The Cobbler Part III: He Did It for the Cookies

“Hey!” The Cobbler turned around with a huge grin, somewhat allaying my fears that there was a mall rumor going around that I was a stalker. The package of cookies in my purse felt suddenly heavier.

“So what’s the bad news you had to tell me?”

His smile was replaced by a look of comical forlornness. “Sadly, I have to leave you.”

“You what?” I was 100% confused because he was acting like he was telling his sweetheart he had been drafted and we seemed to have crossed over into one of my weird historical fantasies that I absolutely do not have a dozen times a day.

“I have to leave you. I got a new store in a different state that is bigger and is a big step up, but I’m sad to leave Oklahoma.”

OF COURSE. Of course the guy who seems to actually be into me and I’m actually into him is leaving for an entirely different state. But, my ever optimistic mind reminds me, the state he’s moving to actually borders Oklahoma, so a long-distance relationship is feasible. (This is desperation at its most potent.)

“Congratulations. That’s great. But who will I come to with shoe problems?”

“Don Pete will be the new store manager, and he is this awesome five foot nothing guy. All machismo and good style. You’ll like him.”

“Don Pete sounds like a pirate.”

“Yeah. I guess he does,” the Cobbler said wistfully.

“Well, I guess it’s fate.” He scrunched his face in confusion. “I brought you some goodies finally.”

“You did not!”

I pulled out the burgeoning bag of baked goods.

He reached for the bag like a little boy reaching for a Christmas present. “What is it? Scones?”

“No. Actually. I brought a scone by last night after my shift but I sat on it. Ha. Ha.” My face turned completely red. My mouth had started talking without my permission. Oh jeez. Oh jeez. Oh jeez.

“They’re my chockablock chockfull chocolate chip cookies.”

“So they’re not from the bakery?”

“No. My recipe. Welp! Hope you enjoy them.” I started walking for the door.

“Where are you going? I have to critique your baking skills.”

“Really? You think I can’t deliver?”

“I’m not so sure. I think a professional should stay and hear her taster’s opinion though.”

He opened the bag finally. “Oh my gosh! There are like a million. This is a haul!”

“Yeah, you’ll have to share with your buddy. Heheh.”

“Oh I will.”

Why won’t he just take a bite so I can get out of there? 1) He’s moving out of town, so even though long-distance is plausible, I HATE long distance, so no thank you. 2) Something in his face when I handed him the cookies was too surprised, which reminded me of 3) What in the world had Not Irish Boy meant by “Look who’s here”? I had to get out of Dodge.

I edged for the door as he took a bite. He pinned me in place with his eyes before closing them in apparent ecstasy. Wordlessly he held the bag out toward Not Irish Boy, who took a cookie and unleashed an unabashedly loud moan. “These are good!”

“Glad you like them! Welp! Better be going.”

“Hold on. I haven’t told you what I think yet.” I turned at the door. He waited for me to walk all the way to where he stood at the back. Seriously. What was going on here?

“These…are a delight. Seriously, I am so sad to be leaving you. You’re the best. Is there another one of you? A sister? A cousin? A twin?! Do you have a twin who lives where I’m moving?”

I searched his face. Was he flirting? This seemed like super flirting. Flirting on steroids. But what would I know? “Nope. I’m pretty much one of a kind…”

I edged back toward the door, and he followed, continuing to pop cookies in his mouth.

“That is too bad. You’re the best customer I’ve ever had. I don’t think there will be customers like you where I’m moving. Mmm! It’s just too bad I have to leave.” He popped another one into his mouth.

At his point I had been trying to leave for a good 8-10 minutes. It had been obvious that I’d been trying to leave, and he had purposefully kept talking to keep me there. He had seemed to be flirting heavily, but then again, he had just called me a customer, which was like a knife to the heart. So I decided to just suck it up and go for it. No regrets.

“It is too bad. When do you leave?”

“Today is actually my last day at work. I finish inventory, and then I have two weeks off to move.”

“Well, I’d really like to see you before you leave. You should swing by Bakery sometime and visit me where I work for once. I’ll get you that scone.”

Something in his face changed that caused my stomach to twist hard and my mouth to dry. Like something had just dawned on him.

“I haven’t even started packing yet, but yeah, if there’s time, we’ll drop by.”

“Okay. Thx. Bai.” And I was out of there like a shot, dialing Sprinkle as I speed walked back to my car. I told her everything, ending with, “WE?! Who the hell is we?” This time I had remembered his name—first and last. Dick Sprinkle was on the case.

She called me a few hours later to tell me her findings: he was married with a kid, loved classic cars, and went hunting and fishing for fun. So, dodged a bullet on that one. I would never under any circumstances date someone who liked classic cars.

Thank God I hadn’t given him my number! Chip, if you’re reading this, you saved my bacon with your advice. The moral of the story is probably that if a guy really likes you, ladies and ladies, he’ll make it happen. You just have to make yourself available, and then know when to write him off for a lost cause. Also, don’t have a mall crush. Also, men will use you for your baking prowess. There were  a lot of lessons, I guess.