“I know.”
“So why are you here?”
He warms the glass with his hands. “Because I love you.”
His words are simple. Quiet. Like snowfall.
He pulls out a brick of chocolates from inside his coat. My favorites.Again. Like a greedy child, I ate the ones he left in my room earlier, sharing with no one.
“I read a study—sugar builds trust.” He places the chocolate next to the bottle of cognac.
“How come you have these?” I pick up the bar, unable to resist, and unwrap the silver foil.
He gives me a measured look. “I…keep them at home and…whenever…. Do youreallywant to know?”
“Yes. That’s why I asked,” I snap.
I’m usually calm. But he’s making me snippy, bitchy. I’m turned on. Upset. Everything!
“I always bring them along when I think I may see you.”
My eyes bug out. Like a cartoon character from the 80s.
“What? Why?”
He swallows. “I…thought it was because I wanted to be nice. But I think it’s because I’m crazy about you.”
“You’ve been carrying this chocolate around for five years?”
“Not the same ones. I buy new ones.”
My eyes narrow. “What do you do with theoldones?”
“I…eat them.”
I pop a square into my mouth before I say something stupid like:What the fuck, Ransom, you dumped my ass five years ago, yet you buy my favorite chocolate, and carry it around in case you meet me? What the fuck is wrong with you?
I’m not prone to swearing, but he’s driving me to it.
“What?” he asks when I fix him with a sharp, venomous stare.
“You…you’re…”—fucked up, crazy, nuts—“impossible.”
Lame, Ember. So lame!
“Only when sober.”
He drinks his cognac. I eat the chocolate.
He finds a big jug of water and insists I drink some. I do.
“How’s your postdoc going?” he asks after a while.
“Okay.”
“Camacho treating you well?”
“How do you know Dr. Mel Camacho?”
