Page 29 of Waiting for Gilbert

The emptiness shouldn’t hit so personally. I stand in the hallway hugging my mug against my chest and try not to be depressed about a missing cello. This feels significant. He will probably avoid me from now on because I forced him to sleep over. But I had a good reason! We’d both been awake for way too many hours. His house was—is—uninhabitable. How long does it take to build a fire? Heat the room? And then to sleep on a cold, hard floor? That would have been equally foolish.

A sip of my poor man’s latte warms my core while I contemplate life. Gilbert is already going about his day. No need to make it a thing.

I wonder how his arm feels.

Gosh, I have so much work to do. This was a dumb week to move across the state. I have most of the recipes photographed, thank goodness, but I’ve not typed the blurb for any of them and I need to put together one last spread of holiday pies. Running away to Hadley Springs this week was a terrible career move. Yes, I can work from anywhere. But I could have held it together for a week until I’d met the current deadline, joined Diana for the holidays as planned, and then moved to town. Classic Cordelia making impulsive life-altering decisions at the drop of a hat. Or drop of a fiancé, as the case may be.

A heavy weight presses against my ribcage that makes breathing a dedicated effort as I stare at the empty closet. I close my eyes and tip my face to the ceiling. My heart has been taking lessons from Bambi’s friend, Thumper, and its deep rhythm is almost audible to my high strung nerves. I feel myself spiraling into a pit of overwhelm which often leads to stare-at-the-wall-and-do-nothing for the rest of the day.

No!

I turn on my heel, spilling coffee in the process. No time for this self-doubt. I search for my phone—it’s under the bed—and turn it on. I have eight voicemails that I ignore. Poor suckers. One of these days I’ll get around to changing the memo: “If you leave a voicemail, I will never listen to it. Please text instead.” But today is not that day. Or tomorrow.

It’s ten thirty-eight. Past time to get going.

My attempt to shower is an experience. The way the water spits from the pipe in the wall and the cold concrete floor throws me into flashbacks of summer camp and I’m very thankful the walls aren’t also covered in June beetles and mayflies.

Clean, dressed, coffeed, and carbed by eleven, I plunk my day book on the edge of the table and frantically brain-dump.

Today: December 15, 11 AM

1. Breathe. You can do hard things.

2. Move bedroom boxes out of kitchen

3. Clean counters, stove top, table

4. Find notes for Christmas Classics: Desserts

5. Eat food

6. Detailed plan to finish WIP by Thursday

7. Shop for ingredients

8. Check on Diana and the plague

9. Text Mark

10. Order showerhead

11. Put sheets on bed

12. Eat more food

13. Draft email to publisher

14. Review/edit outline for Easter cookbook

15. Find Xmas list and order stuff I forgot

16. Call Mom

17. Finish unpacking

18. Set up office in bedroom

My chest tightens when I review the list. On what crazy planet could I possibly do all of this in one afternoon? I stare at number one until the print grows blurry. I flip over the page and scribble the header for tomorrow.

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