Candy Hearts: A Romantic Valentine’s Day Story, Page 2

trademark green Dollar World bag. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says and, before I can cluck again, even louder, whispers, “Or not.”

  I return to the car with my ridiculous gorilla.

  Rory can give it to his girlfriend, Brie or Mercedes or whatever the co-eds are calling themselves these days. It won’t entirely makeup for my hissy fit just before I left, but… who can resist a red gorilla?

  Still, I didn’t set out for romantic gifts. Business is business, and Valentine’s is big business. Sweetheart Scones are our biggest seller tonight, and we can’t have them without the actual sweet “hearts”. I grit my teeth, wheel back into date night traffic and hit every drug store, dollar store, convenience store and gas station in town.

  And still, I wind up driving back to the Cobblestone Center nearly an hour and a half later, empty-handed. Well, except for the gorilla.

  It’s nearly ten now, our shift almost over, the parking lot deserted, all the lovers gone home to play with lacy thongs and fuzzy handcuffs and those cheesy love dice I always wanted someone to give me.

  I sigh and stroll up toward the Snowflakes ‘N Scones, noting that several of the charming little topiaries in front of our café have fizzled out. I’ll have to tell Mr. Parks, the property manager, about it tomorrow.

  As I approach the door I reach for it, frowning at the heart-shaped “Closed” sign hanging eye level in the door.

  Where’d that come from? I wonder, reaching for my keys. And, sure, I know it’s close but I didn’t approve for Rory to close ten minutes early.

  I huff, opening the door and freeze, the handle in my hand, one foot on the tile. Twinkling white lights surround the bakery bar and dance around one lonely café table, pulled off to one side, nestled amidst the fake plants that corporate sent us to spruce up the joint for the New Year.

  A construction paper sign covers the old Sweetheart Scones placard and now says, “Café Cupid”. I snort and then sigh, a little miffed that Rory has closed shop early just to wine and dine his little girlfriend.

  “Rory!” I shout, tossing the Dollar World bag on the counter. “If you’re back there getting busy with Mercedes so help me God I’ll shove a cinnamon sprinkler so far up your—”

  He stumbles out of the back room, clumsily bearing a tray heaped with treats. Romantic treats, treats for a couple. I spot a green champagne bottle, little plastic champagne glasses, cheese cubes, sausage slices, fancy crackers, grapes… dude went all out.

  No wonder he always gets the campus hotties. “It’s Mia,” he grumbles, carrying the tray to the little table for two by the homemade Café Cupid sign. “And she broke up with me last week, remember?”

  I stand, one hand on the counter, blinking. “No… I, you told me that?”

  He looks up from under his shaggy brown bangs and says, “Yeah, about a dozen times.”

  “When? When did you tell me that?”

  He blushes, a hand on the back of the nearest chair. “Like, that one time you caught me crying in the walk-in cooler, and that other time you caught me weeping by the dumpster, and then again when you—”

  I hold up a hand, smiling. “Okay, okay, I… get it. Sorry, I guess I’ve been a little preoccupied this week.”

  “What do you think all this is for?” he smirks, sliding back the chair he’s been leaning on. “Welcome to Café Cupid, madam.”

  He bows and slides the chair out. “I… I don’t get it,” I say, awkwardly drifting toward him. “What is all this?”

  Our eyes meet and instead of looking away like he usually does Rory says, more confidently than usual, “I just… I thought you could use a little treat this Valentine’s Day, after all that’s happened with… you know… what’s his name.”

  I blush and slink into the seat, if only to avoid his eyes. “Oh my God,” I groan, head in hands atop the soft white tablecloth. “You must… you must think I’m so pathetic.”

  “Not at all,” he chuckles, sliding in across from me with a goofy grin. “I think we’re both pathetic, that’s why I decided we should spend Valentine’s Day together, dishing on our exes while the rest of the world, you know, does… Valentine’s… stuff.”

  I chuckle and blush, all at the same time. He pops the champagne, a cheap brand I often keep in the fridge myself. I wag a finger. “How did you buy this?” I ask him.

  He pauses, mid-pour, and looks dumbfounded. “Cara, I’m… twenty-two.”

