Page 25 of Make My Heart Malt

“Great. Thanks!” I push off the counter.

Her brows draw together. “Or it could’ve been five twelve. Or two fifteen. Wait. Did she tell me a number?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find it.” I press a kiss to her cheek and grab a plastic container for the cookies. After filling it to the brim, I loosely place the lid on top. “Thanks for these.” I lift the container and race out the door.

When I get to Chestnut Street, there’s a row of three townhomes with two units each. Luckily, it’s on a dead end, so I have a one in six chance of picking the correct one.

Upon first glance, I notice a minivan parked in the driveway and children’s toys strewn across the front yard. Going off the hunch of no mention of children, I assume that’s not her house, so I stroll to the next one. I knock on the door, and a dog barks on the other side. She’s always loved animals, so this could be hers. When we were teens, she loved playing with our golden retriever, Max, and always mentioned she’d love to have one when she got older since her parents didn’t want pets. When there’s no answer, I knock again, and two more barking dogs join themix. Based on the high-pitched yipping, I believe the others are smaller dogs. I know she’d rather have a golden retriever than a chihuahua. Again, If I had to guess, this isn’t hers. Since there’s no answer, I move on to the next townhouse. As I stroll up the driveway, a brightly painted Minnesota Mallards sign hangs on the door. This is promising. She’s been a die-hard fan since I made her watch all their games with me.

I gently rap my knuckles against the door. My heart thunders in my chest. I’m not fully prepared for what to say if she answers, but like many things during this whole situation, I’ll wing it. As I raise my hand to knock once more, the door suddenly swings open. A young boy around ten years old comes into view. His eyes grow wide, and he’s stunned silent for a moment before he yells to his mom over his shoulder.

“What?!” a voice sounds from another room.

“Garrett Dawson is at our front door!” he yells, but his eyes are still on me, afraid to move in case I disappear.

“Garrett Dawson is not at our front door!”

“Yes, he is!”

“What did I tell you about lying?” A woman with short auburn hair comes into view. As soon as she sees me, she stops dead in her tracks, the towel in her hand fluttering to the floor. “Holy shit. Garrett Dawson is at our front door.”

I give her a sheepish smile and wave.

Using the mirror on the wall, she carefully finger combs her hair, before sashaying toward the door. A seductive smile forms on her lips. “What can I help you with, Mr. Dawson?” she purrs.

“I was wondering if you know where Dessa Mitchell lives?”

Disappointment takes over her features, upset that I’m not there to see her. “She’s two houses down at five oheight. Before you leave, can I interest you in a drink?” She straightens her shoulders, causing her green shirt to tighten over her chest.

“Can I get an autograph?” the little boy asks.

I give her a tight smile, thankful for his interruption. “I can do the autograph, but I’ll pass on the drink.”

The little boy scampers off. Seconds later, he returns with a baseball bat and a permanent marker. Quickly, I scribble my autograph and pass it back.

He stares at it in wonder. “This is so cool! All my friends are never going to believe this. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome. But I best be on my way. Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re welcome here anytime, Mr. Dawson.” She winks.

I give her a curt nod and barrel down the driveway. When I glance over my shoulder, her eyes are still on me, so I quicken my step.

Shit. Did she say five oh eight or five oh nine? I got distracted with autographs and her undressing me with her eyes. I was only half paying attention. At least there are only two more houses. My odds are fifty-fifty.

Once I’m at the next house, I press the doorbell button. The rumble of tires on pavement draws my attention. I whirl around wondering if maybe it’s Dessa.

Suddenly, a thunderous voice reverberates from the doorbell speaker. “What do you want?”

I whip around.

“Holy shit! It’s Garrett Dawson. I’m a huge fan. Some bad luck with that last catch.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I lean forward toward the small round lens on the side of the door, feeling awkward talking to a doorbell. “I’m looking for Dessa Mitchell. Do you know where she lives?

“Sorry man. I just moved in. I’m not acquainted with my neighbors yet.”

Now I know my answer. “Okay. Thanks. Have a good day.” I lift my hand in a half wave.

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