He grabbed a pen from the coffee table and sat down on the couch in his living room—just feet away from the kitchen in his open floor plan apartment.
Today, in my ongoing adventure of discovering who I truly am—the parts I like and should celebrate, as well as the parts I hope to improve—I discovered I’m not always the most important person in the room.
He sat back against the cushions and chuckled—at what he wasn’t exactly sure. The wording, maybe. Possibly just the fact that it had taken him thirty-six years to “discover” something about himself that most people learned from Sesame Street. Most likely, the chuckling was caused by the memory of Hadley storming to her car with her thumbs hoisted in the air.
The chuckle morphed into full-blown laughter for no reason at all, really, except it had been a couple of really long days. He just kept picturing her shouting “Thank you for the pancakes!” And every time he saw it replay in his mind, he laughed harder. It wasn’t funny. Not really. Although there was just the slightest touch of the ridiculous about her which he found incredibly entertaining. All of that—all he had done and all she thought he had done—and she still thanked him for pancakes she had paid for.
The laughter went away with a sigh and a quick swipe of moisture from his eyes. And then another sigh—the second one much weightier than the first. He opened the discovery journal again and ran a line through a few words before scribbling some new ones.
Today, in my ongoing adventure of discovering who I truly am—the parts I like and should celebrate, as well as the parts I hope to improve—I discovered it’s nice to not always be the most important person in the room.
Max took another glance at his watch: 1:36. But only 12:36 in Nashville. “That’s still too late,” he said aloud. He walked back over to the bar, grabbed a bottle of cognac, and attempted to distract himself with the gurgling noise it made as it rushed down the drain. 12:37. A call would be rude, but a text . . . A text wasn’t rude. If a text woke someone up, they needed to learn to turn on their “Do Not Disturb” function. One single late-night text would always be met with the understanding that a reply wasn’t expected until after the sun was up. Everyone knew that.
Hi Hadley. It’s Max. Just wanted to say thanks for taking the time to chat today. Glad you thought of it. I’m looking forward to working with you and getting to know you better. And I wanted to again say how sorry I am for everything.
He studied what he had typed and then let out a disgusted groan as he deleted every word. He thought for a moment and then chuckled again.
Next time, breakfast is on me.
With a satisfied grin he hit send, and then set his phone on the dining room table. He reached down to pick up his backpack—determined to at least get it into his bedroom, even if he got no further anytime soon. He grabbed the socks in the other hand and took a few steps before stopping in his tracks. The vibration of the phone against the table filled the big, silent space.
He dropped everything into a dining room chair and grabbed his phone.
Now would be good. I’m starving.
Max read Hadley’s text at least five times, and then a couple more for good measure. “What?” he asked aloud with a laugh. Maybe he shouldn’t have deleted the “It’s Max” part. He scratched the three-day stubble on his cheek and tried to decide how to respond, while also being fairly certain that if he gave her a few more seconds, he’d receive a “New phone. Who dis?” text.
Don’t think I could get there before lunch. You may succumb to starvation by then.
He hit send but instantly regretted it. That one felt too casual. Yes, she had set the casual tone, but he still wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t sleep-texting. He added:
Sorry to text so late, by the way. I hope I didn’t wake you.
He stared at his phone, but nothing happened. He looked at his watch again. 1:40.
1:41.
1:42.
Either she’d fallen asleep, which would be totally understandable, or she’d realized she was texting with Max Cavanagh, rather than someone who wasn’t her sworn enemy. Either way, he knew his best play was to call it a night and hope that this confusingly friendly and familiar text exchange would result in less awkwardness the next time they saw each other, and not more.
He hadn’t accounted for a third option: she was texting him a book.
It’s my first night in a new house. And that’s great. But weird. It’s bigger than my old place, which was about the size of a canoe. I’ve been hearing every single noise. I’m hearing the water heater right now. I didn’t know water heaters made noise. And worst of all, I didn’t think to buy any groceries. The loudest noise of all is my stomach growling. You are correct . . . by lunch I will be nothing but bones heaped in a corner, where I had been hiding from the water heater.
A smile covered Max’s face, but he was no less bewildered—and, really, still not certain Hadley knew who she was talking to. Well, it was time to make sure.
Are you saying now wouldn’t be the best time to tell you (in excruciatingly appetizing detail) about the dishes I intend to prepare on Renowned?
1:45.
1:46.
1:47.
You’re free to do as you like, Chef.
And then instantly:
At your own risk, of course.
With a laugh, Max dumped his backpack and socks out of the chair, plopped himself down, and settled in for . . . well . . . whatever this was.
12. Stir until just combined.
HADLEY
“Good morning, Meemaw,” I greeted her as I let myself in to her house and spotted her on the couch, already settled back in after her early morning flight, reading one of her tabloids. “Welcome home.”
“Hey there, darlin’.” She didn’t get up, but she did look up at me with a smile. If she cared enough to pull herself away from her reading, I could be assured she had missed me.
I set the box I had brought in down on the counter and then leaned in from behind the couch and kissed her on the cheek. I kept my chin on her shoulder to sneak a peek at what she was reading.
“Of all the great literary journals you read, this one makes the least sense to me. Nothing but gossip about country music stars? We live in Nashville. I see Faith and Tim at Kroger at least twice a month. Miranda Lambert cut me off in traffic on the drive here. These are real people, Meemaw.” Not that the other celebrities she read about weren’t, but it just felt weird to think about reading that much gossip about someone you might bump into at Whole Foods.
“How is this any different than neighbors standing around at the county fair, swapping stories about their other neighbors who aren’t there?”
I kissed her again and stood up. “It isn’t!” I walked into the newly usable kitchen and grabbed a couple plates. “I brought donuts from Five Daughters. Want one?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I just began plating.
“You and your trendy hotspots. Whatever happened to good ol’ Dunkin’ Donuts?”
I handed her the plate, to which I’d added the flourish of a raspberry syrup base and a sprinkle of powdered sugar. “When Dunkin’ Donuts starts describing their filling as a ‘brownie batter buttercream infusion,’ we’ll talk. Until then, you’re welcome.”