Page 49 of Bittersweet

I take a deep breath. Am Iready?

Emma:Either way, we’re going on a girls’ night. Bring on the singlehotties!

Romy:Did you forget the part about beingmarried?

Seems that’s going aroundlately.

Emma:Of course not. Trust me, Drew will be reaping all the benefits, but after being reduced to a milk machine for the last twelve weeks, I need to get out of these sweats. I need to feel desirable again. Please, Romy? I’m begging you. Let’s go out. I’ll be on my best behavior. Drinks, dinner, dancing, and you’ll be the only person I flirtwith.

I laugh and shake my head, but I’m already typing out myreply.

Romy:Fine, but you better make that apromise.

Emma:Scout’shonor.

Romy:We both know you were never a girlscout.

She replies with a winky face, and I toss my phone down on the bed and stare at my sheets again. They’re rumpled. Uninviting. Maybe it’s time to try another glass of water. Wash my face again, clean my teeth—the bedtime routine fromscratch.

But as I pass the kitchen counter, that brown paper package from the bookstore catches my eye. What if I just sneak downstairs now and drop it off? It’s after hours—no one will be there. I know bakers are known for their early starts, but it’s only just gone one a.m. I don’t usually hear Elio’s car pulling into the alley next door until four. I could head down there now and slip the book in like a thief in thenight.

A givingthief.

A book-givingthief.

I shrug, flipping the package over. Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose, and maybe getting out of the house for a moment will help settle my mind. Maybe this is the last piece of the puzzle. I’m a strong, independent woman. I’m not interested in Elio as anything more than a friend, and while I may not be ready to waltz into the bakery during opening hours and hand this book over in person, I’m confident that doing this is one positive step in the right direction to getting overhim.

I leave my apartment and pad down the internal stairs, the book tucked carefully under my arm. I reach the internal door that connects my stairwell to the bakery and place the book on thefloor.

There.

Done.

Delivered.

I turn to head backupstairs.

What if it'sunlocked?

Huh. Surely it wouldn'tbe.

Still, my hand grips the handle just to check,and—

It’s notlocked.

It’s notlocked.

Quietly, I open thedoor.

It’s been three weeks since I last stepped foot in here, and the place is exactly as I remember, and yet, nothing like it. The coffee machine looms behind the counter, but the man who brings it to life doesn’t smile beside it. The glass display cabinets are empty, yet I swear I can smell the tell-tale hint of cinnamon and deliciousness in the air. An eerie orange glow emanates from the kitchen, spilling out from the border of the closed door. It’s enough for me to see, to make my way carefully around the chairs stacked high on the tables casting long shadows over the floor that stretch all the way to the familiarbookcase.

I reach the bookcase and pull away the brown paper covering thebook.

Wait.

I can’t leave ithere.

What if Elio doesn’t see it? What if some other fan of Russian literature comes in and grabs it in a book exchange before Elio’s had a chance to check if there are any new additions dropped in by mysterious book giftersovernight?

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