“Don’t. You can’t.”
I shrug. “You’re not the boss of me.”
She gives me a sad smile. “It can’t happen.”
“Why not?”
The elevator has arrived, though. I growl and pull her to me. I give her another kiss, just a quick one, and then I turn and walk.
I don’t even look back when the doors squeech shut.
Back in my place, Willow is surveying the sea of kitchen store packing materials. “What happened here?”
“Apparently a man needs an egg pan,” I say. “And an egg pan needs an entourage.”
She’s searching my face. “I’m so sorry I ran her off.”
“She would’ve gone anyway.”
“I like her,” Willow says. “She actually gives you crap.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“You had her in your home. You let her take you shopping. Did you ask her to the Locke banquet?”
“Are you trying to get out of being my date?” I ask.
“Did you ask her?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She doesn’t want to go.”
“But you had her at your home. She seems so…”
“Perfect?”
Willow leans over the counter, sets her chin on her hands. “Yeah.”
“She’s coming off a bad experience. She’s moving away in a couple of weeks. She just wants to be fuck buddies.” I move to the window and look down. If she crosses the street, I’ll see her down there.
I hear Willow come up behind me after a bit. “But you so want more.”
I so want more.
* * *
I head into work for a blissful Saturday of no people around. Well, it used to be blissful to have no people around.
I pass by the whiteboard and go to the window, look down at all the Saturday people doing their Saturday things. Buying pastries and flowers or whatever.
Flowers, the most useless crop.
Does Lizzie like flowers? What kind would she buy? I twirl my marker, thinking I need to ask her. It would be some outrageous kind. Bright and ruffly and huge. Peonies or something.
And then I realize I’m thinking about flowers instead of formulas, and I go back to the board.
I’d hoped to have dehydrated Vossameer nailed in time for the Locke banquet. I really had hoped to use the occasion to announce it; the foundation would get the publicity bump, and our partnership would be off to a positive start. We could work together to expedite the testing.
It won’t happen now.
The fact that I won’t have the thing solved by the banquet is bad, yet it feels like far less of a disaster than it might have a month ago.
My race for the formula used to be the only thing on the landscape of my life. Now it exists alongside kitchen things and ironic cookies and hotel trysts and long afternoon walks when I should be working. It lives in a world where conflicted emotions can be contained in one simple, fierce word over the phone.
Where beauty is an asymmetrical freckle. Where baby goats play. Where I can wake up and Lizzie is the first thing I see. And I lie there loving everything about her so hard that it wakes her up.
I return to the whiteboard before I think too hard about her leaving, about the very real possibility that I might not be able to prevent it, hard as I might try.
And really, those baby goat videos. The ridiculous way they hop while they’re running. Or more like they pop into the air, mid-run, and it’s so cute, you can’t look away.
The baby goats seem to inspire each other to jump more—one starts doing it, and then the others follow. Each one acts on its own, like individual kernels of popcorn, pop-pop-popping. I think about that for a while, how it’s random, but there’s a certain strange logic to the sequence.
I’m staring at the board, and that’s when I see it—a roundabout way to link the remaining water molecules together to keep a stable compound while still removing enough of them to get the dehydration I need.
It is possible? Is this it?
Heart pounding, I go to my other board and start capturing it, capturing everything, writing as fast as I can.
The ideas pour out. I scribble, feeling like I’m in a trance.
This is it.
The answer is right here. It was there all along. It’s magnificent.
Thirty-Three
Lizzie
* * *
“Did you make microwave popcorn for him yet?” Mia asks as we head under some scaffolding. “You so need to do that before you leave.”
The space to walk is too narrow for going side by side, so we walk single file for half a block, which is just as well, because I don’t want her to see the sadness in my eyes. “We’re not at that point in our fuck buddy relationship,” I say over my shoulder, as breezily as I can.
It’s a Wednesday, and I leave a week from Saturday. The things I don’t do now with Mia and Theo, I might never do them. I have a subletter lined up who travels a lot for work. The woman seems good.
“Yeah, fuck buddies. Whatever you say,” she says when we come back together. “You know you’re gonna go to that banquet.”
The dress arrived this week, as promised. I gave Theo shit about his persistence two days in a row, but he knows how much I love it. He wants me to keep it no matter what. As if I’ll have a reason to wear it in Fargo.
“I vowed I wouldn’t get wrapped up with a guy like him,” I say.
Mia says nothing, like she always does when she disagrees with me on something.
“It’s better for him, too,” I add. “He’s been making great progress with his formula over the past week. He needs that mental bandwidth for his work.”
She just grunts.
“What?”
“It just seems…wrong. You two are good together.”
“We are, but it’s how it has to be.”
“Says who?” Mia says.
“Says the complete crushing of my life that was Mason.”
“Is Theo that much like Mason?”
“They’re both suit-wearing guys who are very into getting their way,” I say. “And I’m still recuperating.”
“Not strong enough to withstand his influence?” Mia asks.
“Exactly,” I say.
We stop at a DON’T WALK sign and wait with a crush of people. She says nothing. Full disagreement mode.
