“Really?” Stella says, cocking a delicate brow. “I had no idea you were such a firm supporter of flat earthers.”
Shit. I’m caught. I don’t even try to refute it. I just sigh and sink further into the bench seat. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
The spicy scents of capicola and salami wafting off my untouched Italian sub are beginning to make me gag. I shove the sandwich across the table toward Stella, rest my forearms on the tabletop and try my best to give her my full attention.
She sighs. “I was just complaining about Jacob and Emma again. Same old, same old.” I give my friend a sympathetic look. For all my problems with Ryan, at least I’m not forced to watch him with another girl. That’s got to be its own special kind of torture. Stella takes my sub and starts wrapping it back up. “Are you going to tell me what’s eating you, or am I going to have to guess?”
“I’m probably overreacting,” I say, eyes trained on the hangnail I’m picking, so I don’t have to meet Stella’s gaze.
Stella sets the wrapped sub aside and picks up the sloppiest Ruben I’ve ever seen. “Alright. Well, why don’t you tell me what it is, and I’ll tell you if you’re overreacting.” She takes a massive bite of her sandwich, and I watch as half of it spills out onto her plate. “Oops,” she deadpans.
I can’t help but smile a little. It’s not so much that I mind Stella knowing what’s bothering me. I just really don’t want to talk about it. Maybe because it’ll make it too real? I don’t know. Lost in my thoughts, I don’t even realize I’m chewing the inside of my cheek until I’m hit with a flash of pain and the coppery taste of blood.
And now, I’m committing self-mutilation. Fabulous.
I quickly release the bit of flesh and soothe it with my tongue. “Ryan and I were supposed to go out last night, but he canceled last minute. He said he’d call, but he never did, and now I’m worried I did something wrong.”
“Why do you think you did something?”
“I don’t know. It just feels like something is off.” I take out my phone and open my texts to Ryan’s number. Holding the phone out to her, I say, “This was the last text he sent me. I waited over an hour between each of those later texts. He never takes that long to write me back. I’ve just got a bad feeling.”
Stella wipes her greasy fingers on a napkin and takes the proffered phone. Her lips press into a thin, white line as she reads our conversation. She scrolls through our other texts, her brows drawing closer and closer together as she reads. “It does seem a little odd. But it’s possible he just got busy with whatever was going on. Why don’t you try texting him again and see how he responds?”
I’m biting the inside of my cheek again. “What do I say?”
“Go with the truth,” she says through a mouthful of sauerkraut and pastrami. She chews and swallows before continuing. “Say you hadn’t heard from him and ask how he’s doing. I bet he just got caught up in some family issue and forgot to call.”
I don’t actually believe her, but I take back my phone and text him, anyway.
Me:Hey. Haven’t heard from you. Everything okay?
I set the phone down between us on the table and clasp my hands together. Stella continues stuffing her face and making an enormous mess—the girl must have used twenty napkins—while I watch my phone like it’s a snake ready to strike. We’re only watching a few minutes before the talk bubble pops up on the screen to show he’s replying.
“See. That didn’t take too long,” Stella says.
I nod. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m worrying about nothing.
The bubble disappears and we lock eyes.
“Stop reading into it,” Stella says.
I blow out a breath and sit up straight. It’s fine. He’s just taking his time to say the perfect thing. The bubble comes back up but almost immediately disappears again, and I wilt back into my seat.
It pops up again and I’m about to start spewing every curse word in my very extensive vocabulary when a message finally comes through.
Ryan:Yes.
All that writing and I get a single-word answer. I toss my napkin down on the table. “Well, that answers that.”
I start to slide out of my seat, but Stella grabs me by the wrist to stop me. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
I purse my lips and give her a hard stare.
“Okay. I admit, it doesn’t look great, but running off to confront him probably isn’t the best way to go. Let’s think this out, logically.”
I tug my wrist free and get to my feet. “Screw logic. If he doesn’t want to see me anymore, he needs to stop being a giant puss and tell me to my face.” I grab my purse and phone, spin around and head for the door.
This is a terrible idea. Actually, this might be at the top of my list of terrible ideas—and that list is long and varied. Like the time I told Claudia Santa kept her presents hidden on the roof. Or when I found an old phone in our attic and thought it would work if I stuffed the exposed wires in an electrical socket. (Hey, I was four. Blame that on poor parental supervision.) Even worse than the time I decided to play-act smoking, while sitting on my bed, with a rolled-up napkin and lighter. Oh, and when I took the old MG my dad had been fixing up for a joyride, not knowing he hadn’t finished screwing on the muffler.
