought new clothes. Most nights, my dinner is one consisting of pantry staples and maybe a glass of wine if it has been one ofthosedays. I’d rather spend my money on local coffee beans or even on a new book; I may have a small problem when it comes to books. I love the smell of them and there is a comfort in the pages I do not have elsewhere.

It was me against the world most days.

Like now. I turn thirty-one and I am alone.

There will be no fanfare, party to be had, or gifts exchanged.

I don’t even put a reminder on my calendar because there isn’t a point in wasting the ink.

I turn to face Lennon, his face stoic like the grump he is. I adopted him four years ago and he is the best. Maine Coons are known for being gentle and friendly; Lennon is not friendly. He was labeled as anti-social at the shelter, which is the sole reason he came home with me. His head tilts, his multi-color coat shining in the waning sunlight peeking through the window, chirping before laying down.

“Don’t worry, Len, you’ll get your treat.”

I reach for the shredded coconut, knowing I have to get these cookies in the oven before I shut everything down for the night. Kitchen sink cookies are one of my favorite things to make; the combination of the sweet chocolate chips and shredded coconut mixed with the savoriness of the sea salt on top? Hands down, the best flavor combination. I don’t remember where I learned the recipe from but I tend to gravitate toward these most times when I bake.

I scoop the cookies onto the baking sheet, stopping to give Lennon a bit of leftover apple from breakfast. Taking a moment to check my phone, I see a text from Parker asking if I want to grab lunch on Saturday, to which I respond with a resounding yes. She is my best friend and I love that we have made an effort to see each other weekly. This week she wants to go to the diner in town that has the best fries I’ve ever had, so of course I’m down.

I know Parker would have been here, but something came up, and I could not bring myself to demand she put her life on hold for me. I don’t make demands of my friends.

Having put the cookies in the oven, I move toward the peanut butter sitting on the counter. I should do something more than peanut butter and jelly for my birthday, but the reality is that I hate my birthday and so it’s fitting to eat what others deem simple. There isn’t a need for extravagance wasted. I grab the bread from the bread box and open the fridge to stare at the assorted jam jars on the door. It’ll likely be the strawberry jelly tonight but sometimes I get a little crazy and choose a different flavor like apricot or rhubarb.

I make my sandwich, taking my time as I methodically smear the jelly against the sourdough crumb before digging my knife into the peanut butter. I believe in using a single knife for sandwiches. Sandwiches are also always better when cut diagonally, and I rummage through the pantry until I find a bag containing the remains of barbecue chips. I hear the oven timer go off so I take the cookies out before grabbing my plate and adding a handful of chips to it. Moving to the slate colored couch covered in soft pillows and cozy blankets, I sit, tucking my feet under me. Turning the television on, I find my favorite comfort movie playing already.

“Happy birthday, Ames.” I whisper, a ping of sadness hitting me unexpectedly. I shouldn’t be sad on my birthday.

I have a roof over my head, the best friend a girl could ask for, and I’ve made a name for myself. What else could I want? I finish my sandwich, sinking further into the cushions. My eyes are heavy and I can’t bring myself to care about making it to my bed. I feel the cushion dip beside me as Lennon curls up against my thigh, using my soft curves as a pillow. My eyes close and I drift to sleep, the remainder of my birthday fading into the night.

I wake the next morning, stiff from sleeping on the couch and from Lennon having been nestled on my chest. Reaching above my head as I sit up, Lennon jumps off my body and I push off the couch and head to the kitchen. I need coffee and I should probably head to the office. I’m sure I’m walking into a mess; business doesn’t stop for birthdays and the Mafia does not care about your personal life. I make it to the counter and reach for the bag of coffee beans sitting next to my coffee pot, dumping them into my grinder before selecting my cup of the day.

Today feels like dread. The thought of it curls in my stomach, so a black mug it is. The grinder stops and I start my process of making my morning cup. Dumping the grounds into the filter, shutting the lid, pushing the button. It all brings a sense of peace; rhythmic motions setting the tone for what lies beyond my door. Lennon wraps his body around my ankle, weaving between my legs and his fur gets all over my sweatpants. Ugh, I still have to shower and put on something presentable. Maybe I’ll pop into Parker’s coffee shop and treat myself to something other than my usual order.

Maybe.

CHAPTER 2

Amelia---Stalking much?

I pick at my nails, desperately in need of a manicure to hide my destruction. Ever since my birthday last week, I’ve been in a bit of a funk—anxiety is creeping in.

It’s a slow day in Parker’s coffee shop, The Morning Medusa. The only reason I’m here is because I am a creature of habit. I wish it was different, but my life is set in structure and tradition. Routines are an integral part of the persona I have to present.

So, every morning, I come.

Parker always has my drink ready, at my table in the corner. I don’t do anything as I drink other than people-watch or read. No one talks to me, which is great seeing as I prefer solitude. The lavender vanilla latte warms my cold, hardened heart. I don’t allow myself many vices, but Parker’s lattes are a given. The pages of my book are tattered, pen marks cover the paper with notes, hand-drawn hearts, and angry underlines. I’ve read it so many times I can quote it verbatim, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth to start anything new. The golden bell atop the front door rings and my gaze flits up at the newcomer.

He’s here.Again.

Every day for the last two weeks, the man has tried to catch my eye in what I’m sure is an attempt to spark conversation. Joke’s on him. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. Not anymore. Parker had texted me last night, warning me that this man—this dreamy specimen of masculinity—wasn’t giving up. She said that he wanted to know everything she knew about me. I laugh at the thought. Parker is my best friend, my ride-or-die, a steel vault. He was delusional if he thought she’d ever give me up.

It isn’t that he’s bad looking. No, if I wasn’t Amelia Conte, I’d jump into his bed in an instant. Sandy brown hair thrown into a man-bun with a smattering of stubble lining a strong jaw. The jeans he’s wearing today hug his ass, tapering down to a pair of worn Blundstones. His muscular forearms, bare skin begging for ink, are a weakness for me. And then coupled with the crinkling by his eyes when he grins? I’d be a goner.

His eyes are wicked fast, taking in movement while ensuring nothing slips his notice, and the way he carries himself is assured. He is confident to the point that he reminds me of a panther laying in wait. I imagine him to be a demanding lover, a man who would be able to read a woman’s body before she would register her own reactions. I’d bet those hands would be firm, guiding her body however he deemed fit. He’d probably let her lean into that divine energy, allowing her to simply exist in pleasure as he brought her to ecstasy over and over again.

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