2. Jake
Jake
The second I step inside my apartment I tug the keys from the lock, shove the door closed with my shoulder, and throw the deadbolt.
The metallic click echoes through the quiet.
I place the keys on the hook by the door, exactly where they belong.
Same place every day. It's one of those little habits that keeps life organized when everything else gets messy.
Home.
Call me a weirdo. I’m twenty-eight, but I love the quiet comfort of my apartment.
The wails of a baby crying or spouse greeting me with a kiss is what I should be yearning for at my age.
I know that. And in a way, I still want those things.
But my career doesn’t leave much time for a social life and well, finding a man who wants to adopt or hire a surrogate is hard to find.
Either that, or I’m not looking hard enough. That could be my problem.
I’m too set in my ways.
But…there are times when I come home that I wish there was someone waiting for me. A best friend and lover who would wrap his arms around me and tell me it’s okay that I had a bad day. Then we would watch some corny ass shark movie until we’re both crying from laughter.
Letting out a sigh, with my coffee in one hand and the paper bag in the other, I drag myself across the living room and let gravity do the rest when I reach the couch. It catches the brunt of my weight with its pillowy soft cushions as I drop down onto it like a stone.
"Jesus..."
I lean back, my head drifting down to glance at the coffee still clutched in my grasp. Not a single drop has managed to escape.
"Thank God for lids."
I lift the cup just enough to inspect it before letting out a quiet laugh. It's lukewarm now, nowhere near the scalding temperature it'd been when Fifi delivered, but imagine if it was. Dumping half a cup into my lap would've ended with me taking an embarrassing trip to urgent care.
Can you imagine?
"Hi, Doc. Yeah... I spilled coffee on myself because I was carrying pastries from my secret admirer."
I'd rather wrestle a drunk six-foot-four linebacker. And let’s be real, we know I’m not winning that fight. I’ll give it a valiant effort, don’t get me wrong. But winning? Not happening unless he can’t stand up.
But there’s something worse than having to explain it to an urgent care doctor.
What’s that you ask?
Well, how about the burn is so bad I can’t drive myself and I have to call 9-1-1.
I can already hear Hayes if they send the firehouse.
Lord, I'd never live it down. I’d have a request in for a transfer quicker than you can say ‘What’.
Forget that I’ve been at the same house since I was a probie, eight years ago.
I set the cup on my knee and stare at the paper bag resting beside me on the cushion.
Conflicted. Inside sits the pastry. Firefighter Fuel.
The smell alone calls to me, making my stomach growl with anticipation, a reminder that someone out there seems to know me better than any boyfriend could.
If I had one, I mean. I just wish I knew who this secret admirer is.
Part of me wants to march straight into the kitchen and dump the whole thing into the trash. A firm stance on the ‘you don’t have to do this’.
I don't ask for these items to be left for me. Hell, I don't even want them. Not like this.
Being recognized because of my job is one thing. It comes with the territory. People stop me in grocery stores. Shake my hand. Thank me when they recognize me as being the one that rescued them or a family member. Sometimes they just want to thank us for what we do.
That's different.
Those moments are about what happened and how the person is feeling. It’s not something that happens all the time but when it does, it’s nice. But we see them. They make themselves known to us.
This, these gifts left anonymously for four months now, is different. It’s bordering on the line of stalkerish. Especially when they know the exact breakfast pastry I like and the bakery it comes from. Not to mention my coffee is made with the right cream to vanilla and caramel flavoring ratio.
I've spent my entire career running toward disasters while everyone else runs away.
Pulling people out of burning buildings.
Crawling through smoke. Performing life-saving measures.
Sometimes having to tell the loved ones that there was nothing more we could do.
I'm used to being the rescuer. Not the person someone watches and admires from the shadows. It creeps me out. Being the object of someone’s obsession and being placed on whatever weird kind of pedestal they want to place me on makes my skin crawl.
If it’s hero worship that’s causing them to do it then I wish they’d find another hero. One who actually wants the attention. Or at least, they could come forward, thank me, and we could both move on.
I rub a hand over my face.
"I wish you'd just stop." The words disappear into the empty apartment with no one there to hear them. But saying them somehow makes me feel better at the moment.
My gaze drifts back to the bag. I shouldn't eat it. I know I shouldn't. Throwing it away would be the smarter move. One that, if my admirer could see, would show that I no longer want the attention of gifts. My stance on the matter being out for all to see.
But fuck if it doesn’t smell incredible. I swear I can smell the cinnamon and cream cheese frosting through the bag.
My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. Yet again. It’s a persistent reminder that it wants to eat the snack and definitely not feed it to the trash. My body’s a fucking traitor.
With a defeated sigh, I reach over and pull the little pastry box free and open the lid.
Fuck if the pastry doesn’t look like a piece of art.
Golden swirls of bread peek out from beneath thick ribbons of cream cheese icing that have melted just enough to sink into every crack and fold.
