Chapter 27
E mma
The flowers arrive Thursday afternoon, just as my boss is telling me all about his new diet. The vase is so big that the delivery guy strains to lift it onto the counter, and when he finally succeeds, the enormous bouquet of pink, yellow, and red tulips nearly blocks the register.
“Is it your birthday today?” Mr. Smithson asks, eyeing the flowers in confusion as I hunt for a card in the forest of stems and leaves. “I could’ve sworn it was in September.”
“Um… it’s definitely in September.” My face turns bright red as I find the card and read the one-word message. My boss is still looking at me quizzically, so I lie, “This is just something from my grandparents. I love tulips, and they do this once in a while, to let me know they’re thinking of me.”
“Oh.” Mr. Smithson blinks. “Okay, well, enjoy.”
He ambles away to restock the thrillers, and I exhale, my hand shaking with a mixture of trepidation and excitement as I lift the card and reread the message.
It’s just one simple word.
Hey.
* * *
I’m almost calm by the time I get home from work, having convinced myself that the bouquet was Marcus’s payback for my dumb texts last night. It was definitely a cowardly move on my part to claim that I’d sent that “hey” to the wrong person, but I panicked and didn’t know what else to do.
There was no reason for me to be texting him at nearly three in the morning, other than the obvious—and I’m not ready to go there .
I’m tempted to call Kendall and tell her about the texts and the tulips—which, by some odd coincidence, happen to be my favorite flowers—but I resist. She’d twist it all around, and next thing I know, I’d be thinking that Marcus is still interested in me instead of being well on his way to marrying Emmeline or some other equally perfect woman.
No, I need to forget all about Marcus and his weirdly nice payback message. It means nothing—and certainly not that he’s still interested. This thing between us is over, and now that he let me know how stupid my texts were, I’m sure I won’t hear from him again.
My conviction holds until the doorbell rings as I’m feeding the cats.
“One second!” I yell out, trying not to stumble over Mr. Puffs as I set down his plate and rush over to the door. I don’t need a repeat of the other week.
There’s no one at the door when I open it, but there is a package on the doormat.
My pulse jumps.
I’m not expecting a delivery.
The box is small and light, so I have no trouble lifting it. Heart pounding, I carry it into the kitchen and set it on the counter, then grab a knife to slice through the tape.
Inside is another box, a much prettier one with the Saks Fifth Avenue logo on it. Opening it, I gape at the contents inside.
A white cashmere scarf, one just like the cheap Chinese brand I put on my Amazon wish list for Christmas—except it’s by some Italian designer and looks a thousand times more expensive.
What the hell?
I rummage through the box and find a note.
From your wrong person , it says.
* * *
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Kendall says on Friday morning, when I cave and call her from work after another sleepless night. “You texted him by accident at three in the morning on Thursday, and he’s already sent you two gifts?”
“Yes!” A woman browsing through the mystery section gives me an annoyed look, and I sink down in my chair, so I’m half-hidden behind the counter. “Why would he do that?” I continue in a hushed tone. “And with those notes? Do you think he’s just toying with me?”
“Why would he toy with you? Emma, pull your head out of your ass. He obviously still wants you. He sent you… what? Flowers and a scarf?”
“Yes. A huge bouquet of tulips and a white cashmere scarf, just like the one I was hoping my grandparents would get me for Christmas, but infinitely fancier. How did he know I needed a scarf? Or that I love tulips, for that matter?”
“Most people like tulips, and he must’ve seen you without a scarf. Either way, what does it matter?” Kendall’s voice rises in exasperation. “He sent you gifts . That means he’s still really into you. Did you at least text him a thank-you?”
I bite my lip. “I wanted to, but—”
“Okay, seriously? You need to get on that. Like, right now. Text him a thank-you and say you want to see him again.”
“Kendall—”
“Don’t you Kendall me. Text him and call me back when it’s done.”
“Excuse me.” The woman who was browsing the mystery section approaches the counter, her broad face creased in a disapproving frown. “I can’t find the latest James Patterson.”
“Of course.” Hanging up on Kendall, I jump up, glad for the interruption. “Let me show you where it is.”
As I lead the woman through the bookstore, I try to forget all about Kendall’s instructions—and the man who’s the cause of my turmoil.
