Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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Last week's coffee-rubbed salmon recipe can go into a success stack. I find the blog he copied that one from and scroll to find an easy meal I'm familiar with and that'll allow me to use up the celery that begs me to take pity. The celery isn't at fault. Chicken-noodle soup is the winner. That's not something Nonna made, but the ingredients are simple and cheap. Ben was right: the blogger makes sure the steps are basic enough for a beginner.
I chuckle at the battle in the comments over celery, but follow one of the reader's advice and put the celery stocks whole so I can pull them out easily, because 'Ew, celery'. I have to tell Ben about this one. He's probably the one in a million who enjoys the stringy, fragrant greens. Or he might be in my camp and would appreciate the trick that saves the celery-haters from having to eat the soggy chunks in an otherwise perfectly delicious meal.
The photo of the soup I post gets a like from Xavier but my attempt at extending an olive branch by inviting him to come over and try it gets a 'too busy with the clients' rejection. Angie eats the leftover soup for breakfast the morning after she flies in from her gig in Denver.
The rest of the week brings a twinkle of hope that I've found my stride and maybe I do have my shit together. Whether it's the influence of cooking or that my move to France is taking shape and no longer feels like a pipedream, but I enjoy the lightness I wake up to every morning. I hand in another chapter of my thesis to Professor Hopkins. Even Chris keeps commenting on how chipper I am. Him cleaning the bathrooms an extra day weeks in a row might be behind some of my smiles.
The onnly pebble in my proverbial shoe is my fight with Xavier. This isn't the first time he and I argued, but a week passed, and it's the longest we've gone without seeing each other. He is the jerk. I try to forget he treated my birthday like an intervention to get me into a weight-loss program, but having him around is better than the undeniable loneliness of not having anyone. I push my dignity aside and text him again.
Me: dinner Monday tonight? i promise to cook something yummy.
Xavier: Ok. I'll be there around six.
Wow. No excuses about teaching classes or studying for his personal trainer certification. Things are looking up.
On Monday afternoon, when I return from my course on Data Analysis at the University, my brain full of thought on how I could still apply it to my thesis, I find a package that barely fits into my slot in the mailroom. The return address is from France and Mom's name is on it. I should've known better.
Life was going too well. I started to let the happy feeling take root. Whenever the dreaded happiness makes it back into my life, it's a sure precursor of something unpleasant. I can't pinpoint the exact age I've started feeling that way. One minute I'd be in high spirits, thinking there it was, the elusive bliss I had been striving for, only to find out it was another sure way to misery. The pattern repeated itself: a small good thing brought a small bad thing, and a big good thing was inevitably followed by a big bad one.
I shrink away from my mailbox. Do I toss the box in the trash or should I open it? I can always throw out whatever's inside later. It takes three minutes to ascend to my floor, plenty long for me to rip the plastic envelope open in the elevator. A photobook, one where you can paste and arrange photos online, with cute sayings and dedications on each page is what's inside. It could've been worse.
The cover is a picture of me as a baby, an unsmiling face, large brown eyes and wisps of curls, sitting on the floor between stacks of papers and books. In the first year of my life, Dad was finishing writing his doctorate thesis in France when this was taken. An eternal optimist, he once told me he did his best thinking while pushing my stroller at the local park as I napped. I should stop blaming inanimate object for the faults of the people who give them to me. The celery was not responsible for Xavier's asinine behavior. Old photos are not responsible either. They are not dangerous. They are not going to persuade me to talk to Mom. I crack it open.
In the top left corner of the inside cover, in Mom's rounded steady handwriting, it says:
"Happy 25th birthday, my sweet! Love, Mom"
Better late than never, they say. In this case, never might've been a better option. I shove the photobook back into the padded envelope and get inside my apartment. I lean against the door and stare at the package. Why did it have to arrive today? I kick the door behind me. Today is about mending fences with Xavier. I have dinner to make, an apartment to clean and no time for Mom's hollow apologies. I kick the door again and again, but no relief comes.
No, she's not going to make me miserable. I am not going to look at the stupid book. She doesn't get to win. I head over to my room and hide the offending item in my closet.
If there are bridges I'd like to mend, it's the one with Xavier, not with my mother.
