4. Name That Crush
4
NAME THAT CRUSH
Veronica
He’s busy.
No big deal. He runs the place, I bet, so I’ll come back another time.
I don’t want to be pushy. I do want to give him time to do his job. But when I finish my treat, the place is still a zoo.
I bus my own plate, setting it in the wash bin under the utensil counter, then I spin back around. The line still snakes around the display case. Another time.
I catch his eye and wave as I mouth, goodbye.
He gives a what-can-you-do smile, then waves back.
I leave, a little happier and a little sadder.
A few days later, nerves sweep through my chest as I near Peace of Cake. I can turn around. Abandon this mission. Grab a book, curl up with my pets, watch a show with Ellie.
I don’t need to see that man again. I don’t need to get his name. I can just go.
But then I remember the way I felt when he looked into my eyes— swoopy .
Nerves be damned. I’m doing this. My flats click-clack across the sidewalk as I near the white shop with its pink and green awning, its sparkling window, its promise of culinary pleasure.
I want other pleasures, and I want to explore them with him.
Deep breath.
I grab the door and head inside.
My shoulders drop, my heart thudding to the ground.
He’s not behind the counter. Some other guy is—a teenager with red hair and a freckled face.
I march up to him. “Hi, I’m wondering if that guy with the beard and the blue eyes is here?” I ask, and wow, I sound like a creepy stalker.
His brow knits. “Oh, Joel’s friend. Nope. He doesn’t work here. He was helping out that day.”
I swallow past the weirdness of my next question. “Oh, does he have a name?”
The guy scratches his chin. “Michael? Matthew? Mateo? One of those. If not, it was definitely Robert,” he says, then another customer strolls in, and I feel exactly twelve hundred percent sillier than I felt five minutes ago.
Hmm. I guess I do need percentages.
A couple weeks later, I’m pacing across my balcony, trying to figure out what I want to write about for my third column. The first two ticked their way to the top of The Dating Pool’s most popular article list, so I need to keep the streak alive.
I walk along my tiny patio, back and forth past the little ceramic pots in my city garden, mulling over ideas.
I need a killer starting line, but I don’t quite have it yet so I step inside, grab my metal watering can and fill it up at the sink. Then I return to my deck, watering the little pots of sage that I recently planted, then the kale, the pole beans and the rosemary too.
I set down the can as my cat, Hot Stuff, rubs against my ankle, purring as he marks me. Bending down, I stroke his soft head for a bit, then stand and lean against the brick railing, checking out my patch of Grove Street, lined with pretty trees stretching their branches in the spring. It’s the kind of block where you might shoot a movie. The kind of block where anything feels possible.
Resting my elbows on the edge of the brick, I watch the evening roll by.
My heart thumps a little faster as the silhouette of a man comes into view below. Closer, then even closer. I recognize those strong arms, that square jaw, the delicious amount of scruff.
That’s him. “Mister Dessert,” I call out.
But he keeps walking because . . . earbuds.
Damn earbuds.
He’s probably listening to a baking podcast about making delicious cake for the woman you can’t stop thinking about. I try to wave too, but he doesn’t look up.
Le sigh.
Then he passes me, and I get a back view for the first time.
Oh. My. Stars.
Did I just become an ass woman?
I think so.
I can’t look away from his booty. My eyes are drawn to his perfect tush, and his fantastic pants—trim, checked, blue. They’re fashionable and such a welcome change from what most men wear—baggy, boring cargo shorts or too-loose jeans or, barf, khakis. “I shall call him Mister Sexy Pants,” I declare, as he turns into a nearby building.
I don’t feel so silly anymore. I feel . . . inspired. I break out my phone and dictate my column.