That crappy clench in my stomach forms again. “What happened?”
“The little house you were interested in already has an offer. They offered full price and agreed to waive the inspection so the sellers took it.”
My mouth falls open, distraught. “But I thought they said they’d give me and a week to get the paperwork?”
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. You didn’t draw up the paperwork yet, and you didn’t put any earnest money down to secure the spot.”
“So that’s it, then?”
A horn honks and I wonder where in the hell the realtor could be standing. There’s never been this much traffic in Pelican Bay. “There are lots of fish in the sea, sweetheart. Every day someone lists a new house. We’ll find you something. I’ve got to go. I have a showing but wanted to make sure you heard so we could resume the search. Your house is still out there.”
The two of us share a quick goodbye and I hang up the phone, taking a minute to myself staring at my empty plate. I love my realtor, she’s not much older than me and super chipper. She’s a girl who was definitely a cheerleader in high school, but she’s been around the block. She didn’t love the house I wanted to buy. It’s easy for her to say there are lots of other houses in the sea, but we both realize that’s not necessarily true. Few houses come available in Pelican Bay and even fewer of them are in my price range. It could be months or even years before something else comes on the market. If I want to get Emma and me out of this apartment, we must look for something away from the cute little downtown area I fell in love with during my first drive-through so many months ago.
“Bad news?” Nate asks, sitting on the floor playing with Emma and her blocks.
I don’t turn in his direction, worried if I do I’ll lose the tight grip on my emotions. Forced to hold it together for so long already, I refuse to get upset about this. I’m not going to cry over it again.
“Yes, but I don’t want to talk about it. Can you bring me a lot of Oreos, please?”
He stands and I don’t have the heart to tell him the package he hid on the top shelf in the kitchen is gone. Fingers crossed he has other boxes stashed in the small apartment. “Can you get a glass of milk, too?” They’re better dunked.
“Sure, Josie.”
I’m eating the whole box so I can get fat and I can be on one of those shows the TLC channel runs. Where people are addicted to eating weird things. They could call me the Oreo girl. They’d probably give me a free package.
“Here’s your cuppa tea.Dipped not saturated to make the weakest tea I’ve ever seen,” Nate says, passing over the large mug of light brown water. It took him a few days, but I taught him how to make the perfect cup of tea. I don’t drink coffee, so it’s my only go-to in the mornings.
I take a sip and let the warm water soothe my throat. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
He smiles at the compliment. “You seem happier today. Feeling better?”
I take stock of my ankle and realize he’s right. My spirits are higher. I no longer want to earn a free package of Oreos for being highlighted on TLC, so that’s a plus. “Yup, I haven’t even had a pain pill today. Before you know I’ll be up and walking around all on my own.”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of yourself. You don’t want to get back to normal activity too soon. It could re-aggravate the injury.”
“Right. I didn’t mean I was excited to do stuff. Just that I could.” Ever since Nate’s admission yesterday regarding the grocery store and his truck, things have been awkward. I’m not sure what to do. I don’t have experience in this game. Do I tell him I like him too? That seems like the easy approach, but I didn’t do it after our conversation yesterday and now the time for declarations has passed. His went by unanswered, making me a heel. The only way to tell him now is if I shouted it out randomly in the middle of a conversation. And considering the man has seen me cry, cleaned up toilet water from Emma, and searched through my underwear drawer to help me pick out clothes, he’s seen me make a fool of myself enough for one lifetime.
I have to work it into a random conversation. The problem is that I’m the least smooth person you’ve ever met. I’m a highway the state hasn’t paved since the Reagan years — full of bumps and potholes large enough to swallow a bus when you aren’t paying attention.
“Have you heard from your office?”
I shake my head. “No, I left another message, but no one called back.” I can fill out my time off paperwork online and I’m not in a super rush since I don’t qualify for anything yet, but I’d be happier if I talked to someone. Maybe Nate will drive me over there in a couple of days. Let me get out of the house and smell fresh air.
In reality I should be ready to go back to work in a few days. I’m getting around with my crutches much better and as long as I keep my foot propped up during the day, I’ll be okay. There’s been no major swelling today. My bruises went from blackish to a weird green hue. I’m down to just using Advil as a pain pill. But I’m also in no rush because I fear that going working again means an end to having Nate around as often. If I’m able to work, why would he need to be here assisting me?
Watching the towering man was his tight T-shirts and his big open smile care for Emma are images I hope I’ve seared into my brain. He’s so gentle with her. And me.
Yesterday, while eating dinner, she managed to get pizza sauce up her nose. I’ve been around the block once or twice, so I did my best to wipe it out and let it go. Not Nate, though. He took the time to make sure she was clean, letting her splash around in the bath for a good twenty minutes and then afterward cleaned up the gallon of water she’d sloshed onto the floor. Not once did he get mad or raise his voice—all things I’m guilty of doing at least once a day.
“Here she is,” Nate sing-songs as he walks out of the hallway with Emma. She follows with her cute little wobbly walk a few steps behind.
At first I don’t notice, but eventually I look up. That’s when I spot the hair. Nate has mastered the top of the head ponytail and even managed to get pigtails almost in line, but everything else is way above his skill level. This morning he’s attempted a braid, but only about a quarter of the hair had gotten in. The rest of her thin blonde tresses blow in the breeze created with her speed demon steps. Worse than the hair may be the outfit. Her afternoon attire consists of her adorable pink dress with a lacy bottom meant only for special occasions matched with a pair of fuchsia purple socks—the pair I keep meaning to throw away because there’s a hole in the heel.
I cringe. Thankfully we aren’t going in public today, but I appreciate his help nonetheless.
“Look, mama. Stocks,” Emma says pointing to her socks, losing her balance and tumbling back on her butt.
“You look so beautiful.” I clap my hands together once and wait until she runs over to where I sit on the couch.
