Not the kind of person I want to be.
I haven’t shared too many personal details, just that I’m divorced, have a daughter, and I’m originally from rural Illinois and just moved here from Colorado. Beyond that, we keep our conversation about the city, our apartment building, our neighbors.
Benign topics with zero feelings attached.
On Friday, I step out into the courtyard with a basket of fresh-baked muffins for Lorraine. I’ve decided this is the kind of neighbor I want to be—one who bakes for people just because.
But also? Stress baking is going to lead to stress eating if I don’t start giving some of this stuff away.
Spring has descended on the city, and the tulips in the courtyard are starting to bloom. The space is like an advent calendar with secret surprises every time I step outside.
As I close the door behind me, I see Miles sitting on the stone bench in the center, talking on the phone.
I don’t want to eavesdrop, but I do catch the “I love you too” as he ends the call, and I wonder if I’ve earned the right to a personal question or two. But when does a casual, platonic friendship earn the right to go to the next level?
And if I ask him personal questions, he’s bound to ask me personal questions, and I’m not sure I’m willing to share.
He looks up and sees me, then gives me a quick wave. As I approach, his eyebrows shoot up. “More cookies?”
I tilt my head and make a face. “No, that was a onetime thing.”
“Dang it.”
I nod toward Lorraine’s door. “Muffins for Lorraine.”
“Is it her birthday?”
I frown and look down at the basket. “No, they’re just because...”
“‘Just because’ muffins,” he says, like he’s trying the phrase on. “She’ll love them. Although youmightneed a taste tester. You know, for purely academic purposes. You’d hate to hand them over and find out they’re bad.”
“They’re not bad.”
He holds out his hand and motions for me to give him one.
Slowly I relent, then sit on the stone bench beside him.
“New recipe,” I say. “Let me know what you think.”
He unwraps the paper around the bottom and, without hesitating, inhales half of the muffin. He closes his eyes and nods, letting out a little hum of approval.
It’s embarrassing how happy it makes me to see that he likes it.
“Why haven’t you applied at a bakery?” he asks around thebite. “This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.” He presses his lips together and then pops the other half of the muffin into his mouth. “I need more homemade muffins in my life.”
“You’re dating in the wrong age range for homemade muffins,” I say dryly.
The comment is out before I can stop it.
He looks at me funny. “What?”
My muscles tense. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I really need to be better about keeping my sarcasm to myself. While I have many thoughts about Miles’s dating life, none of them are actually my business. Up until now, I’ve done a good job of keeping them to myself.
I hold up a hand, trying not to squirm. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that. Who you date is your own business.”
He still looks confused. And who can blame him? I’ve been having multiple conversations on this topic for almost a week now, but only in my own head. He has no idea what story I wrote for him that first day.
A story I only now realize may very well be fiction.
