Chapter 22: Countdown Basket
The low hum of the record player was the only sound competing with the rustle of cellophane. Matt carefully arranged the final item in the basket: a small, ridged glass bottle of blood orange and sandalwood massage oil. He’d spent the last hour curating this collection, his large hands moving with an uncharacteristic delicacy. A first edition of her favorite poetry collection, the spine cracked in that specific, beloved way. A bar of dark chocolate with sea salt. The two pillar candles, already smelling of fig and cedar, just like the one still sitting on his coffee table.
It was a map of her. A trail of breadcrumbs leading to the way he felt.
His phone vibrated against the wood, a stark interruption. He wiped his hands on his jeans and picked it up. Andi. The preview was a slice of her upper thigh, the emerald green silk of the dress hiked high. The caption was simple: Still thinking about your teeth.
A low groan escaped him. He could feel the blood rushing south, a familiar, aching pull. He adjusted himself through his jeans, his gaze drifting from the phone back to the basket. The contrast was dizzying. Here he was, building this careful, romantic thing, and there she was, miles away, tearing it all down with a single image, reducing him to a raw, wanting nerve.
He picked up the note card he’d written, his own handwriting looking back at him. When you get home, I’m going to start with your shoes. Then your ankles. I’m going to take an hour just to map the freckles on your knees with my tongue. This is a promise. -M
It felt too slow now. Too precious. After the hotel bathroom, after the dressing room videos, his promises needed more edge. He crumpled the card and tossed it toward the recycling bin. He pulled a fresh one from the drawer.
He uncapped his pen.
The second you walk in, I’m pushing you against the door. I’m going to taste every word you’ve whispered to me from that phone. Then I’m going to use my teeth on that green dress. Just like you asked.
He signed it with a simple, stark ‘M’ and tucked it between the chocolate and the oil.
The intercom buzzed, sharp and electric. He froze. No one was expecting him. He walked over, pressing the talk button. “Yeah?”
“Delivery for Johnson.” A staticky, unfamiliar voice.
He buzzed them in, a knot of confusion tightening in his stomach. A moment later, a light knock came at his door. He opened it to find a kid holding a long, flat cardboard box.
“Sign here.”
He scrawled his name, took the box, and shut the door. It was light. No return address. He carried it to the couch, slicing the tape with his keys.
Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was the green dress.
He just stared at it. The silk was cooler than he expected, slithering under his fingertips. He lifted it out. It was empty, a ghost of her. He could smell her perfume on it, that faint mix of vanilla and pear, a scent that had haunted his apartment for days after she’d left for the trip.
His phone rang. Andi.
He put it on speaker, his hand still clutching the silk. “What is this?”
Her laugh was a delightfully wicked thing. “A preview. I couldn’t wait. I sent it from the airport this morning.”
“You’re insane.” He brought the fabric to his face, inhaling deeply. It was her, unmistakably.
“I land at 4:15 tomorrow. My flight gets in before the others. Chloe’s taking a later one with Mom.”
The implication hung in the air, thick and heavy. He looked from the dress in his hands to the gift basket on the table. His carefully planned welcome was now obsolete, replaced by something far more direct.
“So I’ll have a few hours,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Alone. With you.”
“Andi…” Her name was a warning and a plea.
“I meant what I said, Matt. I’m not wearing anything under it on the plane. I’m going to get off the flight, get a cab, and come straight to your door. And you’re going to be there. And you’re going to make good on that note I hope you just wrote.”
He looked at the new card peeking from the basket. “Yeah,” he managed, his voice rough. “I am.”
“Good. Don’t overthink it. Just be ready.”
The line went dead.
He sat there in the sudden silence, the green dress a pool of emerald in his lap. The record had ended. The apartment felt different, charged with a new, definitive energy. The waiting was over. The planning was done. There was only the countdown now. A few hours. A cab ride. His door.
He folded the dress carefully, placing it back in its box. He didn’t look at the basket again. He just sat in the quiet, feeling the shape of the hours ahead, solid and real and rushing toward him.
He just sat in the quiet, feeling the shape of the hours ahead, solid and real and rushing toward him. The silence in the apartment became a physical presence, pressing in on him until the faint buzz of the refrigerator felt like a shout. He stood up abruptly, the movement too sudden for the calm he was trying to feign.
His apartment, usually a sanctuary of controlled clutter, now felt like a stage set for a performance he hadn’t fully rehearsed. He walked to the gift basket, his earlier creation seeming suddenly childish, a relic from a simpler version of this thing between them. He picked up the bottle of massage oil, the glass cool against his palm, and set it back down with a definitive click.
He needed to move. He paced from the living room to the kitchen and back, a useless circuit that did nothing to burn off the nervous energy tightening his muscles. His knee bounced when he tried to sit on the couch again, a frantic tremor he couldn’t control. The empty green dress box taunted him from the coffee table, a promise and a provocation.
“Get it together, man,” he muttered to the empty room, running a hand over his face. He grabbed his phone. 7:48 PM. She wouldn’t be here for nearly twenty more hours. The math was a special kind of torture.
He thought about the note he’d written, the one about using his teeth. It had felt daring when he wrote it, but now it seemed tame compared to the reality of her, of that dress sent ahead like a declaration of war. He wondered what she was doing right now, if she was in a hotel room somewhere, thinking of him, her fingers maybe…
He cut the thought off, swallowing hard. He couldn’t go down that path, not with this much time left to kill. He focused on the practical, the tactile. He stripped his bed, the sheets smelling faintly of just himself, and put on fresh ones, dark grey cotton that felt cool and clean. He fluffed the pillows until they were perfect, then immediately messed one up again, wanting it to look lived-in, not like a magazine spread.
He cleaned the already-clean bathroom, wiping down the mirror until it shone, arranging the towels. He shoved the gift basket into the bottom of his closet, out of sight. Its tenderness felt like a vulnerability now, a piece of evidence he wasn’t ready to present.
The night stretched on, each minute crawling by. He tried to watch a movie but couldn’t follow the plot. He scrolled through his phone, seeing nothing. Every sound from the street—a car door slamming, footsteps on the pavement—made his heart jump. It was never her. It couldn’t be her.
He ended up standing by the window, watching the traffic lights change from red to green. The city pulsed below, unaware of the tension coiling inside his fourth-floor apartment. He traced a fingertip against the cool glass, imagining her cab pulling up, her figure emerging from the back seat.
He waited. The sky finally began to lighten, a slow bleed of grey at the horizon. He hadn’t slept. He made coffee, the bitter scent doing little to cut through the haze of exhaustion and anticipation. He showered, the water scalding his skin, and dressed slowly in plain clothes, everything chosen for how easily it could be removed.
He checked his phone. 3:05 PM. His palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans. He looked around the apartment one last time, his gaze landing on the door. He walked over and slid the chain lock open, then double-checked the deadbolt was unlocked. He left it that way.
He positioned himself on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He didn’t touch his coffee. He just listened, every particle of his attention focused on the hallway beyond his door, waiting for the sound of the elevator ding, for the approaching footsteps that would change everything.
He waits impatiently.