Page 134 of Tell Me What You Want

Thank you for introducing me to such a fantastic place and for the dinner for two we’ve just had in your honor. It was delicious, and the dessert, as always, superb. Of course, happy birthday—dickhead!

The girl who writes the unanswered emails

As soon as I finish writing, I stick the note in the envelope, seal it, and hand it back to the waiter.

“Could you please give this to my husband, along with the chocolate-and-strawberry cake, whenever they’re ready to order dessert?”

And with that, Nacho gets up, takes my arm, and we disappear like souls possessed. I smile, but I wish I could see Eric’s face—I’d really love that!

50

At eleven, I make Nacho take me home. Surely, Eric is about to see the note accompanying the cake, and I want to wait for his reaction.

At eleven thirty, I’m pacing my house, my heels still on. I’m convinced he’ll respond and be over any minute.

At midnight, my desperation is rising. Are they playing around and not ordering dessert?

At one o’clock in the morning, frustrated because my plan didn’t work, I throw my heels against the couch; and in that same moment, my cell buzzes. I leap for it. A text. Eric. My hands are shaking.

Thank you for the birthday greetings, Mrs.Zimmerman.

Mouth agape, I read it again. That’s it. He’s not going to say or do anything else?

Now in a rotten mood, I drop my phone and get a Coke. What I want to do is grab my cell, call him back, and read him the riot act. But I won’t. There’s no doubt I have to close the book on Eric.

Drained, I take off my pretty dress, let down my elegant bun, and strip off the suggestive undergarments I bought this afternoon. I put on my blue-cloud pj’s and head to the bathroom to wash off my makeup, and I accidentally smudge one of my eyes. I can’t see what I’m doing, so I just rub my washcloth in circles while I ponder Eric.

Suddenly, I hear a hard knock at my door. My heart leaps. I drop the washcloth and run to look through the peephole. I’m stunned to see Eric standing there, on the other side of the door. Without considering what I look like, I open it and find myself face to face with him.

“Mrs.Zimmerman?”

He’s pretty impressive in that dark suit, with his open-collar white shirt. His attitude, like always, is a little intimidating, boyish, and his face ... oh, his face! That sour face I love.

“Oh God ... I’m the worst,” I say helplessly.

“You had the nerve to say you’re Mrs.Zimmerman at Moroccio?”

I step back. He steps up.

“Yes ... I’m sorry, I’m sorry ... I just needed to get you mad.”

“To get me mad?”

He steps forward again. I step back again.

“Eric, listen,” I say, moving the hair from my face, “I know what I did wasn’t right. I took advantage of your generosity, and I made fools of the restaurant. I promise I’ll reimburse you for the dinner. But I only did it so you’d get mad and come over and then ...”

“And then what?”

His gaze is fierce. But I still go on. It’s my only chance. He’s here, in front of me, and I can’t blow it.

“I need to ask your forgiveness for how foolishly I acted the day I left Zahara.” I sigh and shrug. He’s dead silent. “I miss you, Eric. I love you.”

His face changes. He softens.

My heart leaps with joy, and he steps up again and hugs me. He lifts me up, and I put my arms around his neck. I circle his waist with my legs, and without a word, I close the door to my apartment. I’m ready to never again in my life let go of him.

For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. We just hug and enjoy being close until Eric kisses my neck and squeezes me.

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