She smiles big and jumps off the bed.
“I’ll go call in the order,” she says, running out of the room.
I rise and make my way to the shower. I guess I will go and call Rex. He just better not find something better to do. Something “better” like Christina Thompson.
11
Gwen
Sunlight beams through my bedroom window as I lay awake remembering the past. Oddly, it hurts less with each memory I walk back through, even though they’re thoughts I haven’t let myself think in several years. Rolling onto my side, I look at the clock and see it’s 8:30 in the morning. Closing my eyes, I curse myself silently for waking up early on the weekend. But then I hear a noise from the front room and think, not only is that odd because I live in this apartment alone, but most likely, it is the reason for my early rise.
Sitting up straight, I listen for a moment to make sure I’m not hearing things. Confident I’m right, my heart starts beating faster, wondering what, or should I say, who is making the noise. Glancing around my room, I notice I have nothing I can use as a weapon nearby, and frantically jump out of bed.
The noise continues, and I grab the nearest item I can come up with—a pen sitting on a nearby table. Armed with what I’m sure could do only minimal damage, I tiptoe to the door of my room and listen through the crack.
It sounds as if someone is banging around in my kitchen, and then I hear the faintest music playing in the background. What the hell? Who could be in my kitchen at this hour on a Saturday morning? And how the hell did they even get in?
Sure, whoever it is means no harm, I swing open the door but don’t drop the pen just in case. Storming down the short hallway, entirely planning on giving whoever it is hell, I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks. My mouth falls open, and the pen I have a death grip on falls from my hand and hits the floor at my feet.
Standing next to a small table in the center of the room, Rex looks up at me and smiles. String lights are strung throughout my apartment. The smell of French coffee and beignets fills my senses. A cut-out of the Eiffel Tower sits across the room, and soft French music plays in the background.
Finishing setting the table, Rex clears his throat, snapping me back from my gaze around what used to look like my front room. Suddenly aware that I’m in some pretty revealing PJs, and that my hair is a mess, and I have no makeup on, not to mention I have not brushed my teeth, my right arm crosses over my chest, and my free hand tries to smooth down the mess on top of my head.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Breakfast in Paris,” he shrugs. “Number eight on the long list of things we promised to do together, remember?”
He comes a few steps closer, grabs my hand, and pulls me towards the table.
I whispered this to him that night when I thought he was sleeping.
Reluctantly, I take the few steps to cross the room, and he pulls out a chair for me at the table and gestures for me to sit down.
“How did you get into my apartment?” I ask as I slip down into my seat.
“I have my ways.” Rex winks as he crosses the room into the kitchen.
He reappears at my side with a tray of beignets from Café du Monde, and my mouth begins to salivate. Setting them on the table, he smiles at me before returning to the kitchen. I don’t even wait for him to come back. I grab one of the beignets and tear it in two, taking a bite before setting it on my plate. When he reappears, he’s holding a coffee pot full of the best French chicory coffee and pours me a cup. I smile up at him as the French music floats around us.
“You did all of this for me?” I ask shyly. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“I remember more than you think,” Rex says shyly before grabbing the seat beside me.
A moment of awkwardness passes, and I grab the cream in the center of the table and pour a splash into my cup. Setting it down, I pick up the spoon and stir around the light brown liquid.
“I know this isn’t the real deal, but it’s the best I could do in New Orleans,” Rex says, picking up a beignet and placing it on his plate.
I watch as he busies himself with putting cream in his own cup.
“Who needs the real deal when I know someone who can whip this out of thin air?” I laugh, trying to calm his nerves. He looks up at me and smiles. “Seriously, Rex. This is amazing.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he says as his eyes dart to my mouth.
Cracking a grin, his hand rises to my face. I jolt back slightly, wondering what he is up to. He chuckles before using his thumb to wipe some powdered sugar off my cheek from the French pastries. Embarrassed, I blush as I look down at the table and grab my coffee cup.
“What else do you remember?” I ask.
Rex folds his arms over his chest and smiles. Leaning back in his seat, he says, “I remember how your voice always made me smile. How your laughter could make any shitty day better. I remember how you used to pout to get your way, and how I always let you. I remember how you always stole my sweatshirt when you were cold, held my hand when you were scared, and leaned on me for strength when you finally would admit you couldn’t do it alone.”
