Prompt: dilute

Dialogue flex: "I sure could use a cold drink right about now."

unbeta'd

A couple of you mentioned the thing about retracting and deleting the already sent email. My interoffice email is like that, and thank goodness it is! Not that I've ever had to use it, but it's nice to know it's there in case ever a rant is to be made. :)


Sunday came and went.

I didn't check my email even though it drove me crazy to know what he'd written, like wrapped presents underneath a Christmas tree.

Be strong. Don't peek. And I didn't. Go me.

But then Monday rolled around.

A little after eight that morning I logged on not to open his message but because it was a work day. At least that was the reason I told myself. There were few new ones, nothing major, although one went missing: Edward's.

Well, I thought. That's that. All the better.

On Tuesday, it was business as usual.

More or less.

He holed himself up in his office, and I saw him once, maybe twice and only for seconds at a time. I walked by him on my way back from the Keurig. I said hello, he said hello, and with his head down, he kept walking. I wanted to ask him if he was all right, if he was angry with me about my little outburst on Friday, but I let it go.

Wednesday he went out to lunch with Mike and Eric. Wednesdays Rose, Angie, Edward, and I always order from the deli. Wednesdays are Reuben days.

As if the beginning of the week wasn't already awkward enough, Thursday was just plain uncomfortable. His obvious avoidance of me and only me was nearly embarrassing.

"What'd you do to Edward?" Angie asked.

"I have no idea," I said, but I knew. He finished something that never should have been started. I tell myself this is a good thing.

It's Friday, and I'm waiting to meet Mrs. Whitlock at Amphora Bakery for a tasting. We've spoken on the phone several times, have met in person twice at the office, but those two meetings were enough for Edward and I to have dubbed her Hypnotic Bubble Breaker Lady.

A small pang finds itself settled comfortably in my chest. I don't like it. I miss being friends with Edward.

"Bella!" she says, flitting through the door. She walks steadfast straight toward me, doesn't slow down until she's standing not even six inches from me. For an older woman, she moves pretty lithe. In this place where the aroma of cake is so pronounced, her Listerine breath cuts through it all. Alice Whitlock does not know the meaning of personal space.

"Mrs. Whitlock," I say, taking a small step back. "How are you?"

"Stop. Call me Alice," she says, inching closer, and she stares directly into my eyes.

"All right. Alice. How was your week?"

Wow. She has the biggest pupils. And her eyelashes are perfectly separated. How does she do that? There's not a trace of mascara clumped anywhere. Her forehead is smooth, too. Zero wrinkles —she has to be at least my mom's age. I wonder if she gets Botox.

"Bella?"

"What? Sorry, what?"

"I said it was fine, dear. How was yours?"

I step back again, shaking the fog from my head. This bakery is pretty small; we're going to have to find a table like now before I start counting the hairs in her eyebrows.

"Fine, thank you. Let's sit."

Not only is Alice a close talker, she's animated as well. Her hands fly all over the place while she speaks, diamond rings glinting off the overhead lights. She tells me how excited the members of the riding club are about the upcoming benefit. Which benefits the riding club. Because the riding club which is filled with extremely wealthy horse riding people needs to raise money. For what? New saddles for the rich riding club's members' butts? Hay for the wealthy horses?

I think she's calling her event a benefit because it sounds more prestigious as opposed to calling it what it really is: a party.

I shouldn't be judgmental, and I hate that these thoughts are running through my head. I mean honestly, it's their money and it's not as if their trying to raise funds from an outside source. Even if they were, it's none of my business. This event is a job just like any other. I must be PMSing.

"So, I was thinking," Alice says, swallowing a bite of red velvet cake, fork twirling in the air. "I know we increased the size of the benefit—you're such a doll for not letting that ruffle you at all, by the way—what do you think about changing the theme from what it is now…which is really a non-theme to a casino night? Is it too late for that? What do you think?"

"Um…"

"Sleep on it and let me know. Oh, this is…this is just…I sure could use a cold drink right about now. You? Excuse me? Yes, could we get something to drink? Orange juice if you have it."

This woman. Oh my goodness.

"I'll see what I can do about rearranging everything."

"Fantastic!" Alice claps, and leans over the table, and I can't believe she hasn't gotten any icing on her boobs. Two glasses of orange juice are placed in front of us. "Thank you," she says, then reaches down to her purse. She shakes a silver flask at me. "I'm just going to dilute this a little bit. Would you like some?"

"No, thanks."

Hypnotic Bubble Breaker Lady is insane. How the hell am I going to pull this off?

Finally, our taste testing is over. Alice decided on mini dessert shooters, and to be honest, they're perfect. I'll admit, she does have good taste.

We walk out of the bakery together, shoulder to shoulder, Listerine breath swathed in screwdrivers, and she says goodbye. I tell her I'll let her know by Tuesday if a casino theme is doable—there's a slight chance, but it means I'm going to have to have help.

Alice waves from the back of her car, and as I walk to mine, I notice the back tire is completely flat.

Of course it is. Karma chose to rear her ugly head for me being all Judgey McJudgerson. No reprieve for PMSing, I suppose. Fine. Whatever.

I first dial Mrs. Cope to let her know where I am. She hands the phone to Garrett, and I promise pizza for dinner. Then I dial the office to tell Bree I won't be coming back this afternoon. It's already after three and by the time I change the tire, it'll be after five.

The bakery owner's son was nice enough to come out and help me. I can change a tire, rather I know how to change a tire. But I've never actually had to do it, and I guess that much was evident.

Stefan asks me to hand him one of the lug nuts when I hear a car pull into the small lot that's in front of the bakery. I don't turn around as I'm focusing on Stefan, watching everything he does with my tire just in case this ever happens again.

Slow footsteps come up behind us. "You could have called me, you know."