“I’m sorry, oat biscuits?”

“I think that’s what they are. Sometimes when you’re still at work, he stops by with cookies and snacks.”

“You’re talking about Lance?” I had no idea Lance was sweet-talking my neighbor. He hadn’t mentioned it even once.

“Unless you’ve got another redheaded boyfriend you’re hiding somewhere, Miss Poppy, that’s the one. He offered to help me get out all the Christmas decorations this year. Which is nice of him. Trudy loved Christmas.”

I remembered last year the decorations had been missing, when usually they went up right after Thanksgiving. “I can come help, too.”

He pats my hand and gives me a watery smile. “That’d be lovely, dear.”

The rest of the week passes in the same slow, achy fashion. Work, which is usually a good distraction, is dragging today. I’m half-grateful, half-worried about having tomorrow off. As much as I need a day off, the free time means my mind has endless time for wandering, and I can spend the day watching PVR hockey games, unless I make alternate plans..

Lance has been gone for the past seven days, and I’ve watched the games obsessively. He’s averaged three penalties a night, and there’s been nothing to see on the bunny sites. Tonight they’re finally playing again in Chicago. Knowing he’ll be in the city again seems to make the hurt worse.

I hate that I don’t know more about who he is beyond the confines of my house and what the media says. It’s hard to gauge how truthful he’s been with me because I only know this narrow aspect of his life.

“Poppy?” April snaps her fingers in front of my face, and I jerk.

“Huh?”

“Your next client is going to be here soon. Do you need help with the sheets?” She looks pointedly at the ball of cloth in my arms. I’ve been staring off into space for the past few minutes, it appears.

“Sure. Yeah. Thanks.”

She rounds the table, takes the used sheets out of my hands, and grabs a fresh set. “Just call him.”

“I’m not ready.” It’s been eleven days. Lance hasn’t so much as texted me. As I asked. I should be happy about this.

I’m not.

The silence is painful, even though it was requested.

I’ve kept myself occupied by spending time with April, going to yoga, having tea with Mr. Goldberg; I even went to see my parents last weekend. It amazes me that in such a short span of time, one person could have filled so much of my life that even the busy-ness doesn’t take away the ache of his absence.

“You’re not ready, or you’re too scared?” April prods.

“I don’t know. Both maybe.”

“Do you know what you want yet?”

I absolutely do. I want him. I want him to want me as his girlfriend. I want to have more sleepovers. I want to find him naked in my kitchen, rummaging around in my cupboards for gummy bears. More than that, I want him to let me into the rest of his life. I want to be invited to games, to meet his friends, to see him as a whole, and not just a series of puzzle pieces I can’t fit together because so many are missing.

But I’m terrified of how that plays out for me. I think I can deal with the media exposure; I even think I can handle a bitch ex-girlfriend. And I’m not afraid to love someone who’s been broken. But that’s the extent of what I can control. I worry about being separated from the rest of his life, and that he’s keeping me away for a reason.

“I don’t know,” is the answer I give April, though.

She throws up her hands. “Why can’t you admit that you’re into this guy and call?”

“He hasn’t contacted me in almost two weeks.”

“Because you asked him not to.”

Now it’s my turn with the hand gestures. “Why are boys so complicated?”

“Because they have penises. Or peni. What is the plural of penis?” She’s trying to be funny, and most of the time it would work.

“You’re not helping.”

“Why don’t we go out tonight?” she suggests. “It’s Saturday! We’ll get dressed up and go dancing. You can cut loose and have one drink. I’ll have six or seven. We can flirt with dumb boys.”

“There’s a game on.”

This gets me another look. “It’ll be over by ten unless they go into overtime. Neither of us works tomorrow. You need something to take your mind off your boy problems, not feed into them.”

“And you think being rubbed on by random strangers is the answer to that?”

“It’s far better than waiting for a phone call you asked not to receive.”

She’s right, even though I hate to admit it. I still have that stupid picture on my phone. I know I need to delete the evidence, but I can’t bring myself to do it. And like an idiot I’ve checked that Natasha girl’s profile.

She’s been posting old pictures of her and Lance—not just the two of them, but her with the whole team, or shots of them all working out. It’s another reminder that I’m only on the fringe of his world, and makes me wonder all over again how much I can trust him, whether what he shows me about himself is real.

“I’ll think about it.” I tuck the sheets in and throw the heating pad on. My next client gets cold.

A brief knock is followed by Bernadette’s disembodied head appearing around the doorjamb. She rarely leaves the comfort of her desk, so it must be important.