I move nearer to her. “True, he doesn’t try to influence me like Mason always would. Mason thought he knew everything.”
“And Theo, I’m sorry, that dress?” Mia says. “On his own, he bought you a gown you love, in your size. It’s like, an Olympic gold medalist level of boyfriend achievement.” She holds up her hand before I can correct her that he’s not my boyfriend. “I’m just saying.”
“Theo is a scientist. He observes things with laser-like intensity. That’s his job.” Even as I say it, I realize the bullshit of it. It’s not about his job, it’s about his passion.
“It’s sort of funny,” I continue, “I was telling him the story about how I fell into the theme cookie niche, and I kept trying to shorten the story, because Mason would get bored with stories like that, but Theo was all, ‘Wait, back up. I want every detail.’”
“Dude, please,” Mia says. “He’s fascinated with you.”
Goes both ways, I think. “And he never tells me what to do. He respects my instincts. In a weird way, I feel…admired.”
“So weird!” Mia jokes.
I want to go under another scaffolding and cry. I’ll lose so much when I leave. So much.
I pull out my phone at the next light and poke through random things, clearing and organizing. The most recent text from Theo kicks off with a purple devil emoji. I forbid myself to read it.
A few rows down, there’s a text Theo sent from his sister Willow’s phone number when he was out of juice one time, and I think, I should put Willow in as a contact now that I have her number, just in case!
And then I think, what’s the point? I’m leaving.
That makes me want to cry even more.
Meanwhile, Mia is furious at her phone. “Uh!” she says. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I perk up. “What?” I really need something to distract me.
The light turns, and we’re walking. “Stupid work stuff. ” She shoves her phone into her pocket and narrows her eyes at something across the street. “Oooh.” She grabs my arm.
“What?”
She points. “For your dream board.”
That’s when I see it. A tiny corner place for rent. “Oh, no!” I say. “I love this block. This is the perfect block!”
“Let’s go look!”
“I don’t know if I can bear it.”
“You need it for your dream board. You have to.”
I let her drag me across to the tree-shaded side of the street, up past a sushi place and a jeweler. We look in the window together. Tiny counter. Huge windows. Tile floor and walls.
She gasps. “The ceiling.”
I look up. Pressed tin. My heart sinks. “It’s so…”
“Amazing,” she says.
“Perfect,” I add. “If only it was eighteen months from now.”
“Why not call and find out the rent?”
“It has to be so much money.”
“For comparative purposes.” She moves around to look in the other side. “Oh, Lizzie!”
I go over to join her. It’s even better from the side. It’s just the size for baking stuff and a counter. It’s got fans. “Kill me now.” I take out my phone and get a few shots.
She takes my phone and makes me stand by the door. She gets a few shots of me, then one of us together.
An older woman comes up the street with a bag from the hardware store. She smiles. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry, are you…is this your place? Are you the one leasing it out?” Mia asks.
“Yeah. We just put up the sign.”
Mia kicks me.
“Just out of curiosity, what’s the rent?” I ask.
She names a reasonable price for the neighborhood. A lot, in other words. “Want to see it?” She’s unlocking the door.
“I’m more interested in it on an aspirational basis,” I say, at exactly the same time as Mia says, “We’d love to!” She grabs my arm, whispering, “Vision board!”
We go in. It’s more perfect on the inside. The kitchen is better than my old one.
“What sort of operation are you thinking about?” the woman asks. “I’d say this space is ideal for retail or small food prep and carry-out.”
“She’s looking for a Cookie Madness space,” Mia says to the woman.
The woman’s gaze swivels to my face. “Cookie Madness? With the fun frosted cookies?”
I smile wanly. “Yeah.”
“That was her,” Mia says proudly.
“We loved Cookie Madness,” the woman says. “We couldn’t understand why you closed.”
“Her ex was a con man,” Mia blurts. “He took her for everything!” She starts telling the sordid story; I practically have to seal her mouth with my hand to shut her up.
“I’d rather not have that get out,” I say. “I’m not in a position to put down a security deposit or anything, really, right now, but I’ll be back on my feet.” I let Mia go and scribble my cellphone number on a slip of paper and hand it to the woman. “If this place comes up again the summer after next, or if you have anything else like it, I’d be in a position to rent it.”
The woman studies my card. “We’d love a Cookie Madness in here. It’s the exact sort of thing we envisioned.” She looks up. “Would you be open to something entrepreneurial?”
“What do you mean?”
“A percentage of net instead of rent?” the woman says. “We really were fans. We always loved the concept.”
My blood races. A percentage of net means I wouldn’t have to pay anything until the bakery made money. Mia squeezes my arm.
“We don’t want something corporate in here,” the woman explains. “I’d have to discuss it with my husband, but would you be open to it?”
“What sort of percentage?” I ask, trying desperately not to freak out and hug her.
“Maybe we could both come up with a number and see where we are, maybe arrive at something we both think is fair. It’s the kind of business we’ve always envisioned for this space. Of course we’d do due diligence.”
