Page 130 of Book and Ladder
BTTP: You forgave me.
M&M: Are you sure?
BTTP: We’re talking again. That shows me you’re not one to hold mistakes against people unless they deserve it. Your neighbor probably deserves your anger. But leave room for the fact that there might be a part of the story you still don’t know.
M&M: Cryptic. But also, you make a valid point.
M&M:Anyway, enough about him. You mentioned Pizza Den. Has it occurred to you that we may have seen one another around town for years? We may know one another better than we think.
BTTP:It definitely occurred to me.
M&M:Have you tried to puzzle out who I am? Like, have you combed back through our messages to figure out who I might be?
BTTP:I have.
M&M:Me too. I’m not ready to give you another face-to-face chance quite yet, but I know I will be eventually.
BTTP:When you do, I won’t take it for granted. I’ll show up.
His cursor blinks for a while after that. I wait for more.
BTTP:I hope you’re not disappointed when you see me.
M&M:Do you have a giant wart on your nose or something—like, one that’s bigger than a mushroom? Not that I’m saying that would be a deal breaker. Just … not sure why you’d think I’d be disappointed.
BTTP:No mushroom warts.
M&M:Well, then rest easy.
BTTP:I think you need to reconsider your standards of what constitutes a deal breaker.
M&M:Looks aren’t everything.
BTTP:True. I agree wholeheartedly. But they do account for something. I’m glad to know you’ll stick with me if I ever get a wart infestation, though.
M&M:I’m snort laughing.
BTTP:I’m chuckling. But, so you know, snort laughing is not a deal breaker. As a matter of fact, it might be a green flag for me. Depending on the snort—and the snorter.
M&M:Good to know.
M&M: I’d better go to sleep. I have work in the morning.
BTTP:Yeah. I’d better go lie down in my bed, stareat my ceiling and think of ways to win a woman over after standing her up and disappointing her.
M&M:Yes. Get right on that.
BTTP:Will do.
I’m getting ready for my second day working at the library. The telltale thunk of Patrick’s boots carries across the porch floorboards. Only, instead of going down the steps, the thumping comes uncomfortably close to my doorway. And then it diminishes.
I wait ten minutes, finishing my coffee and rinsing the mug. Then I cautiously open the door.
My eyes scan the front yard. Patrick’s car is gone. I’m about to shut the door when something catches my eye on my doormat. I’d recognize that pink bakery box anywhere. There’s a note taped to the top of the box from Baker From Another Mother.
I already have a very certain feeling as to who delivered this box to my doorstep. Despite the fact that he’s awful and his family has brought me nothing but grief, I still pick up the box. I mean, it’s Baker From Another Mother.
I pull the note off the box.
