Instead of looking like normal cookies, these look like damp green hockey pucks that have lost their shape along the way. But when I lift one out, it surprisingly holds together.
It’s also heavier than I expected.
“God dammit.” I curse my growing need to consume it, even as I lift the cookie and take a bite.
My mouth pulls into a frown, but I force myself to keep chewing.
It’s… not good.
I look at the puck, seeing a little clump of unmixed flour that I’ve bitten through, and I take another bite.
The overall wetness of the cookie is off-putting. But the taste is even worse.
I shove the rest of it into my mouth.
For someone who bakes so much, Cassandra is not getting any better.
I move to my fridge and pull out a stick of butter.
It’s too hard to be spreadable, so I slice off little squares and set them on top of the second cookie, then take a large bite.
Slightly better.
Another bite, and some of the cookie juice drips onto my shirt.
“Fuck,” I grumble around my mouthful of the shredded vegetable bullshit.
After shoving the rest of the butter-topped cookie into my mouth, I rip a paper towel free from the roll sitting next to the sink and wipe at my shirt.
I eye the other four cookies still left in the container.
I don’t want to eat them.
They’re hardly edible.
But I’m curious to see how Cassandra photographed them for her food blog.
It didn’t take me long to find the blog, though I was a little surprised that she only started it after moving in next door. No matter how awful the creation is, she always makes them look appealing in the photo, but since she’s gifted me a container of every item she’s ever blogged about, I know the photos lie.
I don’t want to eat the rest.
But I have to.
After moving to the cupboard on the other side of the fridge, I open the door and take out the half-empty jar of peanut butter.
I scoop out a spoonful and do my best to spread it over the top of the third hockey puck.
It doesn’t make it better.
I grab my glass of water off the counter and chug it down, trying to loosen up the peanut and zucchini concrete sealing my jaw shut.
When I finally clear my mouth, I move back to the fridge, and this time, I take out a bottle of beer.
I crack it open and alternate between pulls from the bottle and mouthfuls of cookie until the last three are gone.
My stomach protests at the last bite, but I can’t waste it. It doesn’t matter how bad her creations are, my deep-seated need to consume every bit of Cassandra won’t let me throw them away. And my tastebuds won’t let me go through this torture twice. So, this has become our ritual. Cassandra leaves me something that lands somewhere on the scale of edible, and I binge eat it while standing alone in my kitchen, staring out the window over my sink and imagining I’m eating them in her house, with her next to me.
When all the awful cookies are gone, I tip the glass container over the sink, letting the little pool of green liquid drip out. Then I wash and dry it.
Once I secure the lid in place, I leave the empty container on the counter and pick up the Post-it.
I walk across the living room, turning off lights as I go, and step into my bedroom.
The bedside lamp is on, and it illuminates my actions as I pull open the top drawer of my nightstand.
Leaning down, I carefully stick the newest Post-it on top of the last one, adding it to my little stack of yellow paper squares.
One for every delivery from the girl next door.
CHAPTER 4
Cassie
“Okay, bye! Be back later!” I grin to myself as I step out the front door, locking the handle as I go.
I don’t have any pets. There’s nothing alive inside the house, but I still say goodbye to my home whenever I leave. It’s probably silly, but it makes coming back feel happier. Like the structure itself will be waiting for my return.
As I take the few steps down to the sidewalk that leads from my front door to my driveway, I glance across the street. It’s a cloudy afternoon, but I can clearly see my neighbor’s empty front step. No cookie container in sight.
I bite the corner of my lip.
So he was home, but he didn’t answer the door. Again.
Or he got home after you were there.
Or he was in the shower.
Or he came home this morning.
I pull my gaze away from Hans’s house and hurry the rest of the distance to my old sedan. The thought that Hans might be spending some of his nights at a woman’s house has crossed my mind more times than I care to admit. And even though I have zero claim over my elusive, handsome neighbor, the jealousy in my gut is real.
CHAPTER 5
Hans
Cassandra backs out of her driveway, nearly clipping her mailbox. Then she takes her time playing with the radio before she finally pulls away, turning off Holly Court and disappearing from sight.
I give her the usual eleven minutes.
She has a track record of forgetting things and coming back for them, but she never turns around if she’s more than five minutes away. So, when that eleventh minute starts, I tuck the empty container under my arm and step outside.
I don’t look around. I don’t try to sneak over. Both of those things give away the fact that you’re doing something shady. It’s always best to act like you belong.
Plus, there’s no one here to see what I’m doing anyway.
The lots on our little cul-de-sac are large, and beyond the edges of our mowed lawns is a thick forest of trees. Both leafy and evergreen. So unless someone is on one of our properties, or coming down our street, they wouldn’t see me walking between Cassandra’s house and mine.
They won’t see me now, and they haven’t seen me the dozens of other times I’ve done this.
My boots are quiet on the steps up to her front door, and I use the duplicate key in my palm to unlock the handle. When it turns and the door opens, I shake my head.
“Why have a deadbolt, Butterfly, if you’re not gonna use it?”
I set the empty dish, lid attached, on her literal welcome mat, wipe my boots off on said mat, then step over it and shut the door behind me, relocking the handle. Just because she should be gone for a while doesn’t mean I won’t leave everything how I found it.
It doesn’t take me long to do my usual rounds, but I don’t rush through them.
I tell myself it’s because I want to be thorough. That I need to make sure every window is properly locked—twice, because I may have missed it the first time.
I don’t dwell on the way I enjoy being in her space. I don’t think about the way the air feels different in here. The way it tastes different in here.