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SEVENTEEN

E ddie checks the clock in the kitchen. It’s 1:40 p.m. He better hurry, because Patisserie Gaston closes soon, and he’s determined to buy opera cakes for Cookie. He knows he’ll have to carry them with him up to the Algonquin, and back downtown afterward, but he really wants sherry hour to be perfect today, and that means opera cakes. He grabs the camera and ducks out.

Across the street from Gaston, a sudden swell of anxiety stops Eddie. Stay cool, Eddie. Theo’s just a boy. And you don’t have time to stand around and talk anyway. Just get the cakes and go.

The little bell over the door tinkles as Eddie steps in at 1:55 p.m. Theo’s back is turned. His round shoulders are dusted with flour, his apron tied into a perfectly even knot around his back. How does he do that? How does he get it so straight, so symmetrical? Eddie imagines Theo reaching behind himself, his hands and fingers moving so smoothly and perfectly, carefully creating a perfect bow, like he’s done a hundred thousand times before. For a second, Eddie wonders if Theo will remember him. Theo probably sees dozens of customers a day. Maybe hundreds. He could have erased Eddie from his memory as easily as swiping crumbs off a counter.

But instead, when Theo turns around at the tinkle of the bell, his face brightens in recognition. “It’s you,” he says.

“Hi,” Eddie says. He hates the way his voice sounds, tinny and light. He clears his throat, hoping for a different timbre. “Hi, Theo.” A little better.

“Hi, um—” Theo laughs. “You never told me your name.”

He’s been thinking about you, Eddie.

“I didn’t?” Eddie says. Foolish. Obviously, you didn’t. Why would Theo say so, unless you didn’t?

“No. And I’ve been wondering.”

Eddie, inconspicuous Eddie, draws a breath and answers, “I’m Eddie.”

Theo’s face slides into a smile. “Hi, Eddie,” he says, slowly, resonantly, confidently. “Opera cake?”

“Yes please,” Eddie says. “Two.”

Theo moves slowly, lifting the tray out of the case and carefully placing two cakes in a box. Eddie watches the clock, worried. It will take him a half hour to get uptown, probably, and a half hour to get back, so if he wants to make it to Cookie’s by four he needs to get a move on.

“Hold on a minute,” Theo says. “Let me make these special.” He takes the cakes back out of the box, then ducks into the back.

“Aren’t you closing now?” Eddie asks, glancing up at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

“Don’t worry,” Theo says, emerging with a pastry tube in one hand. “I’m in no rush today. Gaston’s gone for a chiropractor appointment. I thought I could personalize these. It’ll give me a chance to practice my penmanship. Er, chocolatemanship.” He smirks playfully and looks up at Eddie, clearly expecting a laugh.

Eddie just stares at the clock on the wall above them.

“Crickets, huh?” Theo says. “Okay. Well, how do you spell Cookie?”

“Um,” Eddie says, getting the joke—obviously a baker knows how to spell Cookie—but time is ticking past quickly. Oh, he wishes he could stay. But he can’t miss the four o’clock deadline again. He needs to get to the Algonquin and back as soon as he can.

“Oookay,” Theo says. “I’ll start with C and see where I get. Do you want a cup of coffee while you wait?”

He shifts from one foot to the other impatiently. “I, I’m sorry,” he says, sliding a bill across the table. “But I’m kind of in a rush. How much are the cakes?”

Theo looks up, a quizzical expression. “I thought I could write—”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Eddie interrupts. “But I really have to go. Next time?”

Theo puts down the pastry tube and reaches for a box. “Sure,” he says, his voice dejected. “Next time.”