Page 131 of Book and Ladder
Daisy -
I messed up. Again. I’m trying to outgrow old habits.
You don’t even have to be patient with me.
I don’t think I should make you any promises at this point.
Maybe cookies will help. They rarely hurt.
- Patrick
I set the note down on my entry table. “Patrick O’Connell,” I mutter. “I don’t know what to make of you. You’re a walking contradiction wrapped in muscles and a stellar jawline.”
“He brought you cookies,” I tell myself.
“He also basically agreed to support the building of condos on my property.”
Stopping myself from further self-talk, I open the box. It’s an assortment. Gourmet cookies—the good ones, soft, some frosted, others with various chips or fruit. I stick my face at the edge of the box, take a big long inhale, and sigh.
BTTP’s words about forgiveness haunt me, so I grab a chocolate chunk cookie, chew off a mouthful and literally moan around the bite.
Okay. Okay. I’ll thank him. I don’t have to become his friend. And I won’t. But I can thank him.
His family is out of line. And he’s confusing—disturbingly so. And he’s a spineless fence-sitter. He might be able to bench press my car, but inside, he can’t even lift a two letter word and let it slip over his lips.
No. It’s that simple, Patrick. Just say no.
Mustering my courage, and taking a fortifying bite of chocolate chunk cookie, I open my door and stroll over to Patrick’s front door.
“He’s not home,” Mrs. Hellman shouts from her porch next door.
Does she live out here?
“It’s his work day—every other day, you know?” she reminds me. “Fireman schedule.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Gotcha somethin’ from the bakery, huh?”
I think she’s trying to wag her brows, but she ends up looking like she’s an exotic bird doing a mating dance. Her whole head and neck gets into the action.
“Yes. He brought cookies. Do you want one?”
“Oh, you don’t have to.” She’s already walking down her steps in my direction.
“I want to.”
“If you insist.”
I bring the box out and let Mrs. Hellman pick whichever one she wants. She fusses over each one, naming it and oohing and ahhing.
She finally settles on what looks like pumpkin-spice cake with cream-cheese frosting, then toddles off across the yard shouting, “Thank you, Daisy!”
“You’re welcome.”
It’s not like I should eat the whole box myself.
I could. But I’d rather share.
