Page 27 of Open for Negotiation
“And you’re in denial that you’re too scared of something that happened years ago. He isn’t Carson. You’re not in Nashville. You’re older and wiser. Stop standing in your own way.”
I pick at the imaginary fuzz on my deep, red wine-colored rug and ponder her advice.
“He makes me so wishy-washy. One minute, I want him, consequences be damned, and the next, I’m a scared little baby who wants to run and hide to avoid all chances of drama.”
“I know, and it’s pretty annoying, babe.”
Ah, leave it to Eden to give me tough love.
She’s right, though. I’m so guilty of being the flakiest human being on the planet when it comes to dating since I left Nashville. I’ve always found an excuse to end anything that was potentially just beginning. Max was the first person I’d slept with in close to two years.
I’ve just always been more comfortable that way. I like to meet people, I do, but once things start leaning toward something more than friendship… I bolt.
The Carson Whitaker Effect.
“I’m trying, okay? I am. I actually went out with him, didn’t I? That’s a step in the right direction.”
“Yeah, but before that you actually tried to quit your job. That’s fucking bizarre, Scar,” she giggles to herself. “That rhymed.”
“Maybe I need more therapy,” I say, half joking.
“Don’t joke about…” She pauses for a minute then comes back to the phone. “I have to go. Dad needs something. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay. Hug him for me.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you.”
I end the call and toss my phone to the coffee table in front of me and push myself to my feet, determined to get something done today.
I’m nearly finished cleaning out my pantry when there’s a knock on my door.
I look down at what I’m wearing, leggings and a threadbare tank that’s seen better days, and I’m sweaty from cleaning. I consider trying to clean myself up for a millisecond but think better of it.
Whoever is coming to my apartment at noon on a Saturday can get over what I look like. This is weekend me. Suck it.
When I open the door, there’s a young delivery boy standing in front of me with a square box in his hands.
“I’m looking for Ms. Hale,” he says, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “How can I help you?”
“I just have a delivery for you.” He holds up the aforementioned box. “If you could just sign for it, I’ll leave you to your day.”
“Sure.” I take his pen and scribble my signature on the clipboard then take the box from him. “Have a good day.”
I kick the door closed behind me as I inspect the box. There’s a sticker on the top with “Atlanta Cookie Co.” emblazoned on it in bright, colorful font.
I place it down on the counter and peel the sticker that’s holding the lid in place away, lifting the top to reveal a note lying on top of something that is wrapped up.
My heart begins to flutter in the best way when I read the words on the notecard.
You don’t seem like a flower kind of girl.
I figured the best cookies in the city would be better.
Thank you for an adventure, and I can’t wait to do it again.
