Page 66 of Waiting for Gilbert

Don’t be weird.

Can he tell that my breathing isn’t normal?

This is worse than when I’m at the doctor’s office and he puts the stethoscope on my back. How does he want me to breathe? Is he listening to my lungs and needs a deep breath to see if I’m harboring bacteria-laden fluid, or should I sort of breathe real slow and shallow because the doctor’s listening to my heart?

Clammy sweat breaks out down my spine. I had no idea a first date with a stranger would be as much fun as a doctor’s visit.

That easy smile adorns his face again. David really is a good-looking guy. “Let’s grab something to eat.”

He stands up and I don’t. He nods toward the row of fast food options and I sit here paralyzed. He sighs, sits back down, drums his fingers on the table between us.

“Have you ever wanted something so badly you forget why you wanted it?” My blurted question hangs over the table between us. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“And who do I think you are?” David is straight-faced. Is he acting facetious? Do I detect a dry sense of humor under there, or is this really him? Blankly asking questions. “Are you not CJ Thompson?”

“My name is Cordelia. Cordelia Jane. I’m her. I’m really very fun and silly. Most of the time. Except for when I’m not. People think I’m a little weird.”

“No. You?” Ah. There’s the sarcasm. But he delivers it with such ease, one could almost assume he was sincere. “Is there anything else you need to tell me? If you’re sure you’re not a double agent, I want to discuss this further over a milk-shake.”

When I offer nothing he tips his head a tiny fraction of an inch. “Burger and fries? Chicken and rice? Protein smoothie?” David glides his hand in a straight line toward the food options. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Food is good.” I stand and at that moment there’s a pop of a microphone being turned on. At the far end of the food court, John stands next to his piano while Gilbert adjusts his cello between his knees on the stool nearby.

“Happy holidays, everyone.” John smiles as if everyone here came to see him. “Thanks for coming out tonight! I know you’re all busy with your last-minute shopping. Don’t forget to grab something for Great Uncle Dale. I heard he’ll be in town this year.” A small wave of laughter ripples across the food court. “We’re Hadley Strings, a two-man group. I’m John Brader. This gent on the cello is Gilbert Conner. Be sure to check out our YouTube and website. That’s Hadley Strings.”

Gilbert looks up and smiles at nobody in particular. It’s a generic smile. Not the one I’m used to seeing. Still, it settles me. I feel peace wash over me at his familiar presence.

“You want to snag a table closer to the band?” David points to an empty spot near my boys. “Live music is fun.”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you reserve a table? I’ll get the food. What would you like?”

Oh, my heart. David seems like a really nice guy. It’s not fair to do this to myself or him. “David. I’m really sorry.” I tap my heel repeatedly on the linoleum. “Ah, shoot. This isn’t going to work.” I hang my head and look at the pointed toes of my boots that are killing my feet right now. “I?—”

“You’re not over an ex, are you?” He straightens his shoulders when I look at him. Hands tucked in his pockets, eyebrows raised in question.

Shaun’s face flitters through my mind. “Oh, Shaun isn’t the problem.”

“How long were you together?”

“A couple years, but it’s—” I nod to Gilbert. Just looking at him, my heart knows where it wants to be. The sweet sounds of their music feels like home. I’d rather be a friend of Gilbert, than a girlfriend of anyone else. “I think I’m in love with the cello man.”

“Who?” David spins toward the musicians. His face doesn’t harden with jealousy. He’s relaxed. Curious. “What’s special about him? You know these guys?”

“He’s my landlord, actually.”

Gilbert closes his eyes while leaning into the melody of “Let it Snow.”

David twitches his lips to the side in thought. “Hm. David the home inspector doesn’t stand a chance against that. Guess I strike out again. Can we still get dinner? You can tell me all about him over a burger.”

“You don’t need to do that. I already feel bad enough. This is a rotten thing to do to a guy—much less on the weekend of Christmas.”

“Now you’ll send me off hungry as well?”

“Let me get the food then. You reserve a table—sit wherever you like.”

“Bacon cheeseburger, please. And a rootbeer.”

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