Craving Perfect

by Liz Fichera

  That was when I got a better look at the hospital room, complete with fluorescent lights and stainless steel machines that I remembered from my dream. They hummed incessantly like the ice machines in refrigerators. It made more sense now, the pieces coming together.

  Two clear tubes connected to liquids hung like laundry bags attached to other parts of my body. When I turned away from Kathryn, the lavender smell disappeared.

  But it was better than lying at the bottom of a treadmill with strangers gawking at me. In theory.

  “Where’s Eddie and the doctor?” Kathryn called over her shoulder. She wouldn’t release my hand.

  I coughed again and then said, “I’m fine, Kathryn. Really. I’m feeling better by the second. When can I be released?” She didn’t look at me like I was fine, but I forced a smile at her anyway. “You should really go home, you know. You look exhausted—”

  “I’m not leaving.” Then she paused to take a breath. “And I don’t think a stick of dynamite would move Carlos out of this room either.”

  “Carlos?” My eyes widened and I leaned forward, pulling against the needle jammed in my arm. “Carlos is here? Where?” My eyes scanned the room but then they returned to Kathryn.

  Kathryn nodded behind me.

  I heard a chair creak. I tilted my head but the bandages blocked my vision.

  Carlos stood alongside my bed, staring down at me, his hands jammed in his front jean pockets. “Hey, Grace,” he said but it was more like a relieved exhale.

  My stomach fluttered the moment I saw him. I swallowed, hard. “How long have you been there?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Kathryn answered for him. “All day. And night.” Her eyes met his, unmistakably grateful.

  “I saw you. Lots of times. In my dream. I tried to talk to you. To get you to see me…”

  He smiled down at me, despite looking as exhausted as Kathryn.

  “I’ll go see what’s taking Eddie,” Kathryn said. “Leave you two alone—at least till the doctor comes.”

  Carlos waited for Kathryn to leave before he pulled his chair right up to my hospital bed. He was close enough for my cheeks to flush.

  Speaking became difficult again, and not just because my throat was as dry as the desert. “Carlos, what are you doing here?” Never mind that I had a welt on my forehead the size of a cantaloupe, stitches in at least three places around my hairline that I knew about, and I was wearing a hospital gown that could double as a pillow case. Not exactly how I wanted him to see me.

  “Watching you. Waiting for you to wake up.” His soft accented English tugged deep inside my chest. He leaned closer and my world stopped. “Missing you.”

  I moaned, softly. Everything around him disappeared.

  He reached across the bed for my hand, examined it for a second, and then threaded his fingers carefully through mine. His knuckles were still red and purple but my eyes returned to his, waiting for that flicker. The one that said his world stopped too.

  Briefly, I closed my eyes. Then I raised mine to his. And I got it. I got what I’d been waiting for all along.

  His other hand moved to my forehead, lightly brushing my skin with his warm fingertips, before stroking my hair. “I’m sorry I made you worry.” My voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have left. I was angry at Kathryn, not you. But I knew I had to get back…”

  Carlos leaned over me, the golden flecks from his brown eyes growing wider. “No one blames you, Grace. Accidents happen.”

  I choked back tears. “In case you hadn’t noticed, they happen to me a little more often than most.”

  Carlos chuckled but said nothing.

  “It was stupid, I know.” I tried to sit up again but Carlos pressed back on my shoulder. “I shouldn’t have been running so fast. So far.”

  His hand remained on my shoulder. Then it cupped my cheek. “Just promise me one thing.”

  I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to. Badly. More than anything. “What?” I held my breath.

  Carlos edged closer, brushing his nose against my cheekbone, and my eyes closed as I visualized more than just his nose against my skin. “Grace,” he breathed against my cheek.

  “I missed you,” I whispered, closing my eyes. “I missed the way you look at me.”

  He buried his lips near my neck then reluctantly pulled back. “You’ve been in a coma, Grace.”

  My head tilted toward him on the pillow. “Yes. And no.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I’ve had the world’s strangest dream.”

