13. Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Milo
I can’t hide my disappointment after I go the whole day and the next without a notification from interoffice mail.
It’s just as well. Rose is probably busy with work, working harder than I am. Honestly, I get that. I can’t expect her to take time out of her busy workday to respond to me. Still, I feel the absence of it deep within me.
Which isn’t good. She’s been clear that we can’t date.
It’s not until I’m back at Tate on Monday morning that I get the alert saying I have mail. This time, I don’t go running down there. I manage to wait a whole twenty minutes before standing to stretch, talking out loud telling myself that I really should be taking better care of myself and stretch my legs more often, and then stealing down the stairs and around the corner.
Not only do I run into Sebastian on my way but also our brother Henry and two of the people on my team. All of them give me a look like, “Are you okay?” They can probably see the ferocious speed and the look of sheer urgency on my face.
I don’t let it deter me. I grab the envelope—it looks much like the first one did—and hightail it back to the safety of my office. Door closed, I rip it open.
Milo,
I apologize for the delay in writing you back. It’s been a wild few days. Have I ever told you that sometimes my life resembles a blender cup full of craziness?
Now I’m starting to sound like one of those people who wear the badge of busyness like a prize they’ve won. That somehow I think my problems just simply have to take precedence over anyone else’s because no one is as busy or as spread thin as I am. Which is . . . ewww.
I laugh.
The truth is, like I said before, my life really isn’t conducive to dating. I just can’t do it, for a multitude of very boring, all too common reasons.
Maybe you didn’t intend for your offer to share some Italian food with me to sound like a request to go on a date.
But in case you meant for it to be a date, I’m sorry. I truly can’t date anyone. Although, I wouldn’t say no to a spontaneous bite or two of any sort of creamy, carby pasta if someone held out a fork of it in my face (and a napkin because I’m a messy eater). I’m not a fascist, Milo. I do have principles around refusing creamy carbs.
Which leads me to my next point: Is that what the “K” stands for? Karbs? Or maybe just “Karb”? Or maybe your parents are purists, and therefore, it would be: “Karbohydrate.”
Rose
P.S. I like my job here at Tate. I heard good things about the work environment here and so far, it’s proven to be true.
P.P.S. Glad to hear all your manly bits are in working order. That was a close call! Maybe we should write up a public service announcement so others can learn from your mishap.
P.P.P.S. Bravo for making a decision on which job to take! I know it was difficult to decide. And I sorta like that you enjoy writing.
My grin is goofy as I fold up the letter. I shouldn’t be grinning. She shut me down. She doesn’t want to date me. And I’m worried about how hard her life seems to be at the moment.
But, I’m not feeling the pressure inside of me, like before, when I’d start to develop feelings for a woman and things were up in the air. A frenetic brand of stir-crazy, of I have to figure this out right now, and I have to know how she feels, and we have to be dating!
This is bigger than that, anyway. It’s different. She’s different. As much as my first instinct is to drive up to Denver, get a double order of pasta carbonara and two forks and appear outside the housekeeping office to share a bite with her right now, it’s okay.
For now, if she’ll have me, writing letters is enough. I’ve thought every single day of the kiss we shared and would love for it to happen again, but this is good for now.
I’ve just started feeling proud of myself for such a mature and logical viewpoint, when, a little later, I head down to the main floor, turn the corner to the corporate offices, and run right into a housekeeping cart.
“Oh! Sorry about th—” Rose comes to standing from crouching behind the cart. She’s in her housekeeping uniform, pale purple clothes that resemble scrubs. Which makes me think she’s going to look amazing as a nurse . . .
“Rose?” I can’t stop the broad grin. “I just got your letter. I—”
She glances behind her, chewing on her bottom lip. Her shoulders hunch.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Uh. Try me. I just—”
She whispers “Who was bugging me the last time we were together?”
“Blaine The Putz Scano.”
She shushes me. “His mom is over there. So yes, I was hiding behind this housekeeping cart like a total baby.”
“She’s here?” I search the lobby with my gaze. “Why?”
“I don’t know, exactly.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “Probably to try to convince me to get back together with her son? She came here the other day, too.” Her eyes plead with me. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“Of course. If you think you’ll be okay . . .” I take a step backward.
“It’s fine. Sorry. It’s been a long . . . I don’t know . . . It’s been a long couple of years, to tell you the truth. I do need to go talk with her, so can we chat later?” She smooths back her hair and glances again at Blaine’s mom.
“Sure. Yes.”
Why is that woman here anyway? It feels like there’s a lot about this situation that I don’t know.
Rose steps around the cart. “I’ll fill you in when I can.”
She maneuvers the cart so that it’s out of the center of the hall, parks it, and leaves, her shoulders squared. I hold back, turned half away.
I’ll stay out of it for now, but I can’t help scanning the lobby so I can see what we’re dealing with here.
I’m not prepared for what happens next. Because a woman who appears to be in her fifties is standing there, in front of Childcare, holding a cute, little boy on her hip. The kid reaches for Rose when she gets there.
I swear he calls her “Mama.”