Cinnamon sugar sparkles across the top, and the smell?
Don’t even get me started. That alone should be illegal.
I catch myself licking my lips. "This is how horror movies start," I mutter. “Guy eats mysterious baked goods. Guy dies. Roll credits.”
I snort at my own joke before picking it up with both hands and taking a bite. "Oh," I moan. Now I get it when women say chocolate is better than an orgasm.
The cinnamon roll is just sweet enough without being overwhelming. The cream cheese icing wraps around everything in a rich, tangy finish that makes every taste bud in my mouth stand up and applaud.
I chew slowly, savoring every second despite every logical part of my brain yelling at me not to enjoy anonymous gifts. Bite after bite, I mentally scold myself for enjoying it as much as I do until the last bite is swallowed.
My phone starts vibrating in my pocket. Yep, horror movie. Now comes the call from the mysterious person who sent the food, telling me that it’s laced with something.
Leaning forward, I place the empty container on the coffee table by my drink and pull my phone free from my back pocket.
The screen lights up with Stellan’s name and I let out a sigh of relief.
I mean it wouldn't be too far-fetched to think this secret admirer of mine has my number, or my address, seeing as how they know what I like to eat.
I barely place the phone on speaker when his voice booms through before I can say anything.
"Oh my God," he says dramatically. "Tell me everything."
I shake my head already knowing he knows another gift was delivered today. The fucker hasn’t let me live it down.
"Hello to you too."
"I don't care about hellos. I want to hear about your mysterious admirer.”
"There is no admirer," I say through gritted teeth. It’s a stalker, let’s get it straight.
"Oh? So someone anonymously buying you pastries is just, what? Community outreach? Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s been four months dude, when are you going to finally admit it?"
"Who told you someone bought me pastries? If you mean Fifi, she brought them for everyone."
"Dude, stop playing. Yeah, she was the messenger, but someone else bought them," he barely gets out through laughter.
“You know you’re worse than a women’s gossip group. How long after Fifi got there did you get the message?”
“Let’s just say it was still wet in your hands and you hadn’t even left the bay.” He can’t stop laughing. Guess he thinks he’s a comedian.
“Not funny.” I seethe.
“You’ve got to stop pretending like you don’t have an admirer.
I’m positive it’s someone you saved at a call.
” He pauses for a minute, and I hear what sounds like him swallowing.
“At least you know they’re not dangerous.
They haven’t killed you yet. Or put you in a hole lowering down a basket with lotion in it for you to rub on your skin. ”
Images immediately begin to flash through my mind and my body shivers.
“We can’t rule that out yet. They might not be escalating at the moment, or I haven’t triggered the spiral yet. All it could take is a rejection of the gift and then I’ll be on tomorrow’s newscast as a missing person.”
“Dramatic much?” he asks.
“No, just being realistic. I know you’re getting a big laugh out of this, but what if it was you it was happening to?”
“I’d eat up every minute of it.”
And he would. I have no doubt.
“I just think people aren’t seeing the full picture. This has been going on for months. That’s more than enough time for this person to come forward. And if it’s some love lorn woman I can let her down easy.”
“So, did you turn down today’s gift? You don’t even have to answer, Lawson. I know for a fact you didn’t and I bet you ate it already.”
I don’t say a word, just glance at the empty container. He’s right. I did eat it and I enjoyed every bite of it, too.
His laughter explodes through the speaker. "You absolutely did!"
"I was hungry."
"You folded faster than a lawn chair."
"It smelled good."
"It did smell good."
"You weren't even there."
"I don't have to be. I know your weakness. And everything from Fifi’s smells good."
"Fair point.” I pick up the phone and empty container and head to the kitchen to throw it away. At least if it’s out of sight then I won’t feel guilty about eating it.
“It’s your weakness. Has been for as long as I’ve known you.”
Making my way back to the living room, I sit down on the edge of the couch. “I know it’s probably harmless. I just wish whoever it is would stop.”
His teasing fades and his voice becomes serious. "I know."
"I don't know why someone keeps doing this."
"Maybe they genuinely appreciate you. Maybe they just aren’t good with words and this is the only way that they can thank you."
"Maybe.”
Stellan clears his throat. “So, drinks tomorrow? I was thinking The Corner Pocket around seven."
I pretend to think about it.
"Hmm."
"Oh, don't start. I’ll buy the first round. Call it an apology gift for ragging on you."
"Now you're speaking my language."
"So that's a yes?"
"Yeah."
"Seven."
"I'll be there."
"And maybe don't accept any more baked goods before then."
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call with a smile.
The exhaustion I've been holding at bay all day finally settles into my bones. I make one last pass through my apartment, checking the lock even though I know I already locked it. A person can’t be too careful with an admirer who may be a potential stalker.
I peel off my clothes, trade them for pajama pants and a shirt, and collapse onto the mattress. Sleep wastes no time taking over.