Page 73 of Waiting for Gilbert

“Sure, what’s up?” I inspect my hands to make sure I’m not covered in any more icing. Ope, and I left some on the side of his head.

“Okay, so I’m noticing how much—” He cuts off when I run my fingers through his hair to comb out the blue sugar.

“Sorry. I accidentally got food in your hair.”

“No worries. Can I use your printer?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” I speed walk to the bedroom and snatch the bra from the doorknob and shove it under my pillow. Hastily, I gather laundry from the floordrobe and toss it in the basket. Good enough. “Printer’s ready.” I press the power button on my machine and step away from my tiny desk.

“Thanks, I have it on here.” He raises a purple thumb drive.

This bedroom shrinks to half its size in a matter of seconds. I’m thinking of our night together and how there’s no way I’d have the same self-control to be this close to him overnight again. Gilbert takes up space like he belongs.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.” I walk backward. “Ok, see ya. Bye.”

He starts to sit but stops. There’s another bra on the chair. My blue one with the little pink flowers. Lord, take me now! “Gah, sorry.” I swipe the offending article and throw it across the room then flee the premises before he has a chance to comment.

I need a cold drink. When did it get so hot in here? I start to pull off my hoodie when I remember I’m not even wearing a bra! “Of course not,” I mutter and shove my sleeves to my elbows instead. My kitchen is trashed. I stack my dirty dishes from the past couple days, wipe the table, sweep the floor, then get back to icing the snowflake cookies.

Three cookies later my mind is deep in its own world. Dreaming of what I could do instead of cookbooks. I haven’t heard back from my agent about the Easter cookbook. If I don’t sign for another full book, I’m not sure I can live on what I make with the pictures themselves. I’d love to write stories that matter. Interview Aunt Jewels. I’m sure she’s got a lifetime of stories that need to be told.

Food and stories. Fories. Ha! No.

I pause too long and a blob of icing drips where I didn’t mean for it to go. Set the cookie aside. Think. I chew the side of my lip and stare at the backsplash. Food blog. Great pictures. Recipes. It’s been done a thousand times. How would mine be different? Stories. Food. Pictures. History.

What if I interviewed unique individuals—everyone’s unique when you dig a little—core memories surrounding food… Recipes. Pictures. Core memories.

“I have a friend—” Gilbert’s voice a few feet away intrudes on my thinking, and I fling the piping bag to the floor with a yelp.

“Don’t sneak up on a person like that.”

“I didn’t sneak. I just came from—” He chuckles. “Your face lost its color. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“All good.” I cross my arms and lean against the counter while trying not to ogle the gift bag at his feet.

He follows my gaze. “Wanna see what I got you first?”

I clap my hands and sit at the table with him. Inside the bag is a pair of bright red tennis shoes. “Oh. Very nice.” I hold them up and admire the shiny leather. The rubber from the sole wraps around the heel of the shoe.

“Driving shoes.” He sounds hesitant. “It’s silly I guess. But these are better for driving. I thought—since you’re still learning how to drive stick they’d be handy. Though with all this snow?—”

“I love them. Thanks.” I run to my room and come back with a pair of regular socks so I can try them on. Halfway back I spin and almost fall trying to return to my bedroom. On the dresser is the gift I bought for him. It’s so lame I shouldn’t even give it to him.

“Sorry, I didn’t wrap it.” I plunk the leather belt on the table once I make it back to the kitchen. “It’s a belt. I saw it at the mall and thought of you. See, it’s got the music notes engraved or whatever all over it. Since you play music and wear pants?—”

“I love it. Thanks.” His eyes dip in concentration.

Aw man, he hates it. A belt was a stupid thing to get. I shouldn’t have bought him anything.

Gilbert offers that same smile that stole my breath in Aunt Jewels’ entryway. “It’s ‘Für Elise.’”

“For who?”

He laughs. “Look.” He points to a section and hums a familiar tune. “It’s one of Beethovan’s most popular compositions. ‘Für Elise.’ That’s cool.” Gilbert continues to hum while running his finger to the end of the leather as if he’s reading. “Now! The real reason for my visit.” He sets the belt gently to the side and places a manilla folder on the table.

“So serious.” I straighten my posture. “I feel like I’m in trouble. Is this landlord business?”

He pops his lips with a shake of his head. “I have a friend who’s interested in dating. He says he hasn’t had any luck. Anywho. I mentioned the online thing like you’re doing and he found a few prospects. I want you to give me your thoughts on these bios.”

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