Page 137 of Cackle

It’s a goofy gift, but I like goofy gifts.

“I’m going to ask you something,” I say. “And I don’t want you to be offended. But did you get this on the way here?”

“I’m offended,” he says. “I’m so offended.”

He kisses me.

Is this what I’ve been missing?

Is this what I’ve spent so much time mourning the loss of?

I wait for a sensation to travel through me, something warm and effervescent. I wait and wait, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. Except his wet tongue as it slips in and out of my mouth.

No, I tell myself. Stop. Focus. You want this. This is what you want, what you’ve always wanted.

“I made cookies,” I say, breaking out of the kiss.

“Did you?” he asks.

“Yep, let me get them,” I say, absconding into the kitchen.

I arrange the cookies on a plate and pour two glasses of milk.

I shoo my doubt. I tell myself repeatedly, You want this. This is what you want. You want him. A life with him.

When I bring the cookies out, he says, “Be honest. Did you really make these, or did you buy them and put them on a plate?”

“I made them,” I say, annoyed.

“Was just a joke,” he says, putting his hands up. “Relax.”

“I made them for you,” I say in disbelief. I spent my time—time I could have spent doing anything else—measuring flour, sugar, vanilla, cracking eggs, watching the oven to make sure the cookies didn’t burn. And just now I got up. I brought them to him with milk. And he doesn’t even care. He’s eating one like it’s nothing. Like they just magically appeared. Not so much as a thank-you.

Has he ever thanked me?

“I’m really happy,” he says, licking some chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “This is what was missing. Us being together. Being present with each other. Paying attention. Gestures.”

He helps himself to another cookie.

What he missed was me revolving my entire world around him. He broke up with me, and I took fucking turns with him sleeping on the futon.

I was always present. I was always paying attention, always making gestures. I never stopped. He just started taking it for granted.

And maybe I wasn’t in lingerie every night; maybe I did spend some weekends sleeping in and binge-watching TV in sweats and no makeup, my hair a mess. Maybe I had the audacity to be human.

Only I’m not human.

Not really.

“These are amazing,” he says. “You’re amazing.”

He slips his hand onto my thigh, and I study his face. I realize now he hasn’t changed. Nothing about him has changed. He doesn’t look any different, but I see him differently.

Because he hurt me, and I’ll never look at him the same.

“I still love you,” he says. “I never stopped. I want you back in my life.”

Before I can process, before I can form thoughts or words, he kisses me.