Page 126 of The Puckable Playbook

My dearest Len,

I’m not surprised the editor wanted to talk to you on the phone. Your talent jumped out at him from the thousands of articles he gets every day, and you’ll continue to amaze other editors, too. Watch out, publishing industry, Len isn’t messing around.

The backs of my eyes heat. I hold the box to my chest, acknowledgment ringing through me.

He gets it. He understands.

Tuesday

The newsroom buzzes. Flora bought a clickety-clack keyboard, and at first, it drove me up the wall, but the sound is kind of soothing…as long as she’s typing. When she stops, its absence is deafening, and I find myself staring off, thinking of Zaiah.

Every day that passes, he’s making the past up to me, adjusting our puzzle pieces to the perfect fit.

Sneakily, I pull open my bag and break off a piece of myDreamscandy bar. After looking around to see who’s watching,I pop it into my mouth. Flora gets handsy with sweets. Like she has a sweet tooth sixth sense, she looks over at me. I stop chewing until she looks away, then I start chomping down again, the milk chocolate nearly melting in my mouth.

I’m still hiding behind my laptop screen, trying to keep out of her line of sight, when the newsroom door opens and closes. I hear several oohs and aahs from my fellow journalists, so I poke my head up.

A dozen red roses sit in the crook of a delivery man’s arm. Clark comes out of his office, and then he points at me with a scowl. I can unpack that later, but when the man starts walking toward me, I tense. I’ve never had flowers delivered before.

“Lenore?”

“That’s me,” I croak out.

He sets the flowers on the long table, and I eke out a thank you while standing to admire them, but suddenly, a small radio clatters to the table, and the delivery man’s coat flips out as he spins a 360 like a graceful ballerina. I nearly shriek until he lands in a pose, one hand stretched high to the ceiling, remaining still for some time before his hand shoots out to hitplayon the radio.

A note rings out, and I take a step back, nudging my chair out of the way. The delivery man turned dancer flashes the inside of his coat again. With ease, he shrugs it off, turns it inside out, and pulls it on once more before zipping it up. He stands still, showing off the entire picture. A tux. Well, a sublimation print tux. Somehow, he has a hat in his hand now and poses with his head down, the bass on the radio ramping up.

A few feet away, Flora giggles. I shoot her a look, as if to say “What is happening?” When I peek over, though, I spot Zaiah above her head. Hands pressed against the glass, he stares in at me, the softest smile on his face.

A flurry of movement in front of me catches my attention again, as well as a shout from the dancer’s mouth that has me jumping. A rendition of Michael Jackson’s “Bad” starts playing, except he doesn’t singbad, he singsrad.

The dancer grabs his crotch and does another spin, dropping into a split before pushing back up again.

“Oh my God!”

He sings about the sky being the limit, but when he hits the chorus, he says, “You know, you’re rad. You’re rad. You know it.”

I double over, laughing. Everyone in the newsroom starts clapping and cheering as the singer-slash-dancer-slash-delivery guy does his thing. At the end, he does another spin and grabs my hand. “Congratulations on the article, Lenore.”

Then, with fluidity I thought only known to cats, he turns his jacket back the other way, hides his hat, and walks out the same way he came in.

“What in the world…”

Flora runs over, as well as a few of my other coworkers. I try to see above their heads, but when I search the glass for Zaiah again, he’s gone.

The followingTuesday

Zaiah yawns next to me on the couch. For over a week, I’ve had surprises every day. Sometimes, it’s a little thing like a card thanking me for getting the laptop so we could make the video. Other times, it’s big things like the dinner or the delivery dancer. My roses from that day still sit on the table in a beautiful blue vase. He takes them out every morning to refresh the water before putting them back in and arranging them again.

“You ready for bed?” I ask, trying to dismiss the sudden tightening of my stomach.

He nods slowly, helping me from the couch and walking me to my bedroom door. It’s as if he’s dropping me off from a date, even though we only walked a few feet. He takes my head between his palms, his hold like a caress. “I love you, Lenore.”

“I love you, too.”

He presses his lips to me softly, like he’s done for the last week, but this time, I hold back on his hand when he tries to leave. He raises his brows, his gaze dropping to where I hold on to him.

I press into his hand, needing it to ground me as nerves skate over my skin. “Zaiah, why haven’t you…come to my bed?”

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