Page 52 of A World Without You
“Shut up. This is just what secretaries are supposed to do,” I say, and he grins.
“Was that in your handbook?” he asks, hitting the button for the elevator.
“It was.”
“Oh really.”
“Day one of my training: thou shall bring delicious, sugary Christmas treats to ensure everybody in the office puts on the holiday fifteen.” I let out a breath, then confess, “They’re Colin’s favorite cookies.”
“Ahh, step one of the Christmas miracle.” Bennett shoves his hand in his overcoat pocket.
“It’s a Hail Mary. I just want to see if he can say more than twenty words to me, even if it’s about cookies.”
The elevator dings, and we step in together with a crowd of slacks and suits. Now, in the closed space of the elevator, the scent of the cookies wafts through the air. “Those smell good. Can I have one?”
“Yes, actually. I didn’t even get to try them.”
“Why?” Bennett’s face twists.
“I didn’t have any gluten-free flour. It turns out I have celiac disease,” I answer as I pop open the lid, and he takes one, immediately sinking his teeth into the warm, gooey chocolate and leaving powdered sugar residue on his lips.
“Good God, these are delicious,” he says with his mouth full. “Since when do you have celiac?”
I shrug. “I’ve only known a couple of weeks.” I don’t dare explain how I know because knowing Bennett, he’d call my mom concerned. Then my mom would call the priest to see if I’m having Godly premonitions or if I need an exorcism.
“I’m sorry, you’re missing out.” He smiles down at me and plops the other half of the cookie in his mouth.
“May I have one?” The redhead in a blue blazer says to my left.
“Oh, sure.” I tilt the container in her direction.
“I’ll take one—”
“Don’t mind if I do—”
“These are delicious—”
“Oh my god...what floor do you work on again?”
I smile at each person’s satisfaction with my favorite Christmas cookie as they politely take one, eat it, and begin trickling off the elevator. As the elevator empties, I look down. There are only two cookies left.
Bennett runs his tongue along his teeth, then smacks his lips together. The elevator is now as empty as the container.
“You should double the batch next time,” he says.
“That wasn’t in the handbook.” I look down at the two remaining cookies as we get off the elevator and part the sea of cubicles to my little square on the floor before Bennett continues to his corner office. “I barely talk to anyone. I thought this would be way too many.”
“Treats are how you make friends in an office. They really need to put that in the handbook,” he says, and I snort.
“Bring food. Make friends. Check. Check. I’ll remember—”
“No, not food. Cookies. Baked goods. You won’t win anyone over with your potato salad,” Bennett interrupts me with a stern finger in the air, the crease between his brow deepening.So serious.
“I don’t think anyone in the history of ever has been won over by potato salad,” I say, and a rare noise of laughter escapes his chest.
“True,” he agrees, his tone still filled with laughter. He gestures to the aisle of cubicles where I work. “Things good over here in your neck of the woods?”
I set the container down on my desk. “You mean in the sea of disgruntled employees, unnecessary filing, and twenty-seven phone lines?”
