down to the point I swear he could see my
thoughts.
“Just open the boxes, Cass,” he said
adamantly.
Nervous but undeniably curious, I took the
first in my hands. It was one of the smaller boxes and it felt
surprisingly light. I ran my hands along the bottom, finding a
small flap. I lifted the top and a smaller, rectangle shaped box
was inside. Fancy gold lettering spelled out the words Ladurée
Paris.
I lifted the lid and my mouth watered. Inside
were six multicolored pastries, lined up in a row. They were
sandwich like confections, the sides fluffy and delicate and a
sliver of cream between them.
“Macaroons?” I went to touch them, to
literally stuff my face, but stopped when I touched the lid,
running my fingers over the glittering label. “Ladurée?”
“It’s a Parisian brand,” he answered.
“They’re credited with creating the double macaroon. Still your
favorite, right?”
“They are.” I fondled the tissue paper,
suddenly hesitant to touch them, content to ooh and aah over the
bright color and dreamy textures.
“Not from Paris unfortunately,” he continued.
“I doubt they would have kept for two years. But I did the best I
could.”
I glanced at him, seeing his eyes expectant
and hopeful.
“You did great,” I smiled. I took one out and
bit into it, the slight crunch of the outer shell met by the
creamy, luxe smooth of the filling. I held it in my mouth, savoring
it until I swallowed. “They taste even better than they look.”
I picked up a second box, sliding the top
off. On a bed of cotton was a dark circle of beads meeting a
crimson colored clasp and a turquoise looking stone. I held it up,
marveling at the craftsmanship.
“They’re called wrist malas,” he explained.
“When I was in Tibet I saw these and thought of you. Strong,
unwavering-”
“Stubborn?” I added.
“Beautiful,” he finished. “They’re used for
meditation. Every time I closed my eyes and got to a place where
everything else faded, I saw your face.”
I circled my finger around the beads,
imagining him sprawled on beautiful waist high grass with the sky
ethereally blue. I never would have admitted it out loud but I was
sure that every time he thought of me, every time he saw my face, I
saw his. My eyes burned but I held back the tears, quickly sliding
the beads onto my wrist.
I looked at the pile of knick knacks and
mementos from all over the world, love letters he wrote and never
sent; physical proof that he never stopped loving me. I thought
about nights when I was alone and not even Pandora or TV on full
blast could quiet the ache in my chest. It seemed so far-fetched,
so impossible that every time I thought of him, he could have been
thinking of me too. But the truth was here, personified in every
single gift.
I was consumed, alight with so much emotion
that I was sure my heart would combust from the strain.
"Chance...this is all--"
I pivoted, turning from him. There was
another thing, dark and terrible that swirled among the happy and
tingles. It was guilt. "The first time we kissed when you came
back, the first time we touched--" I fiddled with the red cord
dangling from the bracelet, knowing full well I was about to hang
myself. "I wanted to hurt you. I hated you for a very long time. I
hated you while you were seeing me and gathering these things for
me." I pulled off the mala beads, surprised that removing it felt
like I was losing a piece of myself. Surprised that it hurt right
down to my bones. "This is beautiful, really it is. But it's too
much."
He didn’t say anything for a long moment or
acknowledge my outstretched hand, bracelet in my palm. I dredged my
gaze from safe territory, feeling his eyes burning into me, knowing
that as soon as we locked eyes he’d set me on fire. After all, he’d
done all of this, saved these things for me and I wasn’t accepting
it. If it were reversed, I’d be furious. Hurt. Angry. But when I
looked at him, his smile stretched to his amber eyes.
“I
thoughts.
“Just open the boxes, Cass,” he said
adamantly.
Nervous but undeniably curious, I took the
first in my hands. It was one of the smaller boxes and it felt
surprisingly light. I ran my hands along the bottom, finding a
small flap. I lifted the top and a smaller, rectangle shaped box
was inside. Fancy gold lettering spelled out the words Ladurée
Paris.
I lifted the lid and my mouth watered. Inside
were six multicolored pastries, lined up in a row. They were
sandwich like confections, the sides fluffy and delicate and a
sliver of cream between them.
“Macaroons?” I went to touch them, to
literally stuff my face, but stopped when I touched the lid,
running my fingers over the glittering label. “Ladurée?”
“It’s a Parisian brand,” he answered.
“They’re credited with creating the double macaroon. Still your
favorite, right?”
“They are.” I fondled the tissue paper,
suddenly hesitant to touch them, content to ooh and aah over the
bright color and dreamy textures.
“Not from Paris unfortunately,” he continued.
“I doubt they would have kept for two years. But I did the best I
could.”
I glanced at him, seeing his eyes expectant
and hopeful.
“You did great,” I smiled. I took one out and
bit into it, the slight crunch of the outer shell met by the
creamy, luxe smooth of the filling. I held it in my mouth, savoring
it until I swallowed. “They taste even better than they look.”
I picked up a second box, sliding the top
off. On a bed of cotton was a dark circle of beads meeting a
crimson colored clasp and a turquoise looking stone. I held it up,
marveling at the craftsmanship.
“They’re called wrist malas,” he explained.
“When I was in Tibet I saw these and thought of you. Strong,
unwavering-”
“Stubborn?” I added.
“Beautiful,” he finished. “They’re used for
meditation. Every time I closed my eyes and got to a place where
everything else faded, I saw your face.”
I circled my finger around the beads,
imagining him sprawled on beautiful waist high grass with the sky
ethereally blue. I never would have admitted it out loud but I was
sure that every time he thought of me, every time he saw my face, I
saw his. My eyes burned but I held back the tears, quickly sliding
the beads onto my wrist.
I looked at the pile of knick knacks and
mementos from all over the world, love letters he wrote and never
sent; physical proof that he never stopped loving me. I thought
about nights when I was alone and not even Pandora or TV on full
blast could quiet the ache in my chest. It seemed so far-fetched,
so impossible that every time I thought of him, he could have been
thinking of me too. But the truth was here, personified in every
single gift.
I was consumed, alight with so much emotion
that I was sure my heart would combust from the strain.
"Chance...this is all--"
I pivoted, turning from him. There was
another thing, dark and terrible that swirled among the happy and
tingles. It was guilt. "The first time we kissed when you came
back, the first time we touched--" I fiddled with the red cord
dangling from the bracelet, knowing full well I was about to hang
myself. "I wanted to hurt you. I hated you for a very long time. I
hated you while you were seeing me and gathering these things for
me." I pulled off the mala beads, surprised that removing it felt
like I was losing a piece of myself. Surprised that it hurt right
down to my bones. "This is beautiful, really it is. But it's too
much."
He didn’t say anything for a long moment or
acknowledge my outstretched hand, bracelet in my palm. I dredged my
gaze from safe territory, feeling his eyes burning into me, knowing
that as soon as we locked eyes he’d set me on fire. After all, he’d
done all of this, saved these things for me and I wasn’t accepting
it. If it were reversed, I’d be furious. Hurt. Angry. But when I
looked at him, his smile stretched to his amber eyes.
“I
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