  “Get out,” I say, slapping his hand and spilling a drib of champagne onto the table. “But you… when you applied before Christmas, you said you were a freshman.”

  He sits back down, pouring himself a glass, and nods.

  “Didn’t you even look at my age on the application I filled out?” he asks, hurt.

  I look away and admit, “Rory, honestly, I was just looking for a warm body at the moment. I must have checked, to make sure you were legal, but… beyond that…”

  “God,” he huffs, playfully crossing his arms over his shoulder, kindergarten tantrum style. “I feel so… used.”

  I ignore his antics and press, “You were saying… twenty-two year old freshman…?”

  He uncrosses his arms and fiddles with a plastic fork on the table before answering, “I… I had to take a little time off after high school while my Mom was still sick. After, well… after she passed, I worked a little more to save up for school. Now I’m here, just a little behind…”

  I shake my head. “I’m so sorry, Rory. I had no idea.”

  He shrugs, flashes that trademark smirk. “I don’t wear it on my sleeve, you know?”

  I nod, wishing I was better at these things, knew what to say. Then, nervously, I’m about to sip my champagne, when he stops me. “Don’t… don’t you want to toast, first?”

  “Oh, yes… of course.” I hold out my little plastic cup and our eyes meet once more, his a soft brown, open and earnest. It’s funny, to see him like this, as a… a man… and not just some kid running the register while I sit in the backroom penciling in the schedule for next week.

  “To bad exes,” he says, smirking, and taps my glass. But I pull it away, spilling a little, because I have something to add.

  “And to good surprises,” I say, watching him blush.

  I sip the cold, cheap champagne and it’s the best bubbly I’ve ever had, bar none. I eat the generic cheddar cheese cubes and they’re the best generic cheddar cheese cubes, like… ever. Same goes for the greasy salami and stale sesame crackers and slightly past their expiration date grapes.

  I stare at the white lights winking all around us and playfully nudge his ankle underneath the table. “Is this why half the topiaries out front are dark?”

  “Could be,” he says and, as my eyes take in all his little efforts while I was away, I spot a bottle of cinnamon candy hearts on the bakery counter.

  “Are those… what I think… those… are?”

  “Oh shoot,” he says, shaking his head absently, like he’s talking to himself. “I thought I got the last of those.”

  “Last of those?” I ask, bolting from my chair and rushing behind the counter. There, on a shelf next to the chocolate sprinkles and other scone toppings we normally keep on hand, is a whole case of cinnamon candy hearts.

  For the life of me, it wasn’t there before I left. I looked, a dozen times I looked!

  “Yeah,” he mumbles, scratching his bushy brown mop as I peek back over the countertop, scowling at him. “Funniest thing, the minute you left, I poked my head in the stock room and found a whole bunch of them, just sitting there, plain as day. I was going to text you, but… things got busy here and, well…”

  I nod, looking around the place. The twinkling lights, the snack platter and chilled champagne, the “Café Cupid” sign, the works. He didn’t just do this spur of the moment. Rory had been planning this, I dunno, for a day or two at least.

  I shake my head and lean against the counter, watching him there, crisp in his khaki slacks and snug green Snowflakes ‘N Scones uniform shi
rt. He watches me, watching him, until our eyes meet.

  “Why did you do all this, really?” I ask him, staying put.

  He shrugs. “I didn’t want you to spend Valentine’s Day alone,” he says.

  I nod. “That all?” I prod him, heart pounding slightly. I’ve never… I’ve never thought of Rory as anyone – anything – but a kid before. A kid in an apron, who made me chuckle during my shifts, and held the door open when we left after a long night shift together, but… nothing more.

  I mean, until just over a week ago there was Phillip. And before that there was Jake, and before Jake there was Chance and… well, they weren’t Rory.

  My boyfriends have always been… men. Suits, ties, salaries, leased BMWs, no parking tickets, short haircuts. The fact that none of them are still around to wish me Happy Valentine’s Day, that I’m still in Snowflake, South Carolina running some chain bakery for just above minimum wage, slowly dawns on me.

  Where have they all gone? What am I still doing here? And how did Rory… creep up on me… like this, all of a sudden?

  “I didn’t want to be alone,” he confesses, softly, pouring us more cheap champagne in the round plastic cups