I slam the door shut.
The next day, I’m on the phone, trying to sort out the issue with the flooring, when a knock sounds at the door. Balancing the phone against my ear with one hand, I reach out with the other and pull it open, revealing Missy’s beaming face.
“I brought food,” she says, lifting a bag that looks like it’s bursting with pastries.
I hold up a finger, motioning to the phone in my hand. She winces, whispers an apology and slips inside, immediately setting to work unpacking the pastries onto the counter.
On the phone, the man I’m speaking to barely lets me finish explaining what I need before cutting in. The moment he hears where I need the work done, he dismisses me outright, saying he can’t fit me in. When I ask if he knows of anyone else, he shuts me down quickly, before abruptly hanging up. I stare at my phone in disbelief, frustration bubbling up.
“Well, that went well,” I say to Missy. She comes over, wrapping me in a hug. “I just don’t get why no one’s willing to help,” I admit, my voice heavy with frustration.
Missy squeezes my arms reassuringly.
“We’ll figure it out,” she promises. Then her face brightens. “I had to grab some baking supplies for Mom at the store and thought I’d pick up extra, just in case you were up for doing a little baking. What do you say? Might cheer you up.”
I sigh, but nod.
“Yeah, okay, I guess that sounds fun. Thank you.”
The afternoon is spent baking with music flooding the space as we dance and sing along to classic pop songs. I managed to hook my phone up to the speakers, letting the beat pulse through the living room and the counters become covered in flour and cake mixture.
Missy suddenly swings around with a tray in her hands, accidentally knocking a bag of flour off the counter. The bag hits the floor with a dull thud, and a massive cloud of white dust explodes into the air around her.
As it settles, I double over laughing. Missy stands frozen, absolutely coated in flour, her entire face and body practically ghost white. Her expression is one of pure shock, tiny crease lines around her eyes where she’d squeezed them shut.
She glares at me, watching me dissolve into hysterics, then quickly places the tray of muffins into the oven before stomping over and shaking out her hair, dusting me in flour, too.
“Hey,” I yell, twisting away and running into the living area.
She chases after me, but we both freeze as Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper blasts over the speakers.
“Oh my God, I LOVE this song!” Missy shrieks, darting back to the kitchen to grab a wooden spoon.
She cranks the volume up, dancing wildly, belting the lyrics, bouncing on the sofa, and swinging her hips to the beat. Watching her carefree and happy is a breath of fresh air, but it tugs at something deep in my chest, a reminder of all the time I lost, retreating into myself because I chose to love the wrong man.
Missy must notice the shift in my expression, because she grabs my hands and pulls me onto the sofa. I huff a laugh, letting the moment take over, allowing myself to feel happy,trulyhappy, for the first time in too long.
When my sister was still here, we used to dance and sing like this, tucked away in our room, hiding from Dad when he was in one of his moods. The memory is bittersweet, warm because of her, yet tainted by the way we constantly had to avoid him.
I don’t know how long we stay like this, but somewhere in the middle of No Scrubs by TLC, and probably destroying the sofa springs, the music suddenly drops to a whisper.
Whipping my head around I see Ford on the other side of the room, his hand resting on the speaker’s volume button. There’s a smirk on his face.
“What are you doing?” Missy questions from behind me.
“I did knock,” Ford replies, crossing his arms, leaning against the wall.
His sleeves are rolled up, the muscles in his forearms looking … really good.
“But obviously you didn’t hear me over the racket you’re making in here. And the door was unlocked, so I let myself in, since you’re not answering your phone either.” He shifts his stance, crossing a muddy boot over the other.
Missy plants her hands on her hips.
“So, what do you want?”
Ford’s eyes move to mine.
“I actually came to see you,” he says. “The truck is just about finished. It’s ready for you if you want to come pick it up.”
