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So while I’m counting how many cases of dishwasher detergent I’ve unpacked, and as I’m breaking down cardboard boxes and tossing them in the compressor, I specifically do not think of Max.
I don’t think of how he smiled right before he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
I don’t think of how he took my wrists in his hands and held them over my head while he kissed me.
I don’t think of the way he held my hand and talked with me about Dickens and self-determination and truth and honesty.
I don’t think of all the things that are true in both real life and in my wish—that he loves reading late into the night, that he’s loyal to his friends, that he loves crime dramas and has a sweet tooth, that he’s levelheaded and thinks before he speaks, that he’s brilliant at what he does, and that he’s alone.
For three weeks I haven’t thought about any of that. And while I haven’t thought about any of it, I’ve missed him.
Every second of every day.
I miss him.
It’s eight o’clock at night, and outside the store the Geneva sky is fading to the soft denim-blue of dusk. It was warm today, one of those balmy June days that precede the heat of July. But inside it’s cold. The freezers and refrigerators send chilly drafts throughout the store. The overhead fluorescent lights shine like a never-ending sun, bathing the aisles in a cold white light.
In an hour the market will close and then the real work will begin. But until then, I’m in the baking aisle, unloading a carton of baking chocolate.
So far, this is my favorite aisle in the store. The market is a gourmet specialty shop, so there are all sorts of interesting products from all around the world. But I have to say, I prefer the sweet to the bitter or the sour. I like stocking sugar more than chicken or canned sardines.
Besides, this aisle smells sweet, like a rainbow of sugars—brown sugar, molasses and honey, caster sugar, pearl sugar, and sugar cubes as large as gumdrops. I like pearl sugar best. When I pick up the bags, the large crystal chunks crunch and let off a sweet smell that reminds me of lemon and vanilla and sunshine.
Every time I’m in this aisle I feel like I’m standing inside a pastry, and all I have to do is breathe it in and appreciate the scents of sugar, chocolate, custard mix, and hazelnut spreads.
I send my boxcutter along the cardboard box and open the top, revealing the stacks of baking chocolate. The shelf is empty, so I’m right on time. I begin stacking, humming along to the music in my earbuds. It’s the Supremes, and even though it hurts to hear them singing that love can’t be hurried, I ignore the throb in my chest and keep stacking the chocolate.
A little girl runs past, her red hair flying behind her as she searches the aisle, jumping up and down to see the top shelves. Sometimes customers ask me where something is, but usually, they ignore me. I’m not especially good at telling them where products are. I haven’t been here long enough to know everything yet. But if she’s looking for sugar ...
I’m about to ask if she needs help when she runs off, dashing into another aisle.
I shrug and go back to the chocolate.
My head is down, my music is playing, and I’m focused on counting how many packages are left, which is why I don’t hear him at first.
“—me?”
I turn and notice a man standing next to me. He has expensive brown leather shoes, dark jeans, and that’s as far as I get before taking out my earbuds and saying, “Sorry. What was that?”
“I’m looking for?—”
I don’t hear what he’s looking for.
Because it’s him.
It’s the voice I’ve been hearing in my dreams for the past three weeks. It’s the voice I hoped to hear every week for the past three years.
It’sMax.
His deep, rich tenor reaches through the chilly, fluorescent-lit aisle and spills over me like a stream of sugar.
His nearness hits me with the strength of a hurricane, and I’m nearly knocked over. I brace myself and grip the edge of the box, fighting the urge to stand and fling myself into his arms.
I want to so badly. I want to cry and laugh and kiss him and love him.
I may have been able to pretend I didn’t miss him. But I’ve not been able to pretend I don’t love him.
And here I am, crouched at his feet, kneeling over a box of chocolate. I know him. I see him. And he doesn’t see me.
