My first day working at Daisy’s Bakery this winter was a typical me day. I dropped a bag of flour, burned a batch of brownies, and I made a tray of crème brulée with salt instead of sugar. If Daisy didn’t feel so bad for me, I would’ve been fired on the spot.
That night, all I wanted was to disappear in Sam’s strong arms and broad chest, get lost in his warmth. Instead, we Skyped and I laughed about it. We both fell asleep with our heads on our pillows, our laptops open. There have been a lot of nights like that. And calls. And letters. God, I love his letters. Then there’s the phone sex. It took a lot of convincing on his part to get me to partake. When I did, I unleashed a wild side I didn’t know existed. The stuff I’d say, the dirty words. Sam has advised me that the state of his priapism is becoming dangerous. He might need medical attention. He might implode. He says it’s all my fault, and I love it.
I scan the quiet park. No Hot Guy to be seen. With the way I’m digging my heels in the grass, I’m surprised I haven’t tunneled to China. It’s been one year since I’ve seen him, and the anticipation is sucking the oxygen from my lungs, breathing now an effort, my hands shaking at my sides.
I’m a big hot nervous mess. And he’s still not here.
Sam didn’t want to pick me up at the airport. He said he couldn’t see me for the first time with all those people around unless I was okay with him tackling me to the ground and recreating our tent experience. Being all cryptic, he told me to take a taxi to this park and meet him at the old oak tree by the pond.
So I’m here. Waiting. Freaking out.
Then my phone buzzes.
I sift through my purse, frantic, and the thing falls to the ground. As a nearby squirrel natters at me, I pluck my phone from the grass and chirp back at the angry rodent until he scurries up the expansive tree, its thick foliage shading my skin from the Florida sun.
I tap the screen, and one word appears:
Hi.
I whip my head up and study the area more closely. A family of ducks swims across the pond while a woman and two kids play on the far side. There’s a couple farther off lying in the grass, their legs intertwined as they read. Circling my back is nothing but thick bush. Birds whistle, crickets chirp, but not another living soul is visible in this peaceful park.
My heart picks up its pace as I text back.
Hi.
I wait. And wait. Until:
Sam: You look beautiful. You’re almost hard to look at.
My eyes snap up, searching the park again.
Me: Where are you?
Sam: Close enough.
Me: I beg to differ. Please get over here.
Sam: I need to watch you for a bit.
Me: The sentiment’s nice, but I need to see you. Like now.
Sam: Patience, Canada.
Frickin’ Hot Guy. I’ve been patient for a year. One whole year. My body is buzzing to feel his, to wrap around his until we’re tangled together. What part of him thinks now is a good time to play with me?
Me: Patience has been tried and tested. It’s proving rather difficult.
Sam: I’m nervous.
Me: To see me? You don’t do nervous. I do nervous.
Sam: Do you like the park?
The change in topic irks me. He’s stalling and I don’t know why.
Me: I’d like it better if I were in your arms.
Sam: This is where I write your letters. It’s where we scattered my mom’s ashes.
My rapid breaths slow. Suddenly, everything about this serene place changes. I see him sitting under the large oak, scribbling on the blue stationery he sends me. I see him staring off into the pond, his heart full, as he remembers his mother.
I see a piece of him.
Me: It’s amazing. Like you.
Sam: I wanted to meet you here, because I wanted you to meet her. She’s why I went on that trip. She’s why we met. And I think she’s why you’re here now. She would have loved you.
My throat gets tight.
Me: I wish I’d met her. But I feel her here.
I may not have lost my mother, but I came close. If the worst had happened to Mom, I’d be like his dad, drowning in grief. But Sam is strong. Because of him, his father is in therapy and