I held out the box. “It’s a brownie.”
What? There’s no way I told my mouth to say that. My first words ever spoken to her could not seriously have been “It’s a brownie.” Plan failed, abort mission! Escape! Seek cover!
“Thanks,” she said, taking the box. “Are you okay?”
I must have looked a mess. “I’m lovely. Uh, I’m great . . . you’re love . . . you’re welcome.” What language had just come spilling out of my mouth? Dear God. Please get me the hell out of here. Love, Zeus.
“Okay, well, good-bye,” I said, then turned to walk away, hoping to find the nearest hole to crawl into.
“Wait.”
I turned around. “Me?”
She smiled and stuck out her hand. “I’m Rose.”
My hand met hers. “Zeus.” Her skin was soft and warm.
“So did you make the brownie?” she asked, nodding to the box in her other hand.
I finally released her grip and shoved my hands in my pockets. “Yes. No. Sort of.”
I sounded ridiculous.
She raised her eyebrows at me.
I babbled on. “Let’s just say I made the brownie happen. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you. The rest is a matter of national brownie security.”
She laughed. Thank God she laughed. “How mysterious. Thank you.”
Relief washed over me like a tidal wave. I think I started breathing again. “No problem. I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will. So you work at that new café on Main Street?” she asked, looking at the sticker on the box.
“Yeah, my mom owns it. You should check it out some time.”
She leaned toward me as if to whisper in my ear. “If I do, will I get a glimpse of the secret brownie operation?”
She was close enough I could smell her perfume, or lotion, or whatever girls wore. I stopped breathing again.
“Absolutely. Better go now,” I said, pointing to the exit with my thumb over my shoulder. “Work to do. Back at the café.”
She smiled, then walked past me in an aromatic whoosh of sun-ripened raspberries and vanilla. “I’ll stop in soon. See you, Zeus.”
“See you, Rose.”
Yes.
SEVEN
I WASN’T SURPRISED WHEN ROSE DIDN’T MAKE AN APPEARANCE AT the café that same day. I’d expected that, even though I stuck around later than usual, just in case. No big deal. Giving her at least twenty-four hours seemed perfectly reasonable. If I were her, I’d wait a day too.
Wednesday arrived, bringing with it another day of deliveries. Adding to my general level of humiliation and discomfort, Mother Nature showed up for work an emotional wreck. Periods of bright, intense sunshine alternated with thunderous downpours, as if she were having delusions of grandeur one moment and sobbing about it the next. By the end of the day, Grub and I looked like sewer rats, our hair and clothes drenched with rain and sweat.
Wednesday afternoon, still no Rose. Nor had Missy Stouffer called to place a new delivery order. But no need to panic. It was still midweek. I’d give Rose another day before I lost all hope.
Thursday was a cloudless, Rose-less, hundred-degree day. From the minute we walked out the door, the humidity hovered at steam room levels. I sweated a gallon for every mile I pedaled. I tried to convince Grub to stay behind in the air-conditioned café, but he insisted the heat didn’t bother him, that it was fun.
And still no Rose. Despite all my best efforts, my natural defense mechanisms began to kick in. I felt like I was back in psychology class learning about the stages of grief.
Denial. She’s still coming. She had said, “I’ll stop in soon,” right? Yes. If not today, then definitely tomorrow. Nothing to worry about.
Anger. Definitely not coming. So why did she say she would? Just to toy with me? I hope I never see her again.
Bargaining. Maybe she’s busy. Maybe something happened to her. I shouldn’t have hoped I’d never see her again.
Depression. I’ve made a complete fool of myself. What made me think she’d ever come?
Acceptance. Well, it was fun while it lasted. At least I got a handshake out of it.
By Friday, I had convinced myself that I shouldn’t spend any more time obsessing about Rose. Thank God Missy Stouffer had canceled her salad plan and I’d never have to go to Hilltop again. Instead Grub and I made our usual deliveries downtown with no risk of running into anyone I’d later waste hours and hours thinking about. It was probably a good thing too, since the temperature remained in the triple digits, causing me to sweat through a new T-shirt every hour. I remembered being little, playing in the sun all day and barely breaking a sweat. Now I rode my bike one city block and my armpits turned into faucets. What the hell?
We finished our deliveries and returned to the café to turn in the money. Grub jumped off the pegs and covered me as I parked the bike on its kickstand and approached the door with the money bag.
“All clear, sir!”
“Thank you, private.”
My mom darted around the café watering the numerous hanging plants. Big shocker—Mom was a plant fanatic. I grew up learning all the Latin names of her houseplants. My favorites were spider plants (Chlorophytum comosum), snake plants (Sansevieria trifasciata), and the pothos (Epipremnum aureum). When I was younger, she’d grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen and shout the Latin names at me—Hedera helix!—as if casting spells in Harry Potter.
It might sound kind of lame but I used to love it.
“Mom, whatever all-natural, goofy deodorant you buy me isn’t cutting it. My pits are sweating like Niagara Falls and I smell like a dog fart.” I set the money bag on the counter, then leaned on it with my elbows.
Mom turned to me, then motioned with her head. “Someone’s here to see you.” I looked in the direction of her nod, and a cold sweat rushed down my spine when I saw who it was.
Rose sat at a booth and gave a shy wave. “Hi,” she said.
I froze as my brain attempted to decode the situation. A moment passed, then another, though it felt like hours.
Say something! said part of my brain.
Do something! said a different part.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, then smiled and waved back, still leaning on the counter. “Hi,” I replied.
Nailed it.
“BZSHOO!” Grub lay prone on the floor, Nerf gun aimed straight at Rose.
Rose feigned a wound, grabbing her chest with both hands. “You got me!” She slid down the booth, a casualty of café warfare.
“Grub, don’t—” I began.
Rose popped her head back up, laughing. “It’s okay.” Then she turned to Grub. “But watch out! Next time I’m bringing my grenade launcher.”
“Manny, come give me a hand,” said Mom from the back of the café.
“On my way!” yelled Grub, crawling away on his stomach and elbows.
And then we were alone, me a sweaty mess still leaning on the counter, Rose looking like a ray of sunshine. I tried to think of something funny or clever or cool to say, but the image of me bursting through the door babbling about my personal-hygiene issues replayed through my mind. I held a long blink to erase it.