The Distance Between Us

week ago someone warned me not to buy the blueberry muffins at Eddie’s, but I didn’t listen and bought them anyway. Now at odd hours I get these insatiable cravings.”
    I’m so relieved at who’s on the line that I let out a weird laugh/sigh combo then quickly clear my throat. “They’re laced with addictive substances.”
    “I believe you now.”
    I smile.
    “So are you going to let me in? It’s kind of cold out here. I’ll share.”
    My eyes dart to the door.
    “I think this muffin might even have your name on it. . . . Oh no, sorry, that’s my name.”
    “I . . .”
    “You wouldn’t want me to die of hypothermia, would you?” he says.
    “I don’t think it gets cold enough here for that.” I shuffle on my slipper-clad feet to unlock the door then hold it open for Xander.
    “Hi.” His voice echoes in the phone I’m still holding to my ear. I push the Off button.
    It’s been so long I had almost forgotten how good-looking . . . and rich he is. But it clings to him along with the cold air as he walks inside. I relock the door and turn to face him. He’s holding a brown Eddie’s bakery bag and two Styrofoam cups with lids on them. “Hot chocolate.” He lifts the cup in his right hand. “Or coffee.” He lifts the one in his left. “I only took a tiny sip out of each so it doesn’t matter to me.”
    Nice. Maybe Rich is a communicable disease. I point to his right hand. “Hot chocolate.”
    “I thought you might be a hot chocolate girl.”
    I take the hot chocolate from him and try not to register my shaking hand as I do so. That would imply his showing up out of the blue on my doorstep is tripping me out.
    My gaze travels the length of him. It irritates me that this early in the morning Xander can look so . . . awake. If I saw him in the middle of the night with bedhead and sleepy eyes, would he still look so perfect?
    “Your stare can make a guy insecure.”
    “I’m not staring. I’m observing.”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “The intent of observation is to gain data and form a theory or conclusion.”
    He tilts his head. “And what theory have you formed?”
    That you’re at least one step removed from normal. A chunky black ring on his pinky finger knocks against a rocking chair as he turns to glance around the dark store. I raise my eyebrows. Maybe two steps. “That you’re a morning person.”
    He holds his arms out to the sides as if to say, You caught me . “I’ve made an observation as well.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You have very wet hair.”
    Oh. That’s right. “Yeah, well, you gave me no warning. I don’t wake up looking perfect.” Like some people.
    A realization comes over his face and I wait for him to express it. He looks over his shoulder toward the back. “Do you live here?”
    “Yeah, there’s an apartment upstairs.” Now I’m confused. “So if you didn’t know I lived here, why did you knock on the door before opening?”
    “Because I assumed you had to come in early to get everything ready to open.”
    “This is where proper amounts of observation would’ve come in handy.”
    He laughs.
    “You have no idea how many nightmares a porcelain-doll store can fuel. I have been murdered in a variety of ways by angelic-looking dolls over the years.”
    “That’s really . . . morbid.”
    I laugh. “So what are you doing here?”
    “I’m getting Eddie’s. Isn’t that obvious? And since you introduced me to the poison, I thought it only right that I share in the bounty.”
    “You like to look at the dolls, don’t you? You miss them when you’re away.”
    He offers one of his stingily given smiles. “Yes, I miss this place terribly when I’m away.”
    I set the phone on the counter, wrap both my hands around the warm cup, and lead the way toward the stockroom. He follows. I sit down on the old couch and put my feet up on the coffee table.
    He sets the Eddie’s bag and his coffee on the table by my feet, takes off his jacket, and sits down next to me. “So, Caymen . . .”
    “So, Xander . . .”
    “Like the islands.”
    “What?”
    “Your name. Caymen. Like the Cayman Islands. Is that your mom’s favorite place to visit or something?”
    “No, it’s her third favorite place. I have an older brother named Paris and an older sister named Sydney.”
    “Wow.” He opens the bag, takes out a muffin, and hands it to me. The top glistens with sprinkled sugar. “Really?”
    I gently unwrap it. “No.”
    “Wait, so you don’t