Chapter 22 #2
Not a single butterfly flapping a single wing in my rib cage, and yet . . . I agreed to a second date.
Because after getting swept up in Off-Limits Miles, maybe someone like Duffy is what I need. Someone grounded who knows what
he wants. An old soul, like me.
Does he spike my heart rate? No. But that’s okay.
I’m too old to be swept off my feet and too realistic to know how that ends. I don’t want to live in a world without the promise
of love, but love comes in many forms. It doesn’t have to be earth-shattering, heart-stopping love. It can be kind and quiet.
A promise to take care of each other. To rummage for tissues in the middle of a sneezing fit.
Or to cheer on the other person when they decide to sink their savings into a bakery with no business experience whatsoever.
And Duffy seems like a good cheerleader.
Right. Yes. This is good.
I’ll go on a few more dentist dates and maybe, just maybe, these pesky feelings I’ve been having for Miles will finally start
to go away.
After the sound of Duffy’s sneezing disappears, I head out onto the street in the direction of my apartment and realize I’m
starving. I duck into a little café with street seating, admiring the casual décor, and immediately start thinking about my
bakery.
I order a chicken salad sandwich—a tried-and-true favorite, because not every meal needs to be an expedition—along with a
bag of chips and a Dr Pepper, then find a seat outside on the patio.
I pull my journal out of my bag, open it up, and turn to the pages where I’ve been writing down ideas for the bakery. I feel inspired and don’t want to forget what’s swirling in my head.
Monday, I’m meeting with a contractor who is going to help with the projects around the space, and I want to make sure I have
everything ready to maximize the time with him because I’m planning a grand opening in a month, when Minnie is back in the
States.
I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to find people to attend—I make a note on the middle of the page:
How do I spread the word about the grand opening?
I add:
Ask Lennon? Miles? Lorraine?
I take a bite of my sandwich, crunch a chip, and keep writing, flipping around from page to page.
Porch swing benches. Rocking chairs. Make the space feel like a summer evening on the farm.
Porch Sips & Sits: A community table for people to sit and chat with strangers. Make it easier for people to connect and make
new friends.
Some of these are written in the margins at odd angles, so I have to turn the journal this way and that to keep reading and
adding to them.
How much staff do I need? Actually—how many people can I afford? Open for breakfast and lunch, then only open for special
events in the evening?
I pause and look up as a horn honks down the block.
All around me, the city lives. There are people biking, driving, walking, jogging. I hear snippets of conversation and see
evidence of real life happening all around me. Only I’m not on the perimeter. I’m right in the thick of it.
I flip the page and see my original list, and I smile.
Because I didn’t even hesitate to walk into this café, get a sandwich, and sit down at this table and eat it. Alone.
I confidently turn to my list . . . and cross it off.
Have a meal by myself. In public.
Look how far you’ve come, Claire.
John: Claire, moving to Chicago was one thing, but Amelia just told me you’re opening a bakery?
Claire:
I’m meeting with a contractor this morning.
John: Are you nuts?
Don’t tell me you sunk the profits from the house into a bakery, Claire, for Pete’s sake.
Claire: ??
John: You don’t know how to run a business.
Do you have a business partner? Investors?
When this goes under, you’ll have nothing left—and then what?
Claire: Gotta go, contractor is here.
John: Call me when you’re done.
I’m doing it.
I’m actually doing it.
I met with the contractor, Pete, who is a jack-of-all-trades Lennon knows. He’s going to paint and hang my porch swings and
build me a counter.
I found a secondhand bakery case at a restaurant supply store, where I also found dishes and silverware.
Yesterday, Lennon and I met for lunch, back at the fancy food court in the mall, so we could brainstorm ideas.
The grouchy woman was there again, book in hand, sitting at a four-top table all by herself. I smiled at her.
She did not smile back.
Lennon and I talked the entire lunch, mostly about the business, but also about my date with Duffy. I told her he’s the first
guy I’m going to go on a second date with, and she stared at me so long, I felt like I had lettuce in my teeth.
“What?”
“What about Miles?” she said.
“What about him?”
“You like him.”
“As a friend.”
She rolled her eyes. “Pretend all you want, Claire, but you’re not fooling anyone.”
When she said that, I changed the subject, but here I am thinking about it again. Because if I’m not fooling anyone, does
that mean Miles knows? I mean . . . we did kiss.
I’m trying really hard to act like everything is completely normal between us. And if he starts to think I have actual feelings
for him, then nothing will ever be normal again.
Stupid Miles.
Stupid crush.
Stupid kiss.