20
I am most radiant under candlelight.
A WEEK LATER
“You can't be mad at me forever, Maddy," Wesley says, walking into my apartment without knocking. Wesley has been visiting each night after he completes his deliveries, but I'm not sure if it's because he feels remorseful.
“What? I'm not mad at you."
“Yes, you are," he argues.
“No, I'm not." Wesley has been pulling the same skit on me every day for the last week.
“You should be," he continues.
“She's not mad at you, Wesley. Go home," Layla grunts.
Wesley ignores Layla and sits down beside me on the couch. He gently slips his hand under my wrapped up arm and pulls it onto his lap. “I have to make this up to you."
“You need to stop feeling guilty about my arm. I tripped over you because I'm incapable of walking on pavement. I still think it's hilarious that you thought you could get me onto the ice."
“Well, I didn't think that way after you tripped on the sidewalk before we even made it to the rink. I believe you now—no skating."
“Who trips while walking on a flat surface?" Layla asks.
“Just a girl falling head over heels for me," Wesley replies with conviction.
“Oh God," Layla groans, leans to the side of her monitor so we can see her face, and pretends to shove a finger down her throat.
“Why are you in such a shitty mood?" Wesley asks Layla.
“I'm not. This is how I always am. I'm a stuffy bitch, or that's how most people see me, anyway."
“You might be a stuffy bitch, but you're being extra bitchy today," I confirm.
“Fine. Wesley, your ex-girlfriend is being a pain in the ass. She keeps bookingall your time slots, and I've been trying to cancel them, but she's pulling legalities on me, threatening me with the attempt of discrimination crimes. That's how she put it, anyway. I take it she's not the brightest cookie?"
“Brightest light, you mean?" Wesley asks, sounding like he wants to ease the tension.
I'm doing my best to act like this situation with his ex isn't bugging me, but he told her he's dating someone and she stepped on the gas.
“No, dark cookies are the burnt ones—overcooked, done, useless. Get it?" Layla continues.
“We got it," I tell her. “That makes me the brightest cookie—the one that's cooked to perfection, just right, and full of use."
Wesley raises a brow at my statement but pacifying my joke because there's frustration swimming through his tell-all eyes. “So, now what?" he asks Layla.
“I can't prevent her from booking time slots when they're available. I'm not sure what else to tell you," she says.
“Fine. What time is her delivery scheduled for tomorrow?" Wesley asks.
“Five-fifteen in the evening,” Layla responds after a pause.
“Will you come with me?" Wesley asks me. “Maybe if she sees you, she'll stop."
“Seriously? I don't think this is a great idea." I'd rather show up myself and clock her in the face, but I don't want to bethatgirl who seems insecure and needy enough to follow Wesley to a job.
“Please?" he asks, adding a dose of sweetness to his plea. “I'll pick you up at work if you'll come."
