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1. There is the faint, but lingering scent of lavender in my kitchen.
2. The dishwasher is running.
3. There’s a smoothie sitting out on my kitchen counter.
The smoothie is still cool, but there’s a definite ring of condensation on the coaster beneath it. And beneath the coaster is a note on bright pink paper.
I pick up my phone and dial my best friend. Former best friend.
As a rule, I prefer texting, but I find there is a degree of displeasure that can only be properly conveyed via phone call.
He answers on the fourth ring, which is unusually slow for him. Probably a sign of guilt. I don’t wait for his greeting but start talking immediately.
“Why the fuck is there a smoothie in my kitchen?”
“Good morning to you, too. I hope you’re doing well.”
“And why is there a note attached that says, ‘Let me know what else you need. Can’t wait to learn your preferences’? The ‘i’ is dotted with a heart.”
“Ian, we talked about this.”
“I have no recollection of talking about this. And I have a very good memory.”
“Apparently you don’t. I sent you an email last week. Which was a follow up from a conversation we had a month ago. You’re turning into a recluse. Which I don’t really have any problem with because it means you get a shit ton of work done. Which is usually good for my investment portfolio. The last time you turned into a recluse for a year, it made it me twenty million dollars. However, as your friend, I’m worried.”
“I’m fine. You know I don’t like people. I’m happiest alone.”
“Great. Be alone. I’m not arguing about that. But when you’re alone, you eat like crap.”
“I eat just fine.”
“Left to your own devices, you survive solely on takeout and delivery. That wasn’t a problem when you lived at the condo in downtown. Now that you’re out in the boondocks full-time, it is.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“I’ve seen what places deliver out there. There are exactly two places that deliver out to your house. A pizza place and some sort of weird Chinese-Mexican combo place. Even if you have them each delivered once a day, your diet would be absolute crap.”
I want to continue arguing, but I can tell when I’m losing a debate and I pride myself on not falling prey to sunk cost fallacy.
Besides, he’s not wrong. Anthony’s New York-Style Pizza isn’t half bad—given that they operate out of a gas station—until you’ve had it every day for three weeks in a row. As for that other place … Chinese-Mexican fusion is a shit idea. By every standard.
“So, what’s the plan here? Have you hired some full-time delivery person to bring me smoothies from my favorite shop downtown?”
I eye the smoothie skeptically. Before Martin can answer, my stomach grumbles and I grudgingly pick it up and take a sip. It’s not my standard order from Jamba Juice. It’s—
The perfect combination of sweet and tart rolls over my tongue. Raspberry, strawberry, a hint of coconut. Fuck.
It’s better than my standard order at Jamba Juice.
“Okay. I’ll make you a deal. One smoothie, once a day. That’s it.”
“You tried the smoothie, didn’t you?”
“Your point?”
“If you liked the smoothie, just wait and see what she can do with a proper meal.”
“This wasn’t delivered, was it?” I set the smoothie back down on the coaster and glare at it. I know the answer without even waiting for Martin’s reply. If it had been delivered it would either be too cold or too hot by now. Plus, I recognize the glass from my kitchen cabinet. Fuck.
