45. Maddie
Maddie
For the fourth time in the past ten minutes, my gaze travels to the bakery display case – eyes lingering on the delicious looking cinnamon roll.
“No, Maddie. You don’t need it,” I say it out loud this time, like that might make a difference.
Except it doesn’t.
I only get these beauties in on Fridays and this batch looks extra gooey. And it’s the last one. And it’s already mid-afternoon so the breakfast crowd already got theirs. And there’s no one here to witness. And oh my god I don’t care, I’m eating it!
Decision made, I wipe my hands down my apron and slide open the glass door letting the scent of sugary wonder waft out.
My mouth is already salivating, and by the time I rip off the first piece of flakey, buttery, goodness I’m afraid to look down, sure I’m drooling on myself.
“Fuck me,” I moan, as the first taste hits my tongue.
I love Elouise. She’s my very best friend in the world.
But sharing my one-bedroom apartment with her for the past several days – as she hides from Beckett – has been exhausting.
And not even in a bad way. I’ve loved seeing her so much.
It’s just that we’ve spent every night polishing off a new bottle of wine, watching every Drew Barrymore movie we can get our hands on, and I’m more than a little sleep deprived.
Elouise isn’t tall but considering I’m barely over five feet I insisted on being the one to sleep on the couch. She fought me the best she could, but she’s the one dealing with heartbreak, and I’m the one who’s too much of a light sleeper to share a mattress with another body.
Ripping off another chunk of my roll, I swipe it through the frosting pooling on the small plate before shoving it into my mouth.
Forcing the stress of calories out of my mind, I focus back on Elouise and her situation.
We’ve talked it over – Beckett’s supposed wife – and the more I think about it, the more it doesn’t add up. There’s definitely something fishy going on, but I think there’s a lot more to this story.
Elouise’s mom told her to go talk to Beckett before making any decisions, hinting that she knows more details about the situation. Elouise agreed that she would, but then her parents took their RV and left town the next morning and Elouise still hasn’t taken any of Beckett’s calls.
I need to convince her to talk to him. But I’m not sure how to do that.
Swallowing, I lick my fingers and reach for the pastry. I know I should savor this piece slowly, but instead I rip out the center coil, the very best part of a cinnamon roll, and shove it into my mouth.
It’s too big to eat at once, but there’s no going back now. So, I let my eyes fall closed as I chew.
Holy Crisco this is amazing.
The cinnamon sugar is beginning to become one with my soul when I hear the tinkling sound of the door opening.
Feeling like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, my eyes snap open. And then I freeze. Because it’s him. It’s Beckett. And he’s striding towards me, a mission clear in his features.
My hands fly up to cover my mouth, sure my cheeks are puffed out like a chipmunk’s.
Oh my god, this isn’t happening.
I start to chew as fast as I can, way too aware of my face heating .
When he stops across the counter from me, I hold up one finger, then turn away, giving him my back.
Dying of mortification, I try to not actually die from choking as I frantically chew and swallow what’s in my mouth.
Wiping my lips off with the back of my hand, I turn back around and think that maybe dying would have been the better choice.
No wonder Elouise is running from him. He’s so stupidly attractive I don’t even want to look him in the eyes. But I force myself to, finding that his serious expression has softened with amusement.
“You alright?” he asks, and my blush reaches a whole new level.
I nod. Then nod again, “I’m good. Um, what can I get you?”
I glance over my shoulder, towards the menu board, but I already know that’s not what he’s here for.
“I need to talk to her,” he states, confirming my assumption.
When I force myself to look at him again, I notice there’s no longer a trace of humor.
I nervously bite down on my lip. I hate confrontation. All of it. Any of it. And this is already stressing me out.
This isn’t for me. It’s for Elouise.
Mustering all of my courage, I roll my shoulders back and face Beckett straight on, “She doesn’t want to see you.”
My heartbeat is skittering all over the place, but Beckett doesn’t act angry. He doesn’t yell or throw things or call me names, he just nods.
“She’s mad,” I add, feeling bolstered, then I shut up. I’ve read about negotiation tactics before and wonder if he’s trying to use the silence to get me to talk.
But Beckett nods again, “I’d be mad too.”
Ooookay. He’s being agreeable. I don’t really know what to do with this.
At a loss, I just nod back in return. All too aware that most of this conversation has been us moving our heads up and down.
“Maddie,” he sighs, “please. I need to talk to her.”
I’m back to biting my lip.
“She’s staying with you, right?” he asks. “Can you at least tell me that? That she’s okay?”
My nod is slower this time. I don’t know how much Elouise would want me to say .
Well, I know she’d tell me that she doesn’t want anything to do with him. But that’d be her stubborn head speaking. I think her heart might have other ideas.
Beckett bends over, resting his elbows on the counter, his head dropping in defeat, “I’m not married.”
“I knew it!” the words come out at a near shout, startling us both. “I mean,” I continue at a lower volume, “I was pretty sure. I pulled a – never mind. It doesn’t matter. But you’re not married? Like not at all?”
Bolstered by my excitement, Beckett straightens back to his full height, “Not at all.”
I tilt my head, while I watch him. “Then why’d that chick introduce herself as your wife?”
He heaves out a breath, “She’s my ex-wife.”
My brows raise, “Um, I feel like Elouise would’ve mentioned it if you were married before.”
Beckett runs a hand through his hair, “I didn’t tell her.”
Still stressing over the whole encounter, I channel my inner P!nk and cross my arms over my chest. “Probably should’ve mentioned that. Don’t ya think?”
“Yes,” the way the word crawls from his clenched teeth tells me he’s probably had this conversation a time or twenty with himself. “And I’d like to explain myself to Elouise, but she won’t answer her phone and she hasn’t been home. And I really don’t want to barge into her classroom-”
“Again,” I butt in.
“Again,” he repeats. “But I’m running out of options. And patience. And I hate that she’s spent this whole week thinking I’m a cheating bastard.”
I let my arms drop to my sides, “If I tell you where she’ll be tonight, you have to find a way to make her listen. Because if I do this, and you mess it up, it’s going to be me that she takes it out on.”
“Please,” he pleads. “I promise I won’t fuck it up.”
I’m torn, but staring into his intimidating eyes, I find I believe him.