  “So have I.”

  My chin pulled back. “You, too?”

  He chuckled softly, embarrassed. “I’ve been dreaming about you for weeks, now. Waiting for you to notice.”

  I felt heat rush up my neck.

  His eyes traveled over my face, as if he was trying to memorize it, bandages or not. “When I’m awake and when I’m asleep, I see you.”

  “Me? Seriously?”

  “You.”

  “Oh,” I exhaled. “I’ve been thinking about you too. A lot.”

  His face brightened with more relief.

  I said it quickly, before anything else or anyone got in the way. “I love you, Carlos.”

  Silent, he lifted my hand, his fingers still threaded through mine. Then he lowered his lips to the top of my hand and kissed my knuckles.

  My chest tightened.

  “That’s good. Because I love you too.”

  I chuckled. “Am I still dreaming?”

  Carefully, he brushed the back of my hand against his cheek. “This is no dream.”

  I wanted to wrap my arms around him but my arms were pinned by tubes and needles. It was hardly romantic and yet it was, at least to me.

  “This is just the beginning.”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.” My eyes locked on his, his lips a breath away from mine.

  “The next time you decide to run a marathon in the middle of the night.” He paused. “Just make sure you got a partner. Preferably me. Comprendes?”

  The tip of his warm nose touched mine. Then his lips.

  Dizzy, my head pulled back, just an inch. “Don’t worry. I think my running days are officially over.”

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  The Desert Java was the same, but different. Just like me. We were both kind of like a scone—you could dress it up on the outside with fresh raspberries and powdered sugar but it still tasted comfortingly familiar on the inside every single time.

  A potted cedar tree about half as tall as me, a gift from Carlos the day of my hospital release, stood against the middle of the front window, catching the sunrays between its brilliant green branches. A new photo hung next to my family’s photo behind the cash register. Bursting with color and proud smiles, Carlos’s entire family surrounded Kathryn, Eddie, Carlos, Elena, and me on the day Carlos graduated from law school. It had taken the photographer almost thirty minutes to herd everyone into the shot. I blamed the sangria.

  And six months ago, a new sign had replaced the old one on our brick building above the faded awning. The new one said The Scones & Sopapillas Café in pink and green letters. It had been hung when Elena Flores and I had become full-fledged partners after Kathryn moved to San Diego with Eddie. The new name had felt nothing but right from the moment Elena and I said it together. Even Kathryn loved the new name and promptly decorated with pink and green pillows strategically placed throughout the café on chairs, corners and couches. The new arrangement hadn’t hurt business either, but I suspected that it was mostly because we became the official pastry chefs for Uncle Mario’s restaurant. Three months ago, we’d become busy enough to hire two full-time employees. It felt like the world’s greatest luxury to have them.

  “How are the raspberry scones today, Charlie?”

  Charlie sat at a table on the other side of the cedar tree next to the window. He paused long en
ough from his chess move with Carlos’s dad to answer me with a crinkled brow.

  Mr. Flores answered for him. “Delicioso.” He kissed his fingers.

  “Gracias, Mr. Flores,” I said, bowing playfully for him. Men of few words, Charlie and Mr. Flores complemented each other like peanut butter and chocolate. They spent hours playing chess and checkers, taking their boards outside when the weather turned cooler or the café got too crowded.

  Reaching for the handle, I unlocked the front door but kept the handwritten Sorry, We’re Closed: Private Party sign in the window. Elena and I planned to be closed Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. It felt weird to be staring down the barrel at so much time but I knew every minute would be crazy busy, closed or not.

