Page 45 of Absolutely Not in Love
I run a hand through my hair, my eyes drifting to the case of baked goods beside the checkout counter. There’s no way to ask without showing my hand here, but Emmy seems like the kind of woman I can trust.
I motion toward the case. “Do you know if Gracie has a favorite?”
Emmy’s expression softens, her lips shifting like she’s fighting a smile. “If she drops by in the morning, she usually gets an apple cinnamon scone. If it’s after work, she’ll get the danish.”
“Right.” I nod. “Maybe one of each?”
“Excellent choice,” she says.
Five minutes later, I’m back in my car, books and pastries stowed safely in my passenger seat. Emmy was nice enough to throw away the damaged copies. They really were beyond salvageable, the binding falling apart, the pages ripped and disintegrating.
Once I finish at the grocery store, I expect to find Gracie already at home. But her car isn’t in its usual spot.
She went to bed so fast and left so early this morning, I didn’t have the chance to check in about whether she’d need the apartment for her private lessons. She’s welcome to it, but maybe she has somewhere else she’d rather teach?
I stop at the mailbox, shifting all the groceries to one hand so I can open her mailbox. The envelope I left her containing a key to my apartment is still there. So she hasn’t been home since this morning at all.
Maybe this is better. Now I can cook and have food ready by the time she gets home.
Not that I’m turning this into something it’s not. I’m cooking formyself,something I frequently do, especially during the season when getting enough protein and carbohydrates is so important. If there happen to be leftovers, of course I’ll offer them to her. I’m chill. I’m totally casual about this.
I glance at the books sitting in my passenger seat.It’s too much.MaybeI’mtoo much?
The last thing I want to do is scare her off, but also,I like her.
I lower the books and my groceries onto my kitchen counter, then drop the bag I take to and from practice onto the floor.
I sink onto a barstool and pull out my phone to text Logan.
Felix:This is hard. I feel dumb. I don’t want to come on too strong.
Logan:Have you strewn your apartment with flower petals? If you have, ABANDON SHIP.
Felix:No flower petals. But I replaced some books that were damaged when the pipes in her apartment burst, and I was thinking about making enough dinner to share.
Logan:That seems chill. Parker agrees. You’re fine, man.
Felix:I also asked the woman at Book Smart if Gracie has a favorite pastry, and I bought some of those. Her favorites. Is that weird? Am I being creepy?
Logan:Parker says you sound thoughtful, not weird. As long as you don’t spread the books on her bed in the shape of a heart, or leave the pastries on her pillow, you’re fine.
Felix:Definitely not doing that. Thanks, man.
Logan:Good luck.
Turns out, I don’t need any luck because Gracie never shows.
I cook dinner—a mean chicken marsala with mashed potatoes and roasted green beans—I clean up after dinner, I read for an hour, and still, she doesn’t come home. By 9:30, I’m starting to wonder if I should worry. It’s totally unreasonable for me to feel like this.
If she were still next door instead of in my guest room, I’d have no idea she wasn’t home, and Iwouldn’tworry. She’s a grown woman, one who has zero obligation to let me know where she is or what time she’s going to be home. She could be at a rehearsal or out with friends or on a date.
That last thought makes my stomach pitch, but why couldn’t she be on a date? We barely held hands…for barely ten seconds. Not exactly a high-stakes commitment.
Still. I could text her and let her know there’s leftover dinner in the fridge, the books on the counter are hers, and could she please lock the door once she’s home?
That wouldn’t be weird, right?
I reach for my phone, then groan.
