Lisa
I watch from behind the elm across the street as the kid I paid knocks on the yellow door of 154 Jasmine Street. The door opens a moment later and she's there, confusion etched on her beautiful face as she looks down at the paper bag the kid thrusts in her direction. I can't make out the question she asks him, but I catch his little shrug before I dart behind the tree to avoid Roseanne's gaze as she scans the neighborhood. My grin spreads as I listen intently for the sound of the door closing and the kid's shuffling footsteps as he leaves the house to approach my hiding spot.
"All done, lady," he says as he grabs his bike where he left it leaning against the tree.
"She ask who it was from?"
"Yup."
"You tell her anything?"
"Nope."
"Good lad." I slip the kid fifty dollars and he stuffs the bills into the back pocket of his jeans. "Same time tomorrow. We'll meet at the mailbox down the street, yeah?"
"Cool. See ya."
With that, the kid takes off on his BMX, one hundred dollars richer to spend on candy or video games or whatever the hell twelve-year-olds buy these days. He's going to make out like a little demon if he sticks to our arrangement.
Give her the bag. Stick to the script. Fifty for the delivery, fifty when it's done.
I pull out my burner phone, bringing up my most recent text exchange with Roseanne.
I wish you'd stayed, my last message said. And she didn't reply.
That was over a week ago. It's been almost three weeks since she was standing in 3 In Coach with a look of absolute mortification in her eyes, as though she'd dumped her heart out on the floor just to have it stomped on. It fucking burned through me in a way I never expected. I thought I might convince her to stay and talk, but the timing could not have been worse with our friends coming in for Ten's birthday lunch. In typical Roseanne fashion, her first instinct was to take off, a feather in a North wind.
I can't let her pull away any further, or she'll slip through my fingers and I'll never get her back.
I'm peering around the tree trunk toward the house when the phone vibrates in my hand.
Blackbird: Orzo...?
I lean against the bark and grin down at my phone.
Me: ???
Blackbird: Did you deliver orzo pasta to my house??
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about.
Me: But...since it's there, you might as well get it out.
Me: And if there's parmesan in the bag, you should probably start grating that.
Me: Oh and mince some garlic too, if there is any.
Me: Are there mushrooms? Maybe wash those.
Me: Asparagus goes well as a side. Is there asparagus?
The phone rings and I force myself to wait for a moment before accepting the call.
"Can I help you, Blackbird?"
"What are you doing?" Her voice is wary, but I still detect the faint trace of amusement beneath her trepidation.