  Later in the afternoon, I expected a truckload delivery of rented tables, white linens, and chairs, along with catered Mexican food from Uncle Mario’s. As I spun around the café and stared toward the kitchen, I wondered for the zillionth time how everything would fit. Somehow in all the confusion, I’d forgotten that we also needed room for the band and a dance floor. The dancing would need to happen outside on the sidewalk, maybe even the street. Was it too late to get a city permit? Oh, no…

  My forehead began to pound but fortunately the killer headaches where white fuzz floated across my eyeballs had lessened since my treadmill accident. This worry headache was different. That’s because the party—the weekend—had to be perfect. It would only happen once and I had it all mapped out in my mind, right down to where we’d place all the lavender and gardenias. I could see it. I had to. It wasn’t every day your older sister got married.

  The Cahills offered to host Kathryn and Eddie’s wedding reception at just about every fancy restaurant and country club in town. But Kathryn had insisted. She wanted it at home and I knew why, even if she didn’t say. I loved her for choosing home. What did size matter when you were with the ones you loved? I prayed that’s how everyone felt when seventy-five people crowded into The Scones & Sopapillas Café tomorrow.

  Elena and I volunteered to create a four-tiered wedding cake layered with nothing but raspberry scones and sopapillas, another special request from Kathryn. And we’d already exhausted our raspberry supply when Elena offered to drive to the farmer’s market for more. I only hoped she would find fresh ones in time. I despised using anything from a can.

  I glanced down at my wristwatch and sighed just as two coppery-brown hands as wide as tortillas wrapped around my waist. “You worry too much. Everything will be perfect.”

  I leaned back into the warmth of his chest and smiled. “Can’t help it. It’s my job to worry.”

  His nose nuzzled against my neck.

  “Shouldn’t you be studying?” Carlos was supposed to be preparing for the state bar exam. The Phoenix law firm where he interned actually paid him to spend his days at the library. But that didn’t stop him from sneaking back to the café at least twice a day.

  “I got hungry.” His lips pressed against my neck and then he turned me around, his hands slowly moving up to my shoulders.

  I smirked even as his eyebrows wiggled, trying to ignore that smile that still turned my kneecaps to Jell-O.

  But then I remembered we had an audience. My head tilted toward the chess players.

  Carlos responded by spinning me into the kitchen with one arm, kicking the door closed with his foot while, somehow, untying the apron knot behind my neck. The man was nothing if not determined when he wanted something. “My dad’s practically deaf.”

  “Well, he’s not blind,” I countered.

  “If I know Pop, he’s wondering whether to move his knight or his rook. We might as well be invisible.” His soft lips pressed against my neck.

  My eyes closed as I sank further into his arms. “Elena will be back any second.” Even so, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as the straps from my apron loosened around my neck and fell to the floor. My whole body pressed against his, responding, the heat rising exponentially between us—and not just because we were dangerously close to an oven pre-heating to 350 degrees.

  But just as his warm lips met mine, I felt something hard jab my waist from below Carlos’s belt. It wasn’t the usual protrusion.

  I pulled back. “Qué esto?” I said in clunky Spanish.

  But Carlos didn’t correct me. He only pushed forward. In a heartbeat I was backed up against the counter with cold steel pressed against my back.

  Carlos lifted me so that we were eye level. I knocked over a silver bowl of powdered sugar. It dusted the right side of my jeans and his left forearm. He paused from kissing me, reluctantly. The corner of his mouth turned up in a sheepish smile when I reached again for his pocket.

  “What is that?” My finger reached for his pocket but hooked instead on his belt loop.

  “What’s what?” His lips found mine again.

  “That,” I said against his lips as his hands moved up my legs, squeezing them, then to my arms, before threading his fingers in my hair.

  Breathing became more difficult.

  Quickly, I forgot all about his pocket.

  But then the bell above the front door jingled faintly at the worst possible time.

  “Damn…” I mumbled.

  “Ignore it,” Carlos exhaled against my ear, taking my earlobe with his teeth.

  “Can’t,” I moaned even though every nerve ending in my body wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped beside him, exploring. Who wouldn’t want kitchen sex?

  Carlos grumbled something fairly unpleasant in Spanish.

  “It could be your Uncle.” I sighed. “Or the table rental guys. Or the florist. Or about a dozen other people.” Cruel reality invaded our few quiet moments together.

