Page 45 of Cream and Punishment
And yet, she’d been the one banging on my door Sunday morning telling me and my “gimpy leg” to hurry up because “we have a bakery to save” and she “didn’t wake up this inhumanely early just to wait.”
She was much more docile after her third cup of coffee.
Monday was the last morning Max gave me a ride to work, since I got my car back from the mechanic that afternoon—after paying an arm and leg, of course, and googling how much kidneys went for on the black market. At that point, I could limp around a little faster. Gale was back and Max had to return to his work schedule anyway.
Our knocks back and forth were the thing I looked forward to the most every day, oddly enough. In the evening before we went to sleep. In the morning before we left, when we’d walk out to our cars together like we had this morning. Or he’d walk and I’d limp, technically. Same thing.
I’d started assigning words to the knocks, depending on the time and how much I’d daydreamed about him during the day. Thus far the simpleknock-knockhad been translated to mean “good night,” “you there?,” and last night, when I’d finished a particularly swoony romance book, “miss you.”
Pathetic, I know. But if ever there were a poster child for being pathetic, I’d be it.
I turned my attention back to my phone, where the text messages between Max and me had been staring back at me for a good half hour.
“It’s just lasagna,” I reasoned aloud to myself, alone in my bedroom. Like a normal person. “You’re not declaring your undying love for him. You can do this. It’s one text. And if he saysno, you can handle it like a big girl. Even if you’ll feel like curling into a ball and faking your death like a possum.”
Before I could make my thumbs move over the keyboard, a message from Max popped up on the screen.
Max: What do you think about this for my next hobby?
He’d attached a GIF of someone juggling knives.
Me: That depends. How attached are you to your fingers?
Max: Literally speaking, more attached now than I’ll be after attempting this?
I chuckled and sent a wave of crying-laughing emojis.
Me: Correct answer. What happened to pickleball?
The typing dots appeared in the text bubble, giving me an opportunity to at leastpretendlike I wasn’t waiting with bated breath for his next message. I didn’t even try.
Pathetic, remember?
Max: It felt insensitive to try a sport while you’re still hurt.
He’d included a winking, tongue-sticking-out emoji at the end.
I rolled my eyes, my smile still stupidly fixed in place.
Me: So your solution was to injure yourself, too?
Max: Of course. Neighborly solidarity, Dekker. It’s next to godliness.
I sent another four crying-laughing emojis.
Me: I’m 1000% positive that isn’t the phrase.
Max: That’s a lot of percents. Are you confident enough to bet on it?
If this was his way of spooking me away from a sure victory again, it wouldn’t work this time.
I sent a GIF of Kuzco fromThe Emperor’s New Groovesaying “bring it on.”
A few moments passed before his typing bubble popped up again.
Max: Never mind. I don’t want to bet on it anymore.
I snorted and sent a chicken GIF.