* * *
I still haven’t worked up the courage to call or text Marcus by the time I get home.
Partially, it’s because I have no idea what to say.
Is he messing with me, or is this for real?
Should I be mad or grateful? The gifts he sent me are outrageously expensive—I know, because I looked up the cost of that scarf online—so I should decline them, at the very least. But that would mean getting in touch with Marcus, which brings me back to my dilemma about his intentions.
What is he after?
Does he still want to date me, or is this all just a game to him?
I’ve fed the cats and am halfway through my own dinner when the doorbell rings again.
I jump up and rush over, but the FedEx guy who left the package on my doorstep is already getting into his truck.
The box is heavy for its size. I bring it into the kitchen and slice through the tape, my hands shaking.
Inside are books, each in a hermetically sealed plastic pouch.
Gulliver’s Travels , Gone with the Wind , and The Count of Monte Cristo .
My three favorite stories of all time—and each of them a signed first edition.
* * *
For the first time, I understand people who go for a run when they’re stressed.
I can’t sit still—and I haven’t been able to for the past hour. Same goes for finishing my dinner. I’m pacing around my tiny apartment, going from kitchen to bedroom to bathroom and back. My cats are staring at me like I’ve lost my mind, and it’s possible that I have.
There’s no way a bajillion dollars’ worth of rare books are sitting on my kitchen counter, along with a note that says, “Pick you up at 7 tonight.”
It’s a prank. It has to be.
For the twentieth time, I grab my phone and begin composing a message to Marcus.
Thank you so much for your insanely generous gifts, but I’m afraid I can’t accept them—and I have other plans tonight. Also, are you messing with me?
I erase the text before I can send it, just like I erased the nineteen attempts before it.
Nothing I compose sounds right. I can edit a novel with ruthless precision, suggesting words and phrases that convey the meaning perfectly, but I can’t seem to write this text.
I’ve never been so off-balance. And worst of all, the clock is ticking, getting inevitably closer to seven. In seventeen minutes, Marcus is going to come pick me up, and I still haven’t been able to work up the courage to call or text him to make sure that doesn’t happen.
It’s probably best if I talk to him about this in person, I reason, trying to make myself feel better about my inexplicable cowardice.
Maybe if I can see his expression, I’ll know what he’s after, as opposed to making dumb assumptions.
Because none of this—the gifts, the ambiguous notes—makes any sense.
Obviously, I have no intention of going on a date with him—if “pick you up” even means a date. And if it does, what kind of asshole tells a woman he’s picking her up instead of asking? What if I had other plans? Granted, I didn’t, but he can’t know that, can he?
Then again, how does he know what my favorite books or flowers are? Or what kind of scarf I wanted? We’ve never talked about that.
My head is beginning to hurt from overthinking, so I stop by my bed to scoop up Cottonball—who immediately starts purring.
“I know, baby.” Cradling him against my chest, I stroke his soft fur. “I haven’t cuddled you tonight, and I’m sorry. Maybe Marcus won’t show up. It could all be a massive joke, you know? The books might not even be real but some kind of reproductions—though I have no idea why he’d bother.”
Queen Elizabeth lifts her head from my pillow and gives me a narrow-eyed look.
“You don’t think it’s a joke?” I ask over Cottonball’s loud purr, and she yawns demonstratively.
“Yeah, okay, maybe it’s not that funny, but what else could it be? I told him it’s not going to work out between us, and I’m sure he has a million women lined up to date him.”
She yawns again and puts her head back on the pillow.
“I know. It’s all so confusing, isn’t it?
” I sigh and sit down on the bed next to her—which Mr. Puffs takes as an invitation to shove Cottonball off my lap.
He gets jealous when I interact with his siblings, so I scratch behind his ears, knowing that if I don’t, my remaining accessories are in for a world of pain.
Continuing to pet Mr. Puffs, I sneak a glance at my phone.
6:53 p.m.
If this were a date, I’d be freaking out about the fact that I’m still dressed in my ratty old sweatpants and a T-shirt covered with cat hair, but I’m not.
I’m really not. Because this is not a date.
Even if Marcus shows up at my door as promised, I’m just going to give him back the insanely expensive books and calmly explain that I’m not going anywhere.
I will tell him to stop sending me gifts with mocking messages and—oh, who am I kidding?