  Carlos pulled away slowly, his arms still braced against the counter, each muscle taut against his shirt. But his gaze looked through me, almost as if he was seriously considering whether to cement the kitchen door shut in the next twenty seconds with nothing more than a bag of flour and butter.

  My disappointment reflected in his eyes. Since Kathryn had returned home for the wedding, we had had so little alone time in the apartment. I missed Carlos. Bad. Sure, Carlos still stayed the night sometimes. But it was different with Kathryn in the room next to us.

  With an irritated sigh, he helped me slither down from the counter and then followed me out the kitchen as I wiped powdered sugar from my jeans and tried my best to adjust the buttons on my blouse.

  The kitchen door swung open and I walked toward the front door, expecting Uncle Mario.

  “Hello?”

  It wasn’t Uncle Mario.

  “I saw the sign. But—”

  My jaw dropped. “Callie?”

  The woman’s mouth snapped shut. “Um, yes? Do we know each other?”

  Do we know each other? My eyeballs practically snapped out of my head as they swept her over, top to bottom. I was dreaming all over again. Perfect blond hair, flawless make-up, manicured nails, body to die for—it was Callie, all right.

  My body swayed in place with the onset of shock. Carlos’s hands held my shoulders from behind, probably as surprised as I was. Even if he’d never met her, he certainly knew her name as well as I did.

  Carlos and Kathryn knew all about Callie. I’d told them everything about her—about me—in the hospital. They should have called me crazy but they just listened as I told them detailed stories about the treadmill, condo, job at the station, even my perfect size six feet. They listened without judging, nodding in all the right places, never doubting me but gently reminding me that I had spent the whole time in the hospital and was pumped with some pretty strong drugs at exactly the same time I thought I was engaged to Max Kramer and anchoring the noon news.

  “Maybe you just saw her some place and it stuck in your subconscious?” Kathryn had said, although even she couldn’t explain how I suddenly became an expert in eyebrow plucking and appropriate mascara shades. Carlos had reasoned that perhaps it was easier for me to daydream than deal with my parents’ death
s. Both their theories sounded logical but it didn’t explain how I could remember the bitter taste of Max Kramer’s tongue in my mouth or the purple bruises on my arm from where I pinched myself to wake up but never did.

  I remembered to breathe. “You are Callie Collins.” I blinked. “Aren’t you?” The chairs from the chess table scrapped against the floor. Even Charlie and Mr. Flores paused long enough to listen.

  Callie tilted her head and smiled that perfect white smile, not one crooked tooth in the whole bunch. I remembered that well. I even remembered using it to my advantage a few times. “Well, you got it halfway right. I’m Callie Carter.”

  My chin pulled back. “Carter?”

  “Yes. Carter.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Callie’s eyes widened. “Quite.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Never Collins?”

  “Never.”

  “Oh,” I squeaked, a bit stumped. Then I opened my mouth to say something else but my lips stopped forming words as my mind raced forward to make sense of this news.

  “Look, I can see this is a bad time. I shouldn’t have ignored the sign on the door. But then I saw those two gentlemen in the window.” She paused to nod at them, propelling even Charlie to flash back the rarest of acknowledgements.

  I cleared my throat. “No problem. Really—” I stopped myself from incoherent rambling and then said. “How’d you find me—I mean, us.” My arms spread toward the café. “This place?”

  “I’ve been meaning to stop by the last few months—”

  “You got my note?” I swallowed, hard.

  Callie’s eyes narrowed, confused. “No…” she said slowly. Very slowly. “The doorman at my building recommended your coffee.”

  My temples pounded. “Kevin?”

  Callie paused. “No. Kurt. But close.” She swallowed and her clear blue eyes narrowed a fraction more. “Have we met before?”

  My knees wobbled. “I…I…I…”

  I really didn’t know at this point.

  “I’ve done some modeling. Maybe you’ve seen me in a magazine?” Callie tried to be helpful. “Or in a television commercial?”