That wasn’t healthy.
At the click of a door opening, she set her phone down as Scarlett stepped into the kitchen.
She wore a pretty red blouse with black slacks. It was nothing like how she usually dressed.
Clara straightened. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” Scarlett said as she opened the fridge door.
“Got a date?”
“No. Just hanging out with some people from the running club.”
Clara frowned. “Who?”
“Malcolm. Deb. A few others.” She lifted out a plate of brownies that she’d made earlier and started placing them into a container.
Clara had been wondering why Scarlett made them. It was the first time she’d baked since moving in.
Should Clara be offended that she wasn’t invited to this little catch-up? She felt like she should be offended. And hanging out with people and eating brownies sounded a heck of a lot better than stewing at home about the Holden stuff.
Clara cleared her throat. “You know, I have no plans tonight. I could—”
“Sorry, Clara. If it was at a public venue, I’d invite you, but it’s at Deb’s house.” Scarlett popped another few brownies into the container before putting the plate back in the fridge. “I’ll see you later.”
Then she left. Just walked out. God, this was the same as high school when everyone she hung out with got invited to a party and she didn’t.
Now she really was offended.
Maybe that wasn’t rational. Scarlett wasn’t her friend, just a roommate. And sure, Clara saw everyone from the running club a couple times a week, but they weren’t really friends, either.
She shouldn’t be offended. She wasn’t. Absolutely not…well, kind of not.
What shewas,was hungry. And if Scarlett wasn’t going to invite her to their little hangout, well, she could at least share her brownies.
She opened the fridge door, spotting the two remaining brownies on the plate.
They had her name on them.
And you know what? She didn’t drink often, but a vodka seltzer would go great with the brownies. Yes, those were Scarlett’s too, but right now, Clara didn’t care.
She grabbed the brownies and drink from the fridge and took them to the living room.
Maybe it was time to look for a new roommate. She really hadn’t wanted to, in case the new person was loud or messy or intrusive, but after the whole “are you investigating the hospital” conversation, she wasn’t as willing to have the other woman in her life.
She flicked through Netflix. Nothing. There was nothing that she hadn’t seen before that looked good.
Screw it. She was watchingNotting Hill.She’d watched it a gazillion times and could probably recite the film scene by scene, but it was a comfort.
The second it was on, she grabbed a brownie and drink and leaned back on the couch.
How many times had she watched this movie while going through chemo? So many times she’d lost count. Usually, it helped the world make sense again. But today? Today she was distracted.
She was halfway through the movie, two thirds of her way through her vodka seltzer and one and a half brownies down, when her phone vibrated with another text.
She reached for the phone on the coffee table—only to almost tip right off the sofa.
She froze, and suddenly the room swayed.
