Page 2 of Waiting for Gilbert

How did I ever think it would work between us?

Currently I’m trying to get to my sister’s house in tiny Hadley Springs, Nebraska. Not because I’m running away. That’s something a cute and fun girl might do. No, I’m a serious, focused career girl looking for a house to rent, and I’m not too proud to live with my sister and all of her adorable gremlins until I find the perfect place. Also, Christmas.

My phone’s light momentarily blinds me when I check the map. At five thirty it’s already as dark as midnight here in the Midwest.

Okay, I’m going the right direction. I shut off the screen because I’m not the kind of girl who needs a phone to tell her where to go every second. And because I’ve been here five times and I should know this already. I pull back onto the deserted road just as my phone buzzes with an incoming call from my cousin. I tap my earbud to answer. “Mark Brader! The one and only!”

“Hey, Cordy.”

I smile. My favorite cousin, editor, and friend also happens to be an odd sort of coach who doesn’t take crap from me ever. Not since our days at college and not since we both started working in the publishing world. He with the editing. Me with the writing—and the cooking and picture-taking as a food photographer. He spends his days making authors cry from an office in Phoenix, and I do cookbooks. It’s my job to test recipes and write lovely blurbs to convince people to cook the food. That’s my jam. Sometimes literally. I did a whole book on different jams once.

“Mark! Where you been all my life?” We talked yesterday.

He takes a noisy sip of his coffee. I know it’s coffee because if there wasn’t a cup nearby he’d have it through an IV into his bloodstream. I imagine a no-nonsense black mug with his alma mater in a gold scrolling logo that he carefully clicks into place on a little mug heater. He would have one of those because he’s too uppity to put it in a thermos like the rest of us peasants. Mark would probably explain that coffee tastes better when given the chance to aerate.

“What’s up?” I sniff from the leftover Shaun emotions, and I’m instantly regretting the action.Nooo.But it’s too late.

“Uh-oh. You sick?”

“Nope,” I squeak.

“Shaun.” He spits the name like an expletive.

“Don’t distract me. I amseriousandfocused. ”

“And I’m a dancing monkey.”

“Good. So we needn’t argue. Take note, I’m changing my name to CJ.”

“Oh, we are serious,” he says.

“And focused.”

“So… CJ, hit me with the list.” Oh, right. Check-in time from Coach Business. “What do you have going on this week? On track?”

The snow streaks over the windshield like a trip through a sci-fi space movie. There’s nothing but the black road before me while the stars, er snowflakes, zoom around my trusty Toyota.

“Yeppers.” I lie. Totally not on track. Packing my apartment and moving two weeks early on a whim was not on the schedule.

“Awesome. Then why the name change and refusal to answer my first question?”

I sigh because I want to tell him it’s not his problem. “I don’t have to explain myself to you?” That was not supposed to come out as a question, but it most certainly did.

“Is this because you’re an adult?”

“Yeeesss, and I do what I want to do?”

He chuckles. “How’s that working out for you?”

I inwardly grumble. There’s a reason Mark is up in my business. A few years ago I asked him straight-out to help me with reaching goals and staying on track with work. For the most part, he’s phenomenal. He could get a job as a life coach making big money. Thankfully I’m on the friends and family free plan. Today I wish he’d forget about this and mosey along.

“Name change. Spit it out.” Coach Business does not beat around bushes.

I cave at the inevitable and spill my guts. “I think Coredelia Jane has a silliness about it. People don’t take me seriously with my childish height and a name like that. Changing it to CJ should help.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Just say it, Mark.”

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