Casey reaches for the remote. “Want to watch the new episode ofSurvivor?”
“Sure.” I glance toward Casey’s kitchen. She has a whiteboard calendar stuck to the door, and the fourteenth is circled. The day we’re supposed to return to the lake house and pick up where we left off. My stomach twists in knots at the thought. I’d love to pick back up, but not like this.
I want more.
Chapter Nine
It’s been days since I’ve thought about Nina. I’m not keeping track. It only hits me while buying apples at the grocery store. My hands instinctively reach for McIntosh when I freeze and remember I don’t need to buy any of those nasty ass tart abominations anymore. They were Nina’s favorite, and I never had the heart to correct her when she assumed they were mine too. So for years I stocked my fridge with apples I didn’t even like, while ignoring my favorite kind so Nina wouldn’t realize we didn’t have the same favorite.
My second first date post Nina was with this really cool chick named Michele. I almost bailed, afraid of another terrible experience, but I’m glad I didn’t. Michele is a therapist, and I was kind of rude when she first told me. I grew up believing therapy is a scam. My mom is convinced all of our problems can be solved through prayer, and if prayer isn’t working, it’s our fault since God never fails us. My mom thinks therapists charge for what you can get through fellowship. Why talk to a therapist when you can talk to your sisters in Christ at your weekly Bible study for free?
Logically, I know this isn’t true, but it’s taking a lot of time to unpack everything I had shoved down my throat for two decades. And so I’m thankful that Michele is full of empathy and kindness and answered all my questions without judgment. By the end of the night, we definitely weren’t planning a second date, but she referred me to a therapist I started seeing weekly. I cry in every single session, but I think that’s a good thing. She’s helping me see what Casey has been saying for months: the relationship with Nina was toxic as fuck.
So while standing in the middle of the produce section of Meijers, I whip my phone out and block Nina on Instagram. Emotion wells in my throat and my vision is blurry, but I did it. I may have lost myself in Nina, but I’m officially ready to move forward.
I’m not the godly woman my parents raised me to be.
I’m not the shell of myself that absorbed all of Nina’s likes and dislikes.
I’m not sure who I am, but I’m excited to have the space to figure it out.
And with that, I grab a bag of Honeycrisp apples from the shelf and I don’t look back.
Casey’s work deadline is fast approaching, and she’s been going nonstop. It’s not often this happens, but when it does I worry about her. She gets so hyper focused, she neglects everything else. She’s accidentally killed house plants because she doesn’t remember to water them. And she forgets to eat. She consists of coffee and coffee alone.
So I’m bringing her dinner.
She’s camped out on a barstool, clicking away on herwireless mouse. Her tawny blonde hair is unkempt and falling out of her messy bun. There’s a mug and two different to-go coffee cups next to her. She’s wearing headphones, so I wave my hand to get her attention.
“Dakota!” Casey startles, almost falling backwards off the barstool. She catches herself and clutches her hand to her chest. “Oh, my god! You scared the shit out of me. What’re you doing here?”
“I brought sustenance.” I hold up the take-out bag from our favorite burger place.
“I’m not hungry.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“Lunch,” Casey says confidently.
“Today?”
Casey hesitates.
“Exactly.”
Her stomach audibly grumbles as if I need any further evidence. Casey grins sheepishly. “Okay, maybe I could have a couple bites.”
“Bet your ass you can,” I say. “Here.” I hold out a water bottle for her. “Drink.”
“Bossy,” Casey grumbles, but she takes the bottle and gulps down half of it.
I clear space for her, tossing out her empty cups and moving her mugs into the overflowing sink. Casey tears into her cheeseburger, a glop of ketchup plopping down onto her French fries. She shoves them into her mouth as well, and I smile. Even stuffing her face, she’s adorable.
I unload her dishwasher and begin reloading it as Casey says, “You don’t need to do that.”
“I know.” I grab a Cascade dishwasher pod and start the cycle. I wipe down the counters and begin unloading theMeijers bag full of Casey’s favorite snacks—some nutritious and others just plain delicious.
“Dakota, seriously,” Casey complains. She wipes her hands off on a napkin and tosses it into her empty take-out box. “Stop. You’re making me feel bad.”
