Questionable boyfriends? Check
When none of that worked and a vat of homebrewed kombucha exploded in the kitchen, I decided to switch tactics and be the good girl. I improved my grades. Attended Dad’s alma mater, not that the star hockey player had much affinity for class when he was a student, but they sure like the alumni support. I yes sir’ed myself into nearly making the biggest mistake of my life when he proposed I marry Todd. Yes, the Ice King all but sent me out the door with a dowry in the name of a smart business partnership.
I poke around in the teacher’s lounge, hoping to find a “Grab and Garb” box like we had in the college dorm. Students could donate clothes they no longer wanted and others could take something they did, but had to leave something in return.
Though college is well behind me as I approach thirty. This setting reminds me of living on campus with the student and teacher element, though I guess the roles are reversed.
Athumpand abumpsound from what I think is the other side of the wall and I jump. If this place is haunted, am I safer here out in the open where someone will find me, or am I better off in my room?
Being frozen with indecision is nothing new. I’ve been told that I overthink, overlove, overcare, overanalyze, and overstress. And when I do make a decision, I often question its sensibility in hindsight. I also tend to oversleep and overeat, hence the Cookie Dough Diary, where I can digest my thoughts, feelings, fears, and confusion.
This prompts my decision and I opt to head back to my room, where I can sketch until I process this strange feeling of unreality of having met my husband here at Blancbourg.
I grew up in a cold, modern home of my father’s design. Unlike the classic style of the manor with corniced ceilings, wood and wallpaper, oil paintings and antiques along with low lighting, it was metal and glass.
If ghosts were real, a wraith would haunt my father’s home. This place has more headless horseman vibes.
Dipping my finger into the bowl for a bite of dough for fortification, as I turn the corner, a shadow, low on the wall, flickers. I go still becauseghosts! It’s small at first but grows until it looms like a giant raccoon stalking through the forest on its way to rummage through the campground trash cans.
Then a large man with broad shoulders, a beard, and wild hair comes into focus.
From what I’ve seen, ordinarily, Grey walks like a man who knows where he’s going and who he is. He can handle himself and me, as it turns out. But right now, he looks lost. Haggard. Like he’s sleepwalking or pacing around because he can’t sleep.
“What are you doing up?” he asks.
“I’d rather have it be a raccoon,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Never mind. What are you doing up?” I counter.
Today, being around these football players is like visiting a city where everything is taller than you, crowding the sky. All I can do is look up.
On my way to Grey’s eyes, I lock on his lips, waiting for him to answer. Obviously. I’m not thinking about the kissituation. Probably.
He doesn’t answer, but his gaze dims in the low light, telling a story. I see an ache trying to burn its way through a wall he built as a buffer to keep emotion out and emptiness in.
Why would someone do that? Because in the short term, it’s easier to deal with than pain.
He glances down at me, glancing up at him. His eyes float to my lips. His were the last I kissed.
A list builds in my mind—yes, I need some clothing and bath products, but it has to do with the kiss. Perhaps, if I write a pros and cons list of the kiss, I’ll be able to stop thinking about it and get through the next thirty days.
“I’ll trade you some kissy dough for a T-shirt.”
Grey’s head snaps to the side. “What?”
As my cheeks heat to three hundred and fifty degrees, as if preparing to cook the cookie dough, I hold up the bowl. “I saidcookiedough. Sheesh. What did you think I said?”
He scrubs his hand down his face. “Never mind and no thank you.”
“But I will take a shirt.”
“Like a Bruisers shirt? Want me to sign it too?” His tone suggests he’ll do no such thing.
“No, Sir Grumps-a-lot. I don’t want your signature, I already got the ring.” I hold up my hand and twinkle my fingers.
His expression turns prehistoric. Pure stone from the center of the earth.
