I shiver with a mixture of terror and delight. Alex never throws his hat into the ring for any venture unless he knows he’s going to win.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
SNOWDROP:
I make a fresh bid for your affection.
Tomorrow, then?” Morgan asks hopefully.
“I think I’ll be busy tomorrow.”
“What about the next day?”
“Uhh, I think I have something going on then, too.”
Poor Morgan is fighting a losing battle and doesn’t even know it, because Zelda’s evasive responses are keeping his hope alive. She wasn’t back in town for three seconds before he cornered her, firing off twenty questions a minute, urging her to go on his podcast and talk about the magic system in her series. Zelda is antisocial and hates talking about herself; she’s been very tight-lipped about her books these days. But she doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, so she’s decided that avoiding him is the best course of action. Morgan has been increasingly persistent.
“Step-lover,” Trevor trills, heading my way with a small package. “You’ve got mail.”
“Thanks, and stop calling me that.”
“We also got more packages meant for other people. Why does everybody’s mail end up here? I accidentally opened anenvelope with a HitClip of Shaggy’s “Angel” in it. Old-school! Not gonna lie, I’m keeping that one.” He shows off the HitClip attached to his belt loop.
After Luna lectures Trevor on why he can’t keep other people’s mail, her nose is instantly in my business. I try to open the package with my hands, but she gets impatient, procuring a box cutter. Inside are two men’s shirts: one a jade cotton, the other charcoal, with white lettering:MITCHELL HABNEY ROOFING LLC.
“Sweetie, where’d you order these from?” She pokes the peeling letters. “They’re used.”
“Alex’s?” Zelda guesses, popping up at my left. “Why is that gorgeous glass of excellently aged wine sending you used T-shirts instead of making dirty, dirty love to you right now?”
“I have no clue.” I hold one of them against me. Shaking it out releases the smell of his fabric softener, tropical and delicious. I am abruptly devoured by homesickness for Alex. He left Moonville on Monday, and now it’s Friday. All week, I have mostly been doing fine. Mostly. I’ve only thought about him every other minute, wondering what he’s doing, if he’s thinking of me. Being in a relationship with him scares me down to my bones, butnotbeing with him is an equally scary prospect. It’s an emotional cocktail that’s hard to swallow.
I bury my nose in his clothes and breathe. “Mmm.”
Trevor backs away slowly.
“A wise move,” Luna muses. “Plant the seed of love on the Flower Moon with a gift, and your heart’s desire will blossom with the Strawberry Moon.” I freeze. May’s full moon, which will rise tonight, is called the Flower Moon. It holds personal significance for me. For obvious reasons.
“There’s no way he did this purposefully to coincide with one of Moonville’s bizarro sayings.” Zelda laughs. “That boy’s sensible. He doesn’t pay any attention to love magic.”
Despite Alex’s “I’m coming for you” declaration, Saturday passes without a word from him, and then Sunday, and Monday. The rest of the following week crawls by. I am beginning to miss him to a degree that is both surprising to me and also embarrassing: I have, for the first time since the summer after our breakup, googled him, and Sharon from Ingham had a LOT to say about (1) what a great job he did putting on her new shingles, and (2) how she hopes a storm will destroy her roof again so that she can have him, and his blue jeans, back in her life.
Me, too, Sharon. Me, too.
I’ve now degenerated to the point where I’m watching YouTube videos of birdcalls, familiarizing myself with the sounds that interest him. It’s patently unfair that I can’t whistle. But did you know that sunflowers attract northern cardinals and black-capped chickadees? I spend half of my waking hours cursing the existence of bugs, but this research presents them in a fresh light: insectivorous birds love to eat the bugs that prey on flowers like goldenrod and purple coneflower. I may hate the bugs, but they bring the birds that Alex loves.
In the middle of the month, he finally texts me. He sends a picture from up on a rooftop, a landscape of blurry houses and blob trees.Look at this view. Not as pretty as you, though.
And that, I kid you not, is literally all he says. I ask him how he is, what he’s been up to, but I get nada. Maybe he isn’t a big texter. Or caller.
On the twenty-fifth, I’m out for a jog (I am expelling my frustrations through exercise). When I pass a random manwearing a Buckeyes hat, I get so agitated that I whip out my phone and text Alex again.
Romina:You are being mysterious and infuriating and I have had it!
Alex:Not yet, you haven’t.
Romina:I thought you pursuing me would involve a lot more pursuit.
Alex:I am pursuing you very hotly behind the scenes. Ducks in a row, et cetera.
