I find the spot on the floor as empty as the space next to me. Still looking for a sign, a clue, a note, a number, anything that would show tangible proof he was here other than a bottle of medicine. Did I have that in the cabinet? Did I retrieve it in my hazy feverish hours in the middle of the night?
Getting out of bed, I rummage through the few papers on my desk. I check the hook for a scarf left behind, the floor for a forgotten glove, and even the dryer for something discarded. I need to find something to prove to my runaway heart that Cooper isn’t a figment of my imagination.
But I’m left empty-handed.
I fall back on the bed, arms wide, and close my eyes, trying to process my feelings. They feel bigger to manage than they should over one night with him.
“Tell me I dreamed him, that I made him up in my imagination.” That would make sense to me, like the heat between our hands, the feel of his fingers entwined with mine, the kisses he placed across my neck, and why I felt comfortable with a man who is basically a stranger being in my bed.
Our conversations were light, but he had me opening little by little until I exposed my personal secrets. I don’t talk about my mom with anyone, except I did with him.
Taking a deep breath, I slowly exhale, wondering why I let him in—into my life, my apartment, and even my Wi-Fi—when I know better.
But more so, why’d he leave without a trace when I thought we had such a great connection?
8
Story
Crackers and cheese.
Strawberry yogurt.
Applesauce.
Two bananas.
Totino’s pizza and ice cream in the fridge.
Three bottles of water and a six-pack of Gatorade.
Despite the rest of my apartment, my fridge and freezer have all kinds of surprises left behind, courtesy of Cooper. I just don’t understand why he bought all this stuff when he didn’t intend to stay and enjoy it with me.
Grabbing a yogurt and a spoon, I retreat to my desk. I get the occasional waft of Cooper’s cologne, a stark reminder of his absence. I would have preferred smelling it on him than in the air.
From the café to this apartment, no one has filled a space as quickly as he did. I still find it odd how natural it felt with him here. How I grappled to find any excuse to ask him to stay. Sure, it was raining outside, but did I ask for his sake or mine?
Letting my guard down was my first mistake. Allowing him to invade my sanctuary was my second. Why am I still allowing him to consume my thoughts like I have nothing better to do?
Loneliness won’t win.
I refuse to let it.
Changing my habits and the lessons I learned growing up will serve me better. Don’t cling to someone else’s life. It’s okay to be alone. I’m basically a pro. I’ve been doing it for years now.
Positive self-talk may not help me out of this mess with Cooper. I open my journal and grab a pen, ready to confess my weakness—green eyes, six-two give or take a mini Reese’s Cup, and a nurturing side that has me swooning like a ridiculous schoolgirl. That’s the problem right there. I’m just not used to being treated like a princess.
The worst part . . . I liked it.
I don’t even wear pink, so none of this makes sense.
Shoving a large spoonful of yogurt into my mouth, I hope to fight this foolishness and recalibrate my thoughts. Last night is in the past. It’s time for me to return to reality.
A text flashes onto my screen. Leaning over, I see the message is from my manager, Lila: We need to talk asap. Can you come to the shop?
She’s never short with me, but that text feels like a first time.
Not good.
Rubbing my temple, I remember few people paid before they bailed during the storm. I’ve not had time to figure out how to recoup the money other than hoping most will return to square up with me. If not, I may take the fall, and I can’t even blame them. There were a few regulars, but other than that, I didn’t even get their names.
I don’t want to lose my job. It doesn’t pay a lot, but it covers my bills and has great hours. I can study during the slow times and eat for free. That’s not something I can do at most places.
With my fingers hovering over the screen, I try to form some coherent response, a justification to not fire me, or any reason that will allow me to keep my job. Already bracing myself for her response, I type: I’ll be there shortly.
I probably shouldn’t be going out in my condition. I’m feeling better, but I can still feel a tightness in my chest. I eat the yogurt for energy while I get dressed.
Grabbing my scarf as the last article of clothing, I wrap it around my neck and then slip on my tall rain boots. Just outside my door, I spot my suede ankle boots—the leather is hard and ruined. Maybe I can salvage them, but I’ll have to deal with those later. I lock my door and tuck my hands in my pockets.
It’s in the forties today, so not too cold, but it’s kind of eerie with streams of debris and dirt filling the streets. Trash is speckled across the usually clean streets under overcast skies.
Dread fills every step I take to the shop, but as soon as I get there, the smell of muffins and coffee fills me with premature relief, and my stomach growls. Guess I’ve gotten a little of my appetite back. I can’t let the comforting scents fool me. I’m about to be fired for a hefty shortchange. I don’t have the wherewithal to even fight back right now.
“Story?” Lila waves me to the back.
I push through the door. “What’s wrong?”
Lila’s taller than me by only a few inches, but it feels like a mountain staring down at me in this situation. She leans against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. Her brown hair catches in the crossing. She never wears much makeup, no more than a little mascara and maybe lipstick, but today, her face is bare. She probably had a rough time getting out the door with her young son, Jake. That’s what she tells me when she has less time to get ready. “Why didn’t you tell me about last night?”
“Umm . . .” I look around for a saving grace but don’t spot anything but a bag of flour I forgot to put up and a stack of dishes next to the sink. “I’m sorry. It all happened so fast.” Her brow crinkles, so I start to ramble, “The storm hit, and we were fine until we lost power, but then I couldn’t just kick people out when the street was flooding, so I let them stay, and most didn’t have money.” I shrug. “Who carries cash these days anyway?”
“One thousand dollars, Story? That’s crazy money.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. The electricity went out, and people bailed before I could collect the tabs.”
She narrows her eyes in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Last night.” Taking a step back, I feel my ass run into the metal counter, so I take hold, my grip firm against the rounded steel. “What are you talking about?”
“Last night. Your tip.”
“My tip?” My eyes jerk back. “I didn’t have any tips once the storm hit, and really, I only had about ten dollars prior because again, most people don’t carry cash. They just leave it on the receipt.”
She holds up a credit card receipt. “What’s this?”
I lean in and squint because nothing on the piece of paper is making sense. “I don’t know,” I reply, leaning back on my heels again. “What is that?”
A huge smile splits her lips. “It’s your tip, Story.” Tapping the paper, she adds, “Someone left you a one-thousand-dollar tip.”
“Huh?” I snatch the receipt from her and study the numbers, looking for errors in the zeros or a misplaced period. “This doesn’t make sense, Lila.”
“Well, I’m not going to argue with you. Not only did this person pay for everything last night that you marked down on the notepad that wasn’t paid for but they also overpaid by four hundred dollars. On top of that, they matched it in a tip for you. A thousand dollars, Story. That is huge money. I can’t say I’m not jealous. I’m so freaking jealous. Think of what you can do with all that money.” She nudges me as she walks by. “You must have given some damn good service last night.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. You showed that sweet smile to the right guy.” She backs through the door, still grinning. “I’m going to need details about this C. Haywood.”