* * *
I’m halfwaythrough a website proposal for a new client the next afternoon when my doorbell rings.
Huh. The grocery delivery guy is actually on time today. Watching the video feed until he’s back on the sidewalk, I flip the locks and step outside. Fully outside. I don’t even think about it because in one of those bags? Ingredients for my favorite dessert. Double chocolate cake. It’s one of the few things I can cook, and Alec hated chocolate.
The idea of making it for Graham—for the two of us—distracted me from my overwhelming fear of going outside, and I squint up at the sun. I made it three steps yesterday. Maybe today, I can take four.
One at a time. I don’t want Clementine to get out, so I shut the door behind me, another leap of faith, and shuffle towards the ramp. I’m not fast. I never will be. Today’s a solid five on the pain scale. But I’m steady. And when my feet are firmly on the ramp, I pull out my phone and take a picture of them.
My shoes are pristine. Black Converse that have never seen dirt—or concrete—and for the first time, I think maybe I should order some Scotchgard in case I ever make it all the way to the street.
Texting Graham before I go back inside, I send him the photo.
“At this rate, it’ll be months before I can meet your friends. But...know that I want to.”
I don’t expect him to respond right away. He said as much when he texted me“Good Morning”a little after nine. But just knowing that I took this step—and did it on my own—leaves me smiling all the way back into the house and into the kitchen with the groceries.
Dark chocolate, powdered sugar, butter...I’m practically salivating. I’m not sure how my back will handle standing at the counter long enough to not only bake a cake, but also mix up a batch of frosting, but I’m going to try.
Distracted, I don’t look at the six-pack until it’s clear of the bag. And then the cardboard carrier slips from my grasp. At least one bottle shatters, and the scent...it makes me sick.
“No, no, no.” I have to clean it up. Get the stench of the sweet rhubarb and pear cider out of my kitchen. Oh, God. It’s on my shoes. The black Converse aren’t pristine any more, and they never will be again.
Clementinemrrpsas she pads towards the kitchen, and I shout, “Get back! Stay out of here!”
Yelling at my sweet, innocent kitten only makes me feel worse, and she bolts up the stairs. She’s never done a single thing wrong. Doesn’t even scratch the couch. But...the cider. It was Alec’s favorite. His only vice. At least according to him. Well, that and popsicles. Raspberry popsicles. I paw through the bags, and fuck. There they are.
Alec did this. Despite the overwhelming smell and the nausea crawling up my throat, I have to know how these got in the bag. My hand shakes as I dial the store’s number, and I hang up and try three more times before I can navigate their fucking multiple choice menu to connect with their home delivery department.
“Can I help you?” a pleasant female voice asks.
“I...uh. The delivery for Silver Star Technologies? There’s s-something wr-wrong with it. Two things I didn’t order.” My voice cracks, and I’m shaking, leaning against the counter, staring down at the bottles of cider littering the floor.
“Can I have the order number?” All business now, the woman taps on a keyboard as I read her the ten-digit code. “Okay, there it is. Looks like two items: a six-pack of cider and a box of raspberry popsicles were added twenty minutes ago. The request came by email from a ‘Quinton Silver.’”
* * *
Graham
The music pumping through the speakers mounted high on the walls at Hidden Agenda helps keep me focused. Restocking the MREs is everyone’s least favorite task, and this month, I drew the short straw. Twice. That drive to Ellensburg is boring as fuck.
Every time I stop moving, I see Q’s face as he stood on his front porch yesterday morning. Equal parts triumph and terror. The third box done, I pull out my phone.
“I hope you’re having a better day than I am. Are we still on for tomorrow? I could cook you dinner?”
The little dots at the bottom of the screen dance for so long, I worry he’s about to shut down on me, so I rush to add,“At your place.”
He stops typing for a few seconds, and I hold my breath. If I fucked up somehow, I’ll kick myself into next week.
“Okay.”
That’s it? One word? Now I know something’s off. West and Inara are working out, and Ry’s with Wren, who’s having so much morning sickness she needed IV fluids the previous night. Raelynn should be here in an hour, but Inara’s handling her training today—getting her up to speed on Royce’s GPS tracking app.
As soon as I’m outside and it’s quiet, I call Q. It takes him four rings to answer, and when he does, his voice is rougher than I’ve ever heard it.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “If tomorrow’s too soon for you, I can wait. Whatever you need.”
He’s quiet for several seconds. “It’s not you.”
