“So I’ll suffer a little more.” I wave her off. “At least this will be done.”
“Evie,” she says, dipping into stern mama bear territory. “Don’t overdo it.”
“Scout’s honor, I’ll behave,” I mumble, focus still trained on the recipe.
“Mm-hmm, sure.”
Given my general stubborn disposition, her skepticism is valid, albeit an annoying reminder I have a condition that requires rest, even when I have a million things I’d rather be accomplishing.
Last year, clinging to the remnants of my tattered dreams, I went through a phase where I tried to plow past my pain and ignore it. After so many people in my life—doctors, family members, acquaintances, and alleged friends—told me my pain was mental, how could I not? Out of self-preservation, my body responded by blacking out whenever my blood pressure elevated to dangerous levels.
It took a stern talking to by a medical professional for me to learn not to push my body to syncope anymore, but still, this Type A personality doesn’t suffer suffering well. I have things to do, pastries to bake for the blog, and an income needed to survive, pain or not.
Maria’s gaze stays heavy on me.
Picking up my eyes to meet hers, I sigh. “It would behoove me to get another recipe on the blog. Traffic has picked up because of the pictures, and I need to utilize the algorithm.”
“Fair,” she says, entering our tiny kitchen area and spraying directly behind me. “That picture is pretty damn cute if I can toot your traffic horn.”
A sharp staccato knock on the front door echoes through the apartment, reverberating off the tight walls inside and halting any response I had to her ridiculous joke.
Maria pauses her tidying. “Are you expecting Eli?”
“Not today. I texted him that I wasn’t feeling well.”
And then texted Maria asking for her to grab bread while she was out because priorities.
Maria peeks into the keyhole, and a broad smile sweeps across her face. “Seems your boyfriend didn’t get the message.”
The regular pitter-patter rhythm of my heart drops like an EDM classic now thrumming against my chest.
No.
No.
Panic toot.
No.
“You should answer it.” She says, walking away from the door and grinning rather wickedly.
“But—farts.” I reach for her, clinging to my fart-filled air as she moves beyond my grasp.
“I’m sorry, I need to do this thing over here, and I simply cannot be bothered.”
“You’re a real Benedict Arnold, you know that?”
“I don’t know who that is, but if this Benedict Arnold fellow gets you out of your funk, I’ll take it.”
“I’m not in a funk. I’m—”
Another knock.
“Coming.” I sigh, shifting the deadbolt and slowly cracking the door open.
“Hey, Peaches.” Liam greets me on the other side in a dark charcoal suit.
“Hi.” I blink at the crusty baguette gripped firmly in his hand. “What are you doing here?”
