Page 47 of The ABCs of You & Me

I’m sorry I’ve been MIA.

I fire off after the dots disappear again.

I was busy with work and needed a couple days.

I hope you don’t think I was mad at you.

Now I sound full of myself…

Anyway, I am sorry. I haven’t been a good friend.

I reread my barrage of texts, zeroing in on “friend.”

He hasn’t read the texts yet, and the dots haven’t returned. I could delete them and pretend like I never said anything, but then maybe he’ll see that I deleted them and wonder what I wrote. What if he thinks I was telling him off and then was too chickenshit to own up to it?

I stuff the phone under the couch cushion before I let myself do another thing. A knock on the door makes me jump out of my stupor. The curtains are closed so I can’t see who it is through the living room windows. So I sit still, hoping whoever it is goes away. After ten minutes of silence I creep to the door and peek through the window at the top. Seeing that the coast is clear I slowly open it and stick my head out to look around. As I’m about to close it I happen to look down and see a small tin with an envelope taped to the top.

Bending to pick it up, I pull the note free.

Soph

I’m sorry I made things awkward on Sunday. I know these won’t erase it, but hopefully they’ll help you forgive me.

F

I open the tin and reveal a mountain of mini chocolate chip cookies. He made me “I’m sorry” cookies. Backing into the house, I don’t even remember shutting the door before my back hits the wall and I slide down to the floor, still staring at the cookies.

I force myself to put the cookies away after I’ve swallowed the final bite of the fifth, and then I go dig my phone out from the couch.

Foster

Sorry I was out for a run.

Did you run to my house?

Guilty.

Can I FaceTime you?

I just got home, I’m gross, need to shower.

I don’t care.

My phone rings, and I hit accept. Foster’s slightly blotchy face fills the screen, and I pull my lips between my teeth to keep my smile at bay. He looks good like this. His usually artfully coiffed hair is sticking up in all directions where it’s not plastered to his face. Little dots of sweat cover his forehead and temples, and his lips are parted as he still works on catching his breath. I have to remember to breathe myself as I take him in.I want to make him sweat like that. My face heats at the thought.

“Hey,” I greet him quietly. “Thank you for the cookies.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowed. “How many have you eaten?”

“Two.”

I watch his eyebrow rise. His eyes narrow further, and I lift my hand spreading out my fingers to reveal the real number. The deep warm tone of his laugh reaches places it has no business reaching, and I try to cover how flustered I feel with an eye roll.

“It’s your fault for making good cookies. If they were half as good, I could have stopped at one.”

“You eat as many as you want, sunshine, they’re all yours.” Warmth washes over me.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

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