Wasted Words by Staci Hart

I wouldn’t lose her friendship. We would find a way through it together. Because I’d regret it until the end of my days if I didn’t tell her what she meant to me.

I swallowed and drank my wine. “Thank you, Adrienne. I’m sorry, really. I’ve never had a date quite like this before.”

“It’s all right. I have to admit I was crushing on you pretty hard for a second there.” She chuckled. “The hunt continues. I’m sure Mr. Right is just around the corner. Maybe I’ll even enlist Cam’s help.”

“Just keep coming to singles night. I’m sure she’ll have you set up by Christmas.”

Adrienne laughed. “A girl can hope.”

Dinner passed easily, though my mind was on Cam. I longed for a moment to myself before I went home, and after I walked Adrienne to her apartment, I made my way through the streets to our building, circling it a few times before working up the courage to go in. Partly, I hoped she’d already be asleep. Partly, I didn’t know what I’d say, if I’d even say anything.

But mostly, I knew that when I walked through our door, nothing would be the same.

YES/NO/MAYBE

Cam

EVERYTHING’S FINE, I TOLD MYSELF as I raised a hand to knock on Mrs. Frank’s door, smile firmly in place, happy for something — anything — to distract me from thinking about Tyler and Adrienne.

Kafka went ballistic, his bark high and loud, and I heard Mrs. Frank approach, shushing him along the way.

She opened the door with her face soft, skin like cream, wrinkled in a way that didn’t look weathered, her wispy white hair in a bun pinned on top of her head. Kafka bolted out, running in circles around me.

“Cam!” she said with a friendly smile, holding out her knobby hands for me. “What a surprise. Come in, come in.”

“Hi, Mrs. Frank.” I leaned into her arms, my hands full of food containers, and I kissed her on the cheek. The sweet scent of rose oil hit my nose, a familiar smell that always reminded me of her.

Kafka barked, hopping and scratching at my leg.

“Oh, come here, you brute,” she said, bending to scoop the little Yorkie into her arms, and I followed her inside.

It was always like walking into a time capsule, the story of her life as told by her belongings. She had depression era china and glassware that she’d told me actually contained radioactive material. A tea set from occupied Japan. Lamps from the sixties, quilts that she’d crocheted. Every single thing in her home had a story, and I’d heard dozens of them.

“I made some spicy white chili for you,” I said as I followed her through the apartment, her frame even smaller than mine under a velvet dressing gown, embroidered with flowers.

She glanced back at me over her shoulder with a brow up. “Really spicy or Cam spicy?”

I chuckled. “Well, I could stomach it, so probably not spicy enough. I packed some extra fresh jalapeños though. Oh, and I made cookies. Cornbread too.”

“White or yellow?”

“White. Is there really any other kind?”

She laughed and set Kafka down, turning to take the plastic containers from me. “No, there isn’t.”

Mrs. Frank shuffled to the fridge and packed away the soup, leaving the cornbread and cookies on the counter. She opened the plastic bag with the cookies in it and snagged one, taking a big bite as she turned.

“Mmm,” she moaned appreciatively. “At my age, you always eat dessert first. It’s a God-earned right.”

She pulled out a chair and sat, and I took a seat next to her.

“It’s sweet of you to think of me, Cam. I’m glad for the company. Kafka too. He gets bored with just me to keep him company … I can’t even take the poor boy on a walk anymore.” She waved her hand. “Getting old is for the birds.”

“‘Time can’t change me, but I can’t trace time,’ as David Bowie would say.”

“He was a very, very wise man. Tell me what’s new. How’s work? How’s Tyler? Tell me some stories about youth and love.” Her blue eyes were dreamy, so blue they were almost grey.

“Well, work is great, and everything is going well. We did another singles night a couple of nights ago that was a smash, a costume party.”

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks flushing, “I love a good costume party.”

“I think nearly everyone does. It’s fun to pretend. You should come.”

She laughed and waved me off.

“I’ve been making matches at work still, including Tyler.” My voice was tight, even I heard it, and Mrs. Frank raised a brow.

“Oh?”

I smiled, but it was paper thin. “Yeah, and the girl I set him up with is something else. You’d like her. She’s strong and beautiful, but somehow soft and kind too. She complements him well, and I’m really happy for him that it’s working out.”

She nodded and took a bite of her cookie. “How long have you been trying to convince yourself of that?”

I blushed. “Since yesterday.”

She smirked. “And Tyler really likes her?”

“He seems to. Why wouldn’t he?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I sort of thought maybe he was holding out for you.”

I shook my head, embarrassed. “No, you’ve got that all wrong.”

“I don’t think it’s all that wrong.”

“He and I aren’t the same.”

She raised a brow. “Since when does that matter?”

I frowned. “Since always. He should be with tall, pretty girls like the one he’s on a date with, not dorky midgets like me.”