“I would be extremely interested, and I’d be happy to supply the police report, anything. Though I am getting ready to relocate somewhere cheaper for a while…”
We set up a lunch meeting for the next day.
I walk out of there with Mia like everything is totally normal.
We’re silent as nuns for almost half a block. Then, when we’re a safe distance away, I death-grip her arm and squee.
Thirty-Four
Lizzie
* * *
Twenty-four hours later, I’m walking in the front door of Vossameer. I wasn’t planning on talking to Theo until the next morning, but I want to tell him the good news about the space. Perfect location, perfect landlords. Our meeting was like a lovefest. I brought them cookies, of course.
I have to have a lawyer look at the papers, but the deal seems fair. I won’t need any money up front, and I’ll end up paying them the equivalent of what I’d pay in rent, possibly more, once profits start rolling in. I couldn’t have hoped for better.
And it was my reputation that landed it. Plus luck.
So I’m heading in there, imagining his face. And growing nervous as hell. Because staying changes things. Our end-of-March expiration date was a kind of safety net.
Theo wants to get serious, but I’m just not ready. Or am I?
Worry and uncertainty and utter excitement rage inside me all the way down the block to the Vossameer building.
I push through the front door and get hit.
With color. Art.
In the Vossameer lobby?
A trio of large, colorful abstract-art banners hang down one side, very vertical, and a horizontal hangs over the elevator. And there’s new lighting—bright pendulums. A small collaboration space with comfy chairs.
“Ms. Cooper.” I look over, and there’s Marley in his gray security uniform, same as always. “We’ve missed you.”
“Hey, nice to see you.” I go up and lean in conspiratorially. “What’s with the art?”
“A fancy decorator lady came through here.”
“Does Mr. Drummond know?” I joke.
Marley shrugs.
I nearly collapse when I get into the elevator and see that the gray panels have been replaced with colorful ones. And when the door opens on the accounting floor to let in another passenger, I smell microwave popcorn.
Microwave-freaking-popcorn!
I smile at the woman. She seems to recognize me. She probably thinks I still work here. It’s only been a few weeks.
The elevator stops on the marketing level, and I spot Betsy coming out the marketing/HR door. She brightens up the moment she sees me, and it would be too weird to keep going up, so I slip out, taking my chances that Sasha isn’t there.
Betsy gives me a long hug. We do a quick catch-up and I tell her about the microwave popcorn I smelled in accounting.
“You have no idea. You have to see something.” She grabs my arm and pulls me in the door, around her desk, and past the rows of cubicles.
“Uhh,” I whisper as heads swivel.
“Ignore,” she says. We arrive in the back room where I was fired. Except it’s all different. There are comfy chairs, an espresso maker, a new microwave, and a giant basket of treats. “These are deadly,” she says, holding up a pack of chocolate-covered pretzels. She picks up another. “Cheese microwave popcorn. Food of the gods.” Another. “These caramel things? Best-kept secret in the baskets. Every department has a basket like this.”
“How is this allowed?”
“Mr. Drummond promoted Fernice from HR to employee well-being oversight,
and suddenly these appeared.”
I pick up a pack of cookies, feeling weirdly excited and hopeful. It’s a basket of treats that feels like more than a basket of treats. It feels like a sign or something. A big sign that says yes. Or maybe this way out of fuck buddy-only territory.
“IT ran through theirs,” she confides. “And another appeared.”
“Wow.”
“I know we’re trying to get that deal with Locke Foundation, but it was thoughtful. It’s not as if they’d ever know about something internal like this.”
“Yeah,” I say. “How would they know?”
“When Mr. Drummond does something, he doesn’t go halfway,” Betsy says. She asks about the job hunt as we head back up to the front.
“I’m working for a caterer, but I just signed a lease deal for an amazing space for a new Cookie Madness on Ninth.”
“Lizzie! You got a space?”
I grin. I kind of can’t not. “It’s so perfect—right where Hell’s Kitchen meets Midtown. A lot of foot traffic. I wouldn’t have been able to afford it, but the landlord knows my reputation and she wanted me in there. It’s this older couple—I think they have a lot of money and they just really want what they want. A tiny little place on a corner. So gorgeous.”
“That’s where the big food festival is,” she says.
“You’re opening a Cookie Madness on Ninth?”
I spin around and come face-to-face with Sasha. I stiffen instinctively, but what can she do to me? If anything, she should feel stupid around me, though judging from her haughty stare, she doesn’t.
“That’s right,” I say.
“Where on Ninth?” she asks.
I hesitate to reveal the intersection, but what’s she going to do? Come in and trash the place with a baseball bat? “Ninth and 43rd. It’s going to be awesome. So amazing.”
“Huh,” she says. It’s a significant huh. A foreboding huh.
“What?”
She just smiles. “Nothing.”
I give her a smile of my own. I’m done letting her intimidate me.
I get out of there and continue on up to Theo’s office. Everything is still Gulag Drummond up there. The gloomy anteroom. Theo’s drab workspace.
The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl Page 23