Hidden Hearts. Olivia Dade
to ramble. Let me get back to what you wrote.
Sounds like you had a great morning! If you’d recommend any of those movies you’ve been watching, I’d love the names/links. I wish I were braver about traveling to new places. But for now, reading and seeing films about them will have to suffice.
And yes, for once, I actually DO have big plans! I finally met a guy who seems normal and nice on that online dating site. Just in time, too, since I was planning to shut down my account and acquire a dozen cats (transitioning directly from “bachelorette” to “cat lady” with lightning speed!) right around the time we were matched.
Anyway, I’m having dinner with him after work tonight. He lives near D.C., so we’re meeting in the middle. Wish me luck.
How about you? What are your weekend plans?
FROM: [email protected]
Friday, April 21, 2017 3:22 p.m.
Miles? Are you okay? I usually hear from you before now.
FROM: [email protected]
Friday, April 21, 2017 4:41 p.m.
Miles?
* * *
The doorbell rang, its cheerful peal incongruous in the dingy cabin.
“Oh, shit.” Miles gave up trying to button his still-snug jeans and contemplated the front door. He didn’t really have time for a tête-à-tête with Eugene, the local pizza delivery guy. Especially given Eugene’s usual lack of urgency and propensity for lengthy lectures.
But hell, the man worried about him. And how could Miles fault Eugene for that?
Besides, the bad timing was his own damn fault. Exhausted by his morning run on the treadmill, he’d been too busy napping to see Mary’s e-mail about her date that night. At least until almost three o’clock in the afternoon.
In a flash, he’d realized his grace period had officially ended, and he would be meeting her for the first time under decidedly inauspicious circumstances. If he planned to get to the Battlefield Library before Mary left for the day, he didn’t have time to see a barber. He didn’t have time to buy new, better-fitting clothing. He didn’t have time to rediscover his long-neglected abs.
In fact, pretty much all he had time to do was attack his beard with a pair of clippers and take a shower. Luckily, his recent improvements in the stall had helped decrease the time he needed to spend in there. But in the rush of getting un-smelly, trying to squeeze some damn toothpaste on to his frayed toothbrush, and choosing a tee that de-emphasized his diminishing but still-noticeable gut, he’d completely forgotten the pizza he’d preordered that morning via text message.
He’d meant it as a treat for himself, an inexpensive celebration of his decreasing pain and an acknowledgment that all his fitness and nutrition efforts had paid dividends. He could actually zip his jeans now, even if the button still eluded him. When he moved his shoulders, the stitches in his tees didn’t pop anymore. And were his cheekbones finally starting to reemerge? At least if he sucked in his cheeks like a starving fish?
Dammit. He shouldn’t have ordered the pizza.
By the time the bell rang again, Miles was already unlocking and doing his best to open the damn door. Someone hadn’t framed the opening correctly, and the stupid thing would only move if he gave it a violent tug. Shoddy workmanship, plain and simple.
Four months ago, he’d have fixed it before lunch his first day in residence. Now he simply did his best to ignore the issue. Along with the squeaky floors—he suspected the builders hadn’t used thick-enough plywood for the subfloor—the water damage at the southwest corner of the building, and the ghastly popcorn ceilings.
Finally, he managed to wrench the door open. Eugene regarded him on the other side of the ripped screen with doleful patience, his cheeks still pink from the heat of the kitchen. “I don’t want to give this to you.”
Miles had a solution for that. “Then don’t. I’m kind of in a hur—”
“But you ordered it, so here it is. Extra-large Meatsapalooza, extra cheese and sauce. Or as I call it, Diabetes in a Greasy Cardboard Box.” Eugene flung open the screen door and shoved the pizza box into Miles’s stomach, pushing until Miles was forced to take it. “I thought you weren’t ordering pizzas anymore.”
Miles deposited the box on to the rickety kitchen table and reached for his wallet. “I’m not. Usually. Give me a minute to grab your tip, and then I need to get going.”
“I don’t want a tip. The thought of making money from your eventual stroke sickens me.” Eugene shoved his sweat-stained baseball cap further back on his head. “Didn’t you read the pamphlets I gave you last time?”
Yes, he had. He’d also checked for the millionth time whether his rural corner of Nice County featured any other pizza places that delivered. And for the millionth time, he’d confirmed that Eugene’s Eunique Pizzas was his one-and-only option.
Since business wasn’t exactly booming, Eugene served as his own delivery driver. He also served as a nutritional counselor, whether his customers liked it or not. Miles assumed not, since—once again—Eugene’s business wasn’t really raking in the dough.
Dough. Ha.
“Have you considered that maybe your informational pamphlets about the health dangers of pizza have driven away potential customers?” Miles couldn’t help asking.
Eugene’s bleary eyes narrowed. “I don’t lecture everyone. Just people who order pizza every single night for weeks on end.”
“I don’t do that anymore.” Miles scowled at the short, round man in his doorway. “I haven’t for almost four weeks now.”
“Hmph. My point stands.” Eugene folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. “You need to stop riding the pizza train, son.”
When the man produced an egg in a Tupperware container, Miles stifled a groan. “I don’t have time for my regularly scheduled ‘This Is Your Brain on Pizza’ demonstration right now, dude. I have things to do.”
Eugene brightened. “I noticed. First time I’ve seen you in real clothing in months. You should throw out that ratty-ass robe, O’Connor. It’s enabling your bad life choices.”
“We’ll see.” He did not have time for this discussion. “Anyway, I need to get going. Excuse me.”
Eugene’s eyes widened as Miles essentially gave him a one-armed shove out the door and followed him on to the front porch. “You’re leaving the house? Really?”
“Really.” Miles yanked the door shut and locked it.
Before going any further, he did a final check. A pat of his back right pocket verified that his wallet was present and accounted for. His front right pocket contained the car keys. If he kept his tee untucked, it would cover his unbuttoned jeans. Good enough.
Or it would be good enough, if he could actually leave his own damn driveway. “You’re blocking my car. Move it or lose it, Eugene.”
Eugene lifted his hands in surrender, and the first smile he’d ever offered Miles dawned on his face. It was surprisingly sweet. “Consider me gone. Good luck, son.”
Miles slid into the driver’s seat and let Eugene close the door for him with only a little pang of bitterness. Moments later, Eugene’s compact car was raising a dust cloud along the gravel driveway, and Miles was poised to reenter the world again.
The key turned easily in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of the engine soothed him. He let the noise of the gravel under the wheels drown out his thoughts as he