Page 16 of Waiting for Gilbert

“Well, you can always back out and lose your deposit. How bad is it really? Besides the shower?” A yawn slurs his words. I should let him sleep, but I think maybe I’m scared to be alone. “What’s his first name?”

“I don’t want to tell you because you’ll make fun of me.”

“I probably will.”

“It’s just a childhood dream of mine—I know it’s silly?—”

Mark gasps as if it’s the last breath he’ll ever take on this earth. “Did you find your first Gilbert?” If Mark was here he’d be pointing an accusing finger at me with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Oh, Cordy?—”

“It’s CJ. I’m serious now, remember?”

“Ha! CJ my butt. You locked yourself into a twelve-month lease to fulfill your ridiculous Gilbert fantasies!”

“I did not.” I definitely did. “And you can’t prove it.”

7

CORDELIA

JOHN WILLIAMS—THE HOUSE, HOME ALONE (ORIGINAL MOTION PICTURE SOUNDTRACK)

Ijump from the counter and land awkwardly on tingling, blood starved feet. To prevent breaking my ankle, I let it give and collapse to my hands and knees on the hardwood floor, dropping my rag and spray bottle and rolling into the stack of boxes. They teeter, and I curl into a little ball to protect my face despite my impending death.

Food Photographer in Beastly Cottage Found Dead Beneath Crate of Cast Iron Skillets.The title’s long for a news article, but I’d click it.

“Did you fall off the counter?” Mark doesn’t sound the least bit surprised or concerned. Some friend he is.

“Shh, I jumped,” I whisper.

“Why must I be quiet?”

“Boxes are teetering.”

“Then move?”

The precarious tower stills, and I release my breath in a noisy rush. The hot air from the space heater warms my legs, so I sprawl like a starfish basking in a tropical breeze.

“Don’t wiggle out of this interrogation,CJ. Tell me straight. Do you have designs on the landlord because his name happens to be that of your childhood crush?”

Maybe I do and maybe I don’t, but my real issue here is much deeper than my childhood crush on Gilbert Blythe. “Mark?”

“What?” I hear clicks from his pen. That means before he came to his latest Gilbert revelation,which is utterly false, he was preparing to ignore me while he completed a few more pages of work. He’s probably holding his hand by his ear, pen fisted, thumb clicking while he decides how much red ink he’s going to inject into his client’s page. He’s old-school like that and still prints what he can.

“I’m not going to make my deadline.”

The clicking stops. “So help me, Cordy.” Mark’s held me together for years. At least since Diana left home for college. He’s the bow on my shoe. The wind in my sails. The icing on my donut. He does not accept failure as an option.

Hands over my face, I hide from my cousin two thousand miles away. Ten thousand miles. I don’t know. However far Arizona is from Nebraska. Forever, that’s how far. He’s disappointed. As he should be.

There are no proper excuses for my upcoming failure. I have no husband, no kids to pull on my time. Nothing to show for this laziness. Absolutely no reason to be this far behind on work. It’s all me. I hear Mark’s irritation shouting through his silence. It’s in the quiet way he takes a breath, like he’s collecting his strength.

“Cordelia Thompson, get off the floor. Go to bed. It’s… geez, one thirty up there?” Blankets rustle on his end. “Are you listening?”

“Mhmm.”

“The moment you wake up tomorrow, unpack your camera. Cook the food. Take the pictures. Cook the food and take the pictures!” His voice takes on an edge as if he’s lecturing a rebellious teenager. “You’re going to finish on time, or your boss isn’t going to give you the Easter cookbook. You’ve already done an insane amount of work to pitch that one. It will be wasted, and you’ll have to query all over again. You know this. Get. It. Done.” The clicking starts again, angry agitated clicking, and he huffs. Papers shuffle.

I don’t even want the Easter cookbook.

---