Page 64 of Cream and Punishment
I nodded, eager to end the suffering as well. I didn’t wait for him to open my door. Just snatched the cookies and bolted out of the metal can of hormones and temptation. I stuffed the bag back in my purse and clutched the strap with both hands, determined to keep them to myself from here on out. No. Matter. What.
We made it into the building in tense silence, a good four feet between us the entire time.
When we reached his door, he hesitated. “I’m honored you confided in me, Dekker.”
I smiled, hoping my deer-in-the-headlights panic since the weird car-leaning incident wasn’t visible in my wild eyes. “Thank you for listening. And for the whole evening, Max. Really.” Then, to prove my resolve to behave from here on out, I added, “You’re a great friend.”
And friend he would stay, no matter what I wanted. I’d get over my silly crush eventually. If the alternative was losing him, I’d do just about anything.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes again. “You are, too.”
I waved awkwardly, which really seemed like the icing on the cake, given the events of the night. “Goodnight.”
He slid his key into the lock and sent me one last forced smile. “Goodnight, Chef.”
twenty-two
It’samazinghowquicklyyou can get over awkwardness in a friendship when you a) have the memory of a goldfish, and b) were born with awkwardness as your default setting.
Oh, and when your friend acts like the awkward thing never even happened. That might be the strongest contributor.
But I digress.
I’d catastrophized about what would happen with our friendship until the two goodnight knocks had come through the wall after Friday night’s car-leaning incident. And when he responded with the same the next morning, we’d met up to walk out together. He’d made coffee for us, and I’d brought more cookies since I’d forgotten to give the baggie to him while making my hasty getaway. He’d been as cheerful and easygoing as usual. If he hadn’t stood further away from me than normal, I’d almost believe nothinghadhappened between us.
If only.
I shifted into a cross-legged position and leaned against the wall of the apartment complex’s laundry room as the sounds of my show sang through my earbud. Whoever’s brilliant idea it was to not include any seating in the laundry room deserved a lifetime of numb butt cheeks. Clearly, they hadn’t considered Forgetful Franny’s like yours truly who, should they venture away from the laundry room, their clothes would cease to exist until they tried to get dressed the next morning. Then they’d conveniently remember, and the clothes would magically spring back into existence.Afterthe load of damp laundry had a whole night to marinate.
I was convinced my bra still smelled musty, even after rewashing it.
The door to the laundry room opened and shut. From my vantage point sitting in the back corner beside the last row of dryers, I had no idea who’d entered, but I hoped they wouldn’t look my way. Let me lose all sensation in my posterior in peace, thank you very much.
“That you, Chef?”
I jerked my head up at the familiar voice, smiling reflexively the moment I caught sight of Max over the machines. At his height, he had no problem seeing me from the rows of washers where he loaded his own clothes.
“You joining the laundry rush?” I asked, and cringed at how obvious the answer was. “Never mind. Dumb question.”
He smiled, not bothered in the slightest. Like usual. “Maybe I’m here to steal someone else’s laundry. Never know unless you ask.”
“Yeah, I think the day you turn to a life of crime is the day I give up butter, but thanks for trying to make me feel better.”
He chuckled and emptied the rest of his laundry. “Why are you hanging out in here? That can’t be comfortable, sitting on the floor like that.”
“It’s more comfortable than moldy underthings.”
His brow furrowed over his smile. “What?”
I waved away his—valid—concern. “This way I can get my laundry out as soon as it’s done and free up a machine for someone else.”
It wasn’t my biggest motivator, but it was still true. The only thing worse than my musty clothes when I forgot was the guilt over taking up a machine someone else could’ve used. As it was, the fact that Max and I had managed to find an open washer on a Sunday was a miracle.
“Sure, but at what cost?” He inserted the necessary coins and started his machine.
“My butt—that’s the cost.” I cringed again. “Sorry, it’s weird to talk about butts in casual conversation, isn’t it?”
He shrugged, his eyes sparkling like diamonds against black felt. “Depends on the company you keep, I guess.”
