Page 11 of The Postie

“His name is Theo,” I said finally. “He’s the librarian. He has this daughter or niece or goddaughter or random child—I’m notsure. Her name is Debbie. She looks around five. And . . . that’s basically all I know.”

“What does he look like?” Sisi pressed.

“Dark hair that sticks up everywhere. Glasses. Looks like he lives in cardigans.”

“Cute?” Mateo raised an eyebrow.

I felt my face heat up again. “Yeah. Really cute.”

“And?” they both said in unison.

I shrugged helplessly.

The truth was I’d been building up this whole fantasy in my head based on almost nothing. One embarrassing delivery mix-up and one brief conversation at the school. Maybe he was dating someone. Maybe he was straight. Maybe he was just being polite.

“I don’t even know if he’s gay,” I admitted. “I mean, he did kind of stutter when he accidentally complimented my arms and chest.”

Sisi shot Mateo the look one cop gives another when a perp confesses without realizing it.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” she said.

“By making a complete fool of myself again?”

“Again? Wait. Go back.” Mateo perked up. “How did you make a fool of yourself the first time?”

I groaned. “I kind of delivered a . . .personalitem to his house. His five-year-old answered the door and opened it before I could stop her.”

“Oh my God,” Sisi gasped and leaned forward. “What kind of personal item?”

“The kind that requires batteries and is named after a rabbit.”

They both stared at me for a moment, blinking and processing.

“The kid opened the box while you were standing there?” Sisi asked.

I nodded.

Then Mateo asked the obvious question. “Did she know what it was?”

“No.” I buried my face in my hands again. “I told her it was a kitchen tool used to mix pasta.”

“A what?” Sisi’s voice leaped at least one octave, maybe two.

“She asked, and I panicked. The first thing that popped into my head was . . . kitchen equipment. I’d had spaghetti for lunch that day, and I guess it was still stuck to my brain. I told her the vibrations helped it stir noodles up with the sauce really well.”

Mateo’s mouth fell open.

Sisi’s eyes widened to cartoonish proportions.

“You told a five-year-old that a vibrator was a pasta maker.” Mateo summed up the situation in one pitiful sentence.

I nodded, face still hidden in calloused hands.

“Then she wanted to know what kind of pasta it made, so I said . . .” I took a deep breath. “Rotini.”

That was it.

Sisi completely lost it, doubling over sideways in the booth, tears streaming down her cheeks, making horrible wheezing sounds like she couldn’t breathe.