Evelyn

Chapter 22 - The Great British Baking Shit Show

Chapter Song: The Pool by Stephen Sanchez

Michael
God, I love her.

I love her so much I can't even articulate it. Love is far too small of a word to convey all that I feel for her. I know it's cheesy and an unoriginal, cliche like thing to say, but it's true. When I imagine myself happy, she's there. She's always there. In my thoughts, my dreams, my future, it's all her.

It's all Evelyn.

What else can I say about her other than she's the feeling of listening to my favorite song?

It's so stupid. It's so fucking stupid that this is happening to me. I was just fine with my black coffee and 'lifeless apartment.' But no, she had to come and ruin it all. She had to smile and laugh and be the most incredible person I've ever met.

If I'm being completely honest, I wasn't fully watching the movie tonight; all I could see was her. She looked as beautiful as she always does, but she was radiant tonight. The light in her eyes is bright enough to illuminate my entire life, leaving me in a haze of bliss day in and day out.

If I could give her just a fraction of the joy she makes me feel every day, then I'll be one step closer to deserving her. She deserves the world every day, but I want to see if I can make the world seem a little bit more beautiful today.

When we first arrived, I could see it on her face how much she loved the movie theater, and that wasn't even the best part of what I have planned.

~~~

"I hate surprises."

"No, you don't."

"Again with the gaslighting."

"I'm not," I said defensively, (minorly) panicking. "I know you told me once that you love surprises because-"

"Michael," Evelyn interrupted. "I know. I'm just kidding."

"Yeah, yeah," I grunted as she laughed.

I had a blindfold over her eyes and led her into a small bakery. It took time, begging, and three of my paychecks to afford but I was able to pull it off.

Honestly, if Ev doesn't like this I don't know what I'll do. Maybe I'll die.

"Okay, open your eyes."

Evelyn removed the blindfold and her jaw dropped. The whole room had been decorated like the tent from the Great British Baking Show. There were little British flags, cute aprons, and bowls full of everything needed to give you diabetes.

Are the calories worth it? Absolutely.

Is the look on her face making it extra worth it? Fucking yes.

"You did this?"

I nodded.

Her eyes watered, "For me?"

"No, for your evil twin."

She laughed through tears, "Oh shut up. What are we baking?"

"Tiramisu."

"Shut the fuck up. You did not find a recipe for tiramisu."

"I did."

"Oh my God!" She yelled, hugging me. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

"It was no problem, really."

Lie.

"You liar," she smiled. Shit, she's good. Maybe she's getting too good at reading me. Or she's psychic. I say that last option is very valid.