The next night, I’m sitting at my computer pouring over architectural plans of the LC factory I found on the flash drive, trying to figure out what those shiny pipes are — just like I’ve been doing since the moment I got back to my apartment — when the doorbell intercom buzzes.
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly midnight on a Thursday.
Who the fuck is at my door, at this hour?
Luca and I still aren’t speaking, so it can’t be him. Plus, he has his own key; he wouldn’t buzz up. And… I don’t have any other friends.
The buzzer goes again, more insistently.
Grumbling under my breath, I rise to my feet and cross to the intercom panel by my door. The small screen shows a blurry, black and white video feed of a man wearing some kind of uniform, holding a box.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery for Zoe Bloom.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“The guy said to tell you it’s from Blaze.” The male voice sounds tired and somewhat nervous. “Listen, lady, he paid me double to deliver it tonight. And, to be totally honest, he’s not the kind of guy I want to have to disappoint with news I couldn’t make it happen.”
I snort, but I’m not exactly surprised. Luca has that effect on people.
“Fine,” I agree. “I’ll buzz you in. You can put the package in the elevator. I’ll call it up after you leave.”
I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m not about to let some random dude into my apartment in the middle of the night. In this old building, the elevator doors open straight into my living room. Yes, the keyed-panel system offers a layer of protection, but it’s not exactly the same as having a concierge guarding the door at all hours. And my neighbors aren’t the type to call the police if they hear a scream, what with the illegal pot farm the guys in the unit below mine are cultivating and the fake ID operation the lady on the first floor runs out of her living room.
By the time the elevator clangs to a stop on my floor, the delivery boy is long gone. When the doors slide open, I find a small, hot pink box labeled Crumble in curvy white letters sitting inside. I stare at it ominously.
I know exactly what’s in the box — the same thing I order every time I stop at my favorite bakery in the city.
Double chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting.
I have to hand it to Luca — the bastard knows my weakness and is shamelessly exploiting it to get me to forgive him.
Still… it would be a shame to let them go to waste…
I sigh as I grab the box and retreat back into my apartment. I only last about thirty seconds after setting it down on the counter before I cave and flip open the lid, inhaling the scent of chocolate with a soft moan. There are four perfect, frosted cupcakes sitting inside, crying out for me to devour them.
Damn.
There’s a note tucked between two in the middle. I pluck it out and read it as I suck chocolate glaze off one finger.
I’m a dick. Forgive me anyway?
Got a fight tomorrow night — need you there, babe.
8PM. Lansdowne Gym.
He doesn’t sign his name. Doesn’t apologize.
Typical Luca.
But he knows I’ll be there. Just as he knew exactly what kind of cupcakes would be most effective in leveraging my sympathies.
Parker may think Luca is in love with me, but he’s wrong. Sure, we love each other — but it’s familial, not romantic. We’ve seen all the ugly, awful parts of each other. We’ve hated each other. Pushed each other. Forced each other to carry on when the whole damn world seemed to be telling us not to bother.
You can’t love someone who knows you like that.
Or at least… I can’t love someone who knows me like that.
Luca and I both gravitate toward darkness. Distrust. Destruction.
And, the truth is, you can’t drive out shadows in a windowless room. At some point, you have to let the light in. Find someone who glows bright enough to lessen the burden of your misfortunes.
Luca deserves someone who can bring that light into his life.
Out of nowhere, Parker’s face flashes in my mind. And for the rest of the night, no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I focus on financial data and executive email streams… I can’t quite seem to banish it from my thoughts.
Later, when my eyes are drooping shut and I can no longer make out the words on my screen, I can’t stop myself from crossing to my dresser, pulling his large black sweater from the back of the drawer where I hid it last week, and tugging it on before sliding beneath the sheets.
10
The Invitation