“Yep. Soup’s a little hot. Sure. That’s fine.” It comes out squeakier than I intended, and I fake a cough to clear my throat while I clean up my mess with a paper towel. Then I take an ice pack out of the freezer and cradle it in my elbow while I pick up my bowl again. Apparently, Shelley and I are having a sleepover in my apartment. “I’m going to eat in my room. I’m tired.”
Mike nods as he wrestles with another box. “Okay. I’m going to head over to Danielle’s with some of these boxes. Or I guess I should call it our house now. See you later.”
“Right. I’ll see you on the fishing trip, if I don’t catch you before then.” We have his bachelor party coming up in a few days. I take my soup to the safety of my room before I say too much.
As I settle into bed with my dinner, my phone pings with a new message. My stomach does a little nervous flip, half-expecting to see Shelley’s name, but it’s from my high school coach. He and his wife, Ruth, like to visit North Bay once a year to watch me play.
Coach Carver:Can you send me those dates?
I attach a photo of our team’s schedule for the season.
Me:Here you go. Looking forward to your visit. Say hi to Ms. Ruth. Tell her I miss her oatmeal cookies. Think she’ll bring me a batch?
Coach Carver:Make your own damn cookies.
I smile because embracing the grouchy grandpa vibe is the old man’s love language. We both know Ms. Ruth will bring me three dozen oatmeal cookies. She always does. The Carvers are nothing if not predictable. They’re steady, reliable folks. The only ones I’ve got, outside of Mike and his parents. Even if the Jordan Wagner fan club is small, having the Carvers in my life means at least once a year there are people in the stands rooting for me.
Me:Love you, too, Coach.
Chapter 4
Shelley
"Hahaha! I can’t breathe.” Madison’s wheezing laughter comes through my earbuds as I arrive at the grocery store. The weather is supposed to turn nasty soon, and I want to stock up before the storms come through. I thought talking to my sister would make this shopping trip more pleasant, and it does, her current laughing fit at my expense notwithstanding. But there is so much on my to-do list for today, I’m feeling frazzled, and I know I’ll never get to it all. I never do, even though I always seem to be juggling at least two or three things at once.
Mads is practically hyperventilating. “Mikey’s making you ride all the way from D.C. to North Bay with Jordan? I bet you’re going to prep for this like a deposition, aren’t you?”
“Feels more like prepping for a colonoscopy at this point, if I’m being honest.”
“Nervous diarrhea?”
“I plead the Fifth.”
“You know you’re thinking of a list of interview questions for him as we speak.” My sister snorts into the phone. “Are you taking a tape recorder? Oh my god, please secretly leave your phone on and let me listen. I’ll be so quiet. He’ll never know I’m there.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And yet you love me.”
“You know what I don’t love?” I try to turn the conversation away from Jordan. “That toy you recommended. Total flop.”
“Dang. I was reallypullingfor that one. Get it?”
“Ew.” My siblings love their stupid puns, but I don’t have the patience for any more jokes about this. Especially bad ones. “How’s Mandy doing?” I change the subject again.
“Fine. She’s loving this for you almost as much as I am.”
I should’ve known better than to tell my sisters about the voice memo fiasco. And what was I thinking asking Jordan if I could approach him with more questions? First, I sent him that message out of the blue, then I snapped at him for trying to comfort me, and then I had the gall to ask him to talk to me about it some more? All of it was beyond inappropriate, and I’ve been slowly dying of mortification every day since.
Not to be dramatic, but I swear I can feel my insides eroding as the embarrassment deteriorates my esophagus from within. I wish I could blame it on my impulsivity, but I’m pretty sure that whole situation was just Shelley Miller being Shelley Miller.
Jordan and I haven’t spoken sinceThe Incident, which has done nothing but force the scenario to replay approximately ten million times in my head so I can fixate on all the places where I went wrong. And now Mike wants me to share a night in his old apartment with his best man? Alone. By ourselves. With no one else. Which is whatalonemeans.
“Stop ruminating,” my sister says since I’ve gone quiet. “It was one accidental message. He probably hasn’t even thought about it.”
I grab a cart from the corral, dropping the empty fruit tray I need to return into the carriage, and push it through the automatic doors. “Ugh. That might be worse.”
I don’t know why. On paper, Jordan not caring at all seems like the best possible outcome. We would never need to discuss it again, and my embarrassment could slowly fade away with time. It’s not like I see him very often. But for reasons I can’t explain, I hate the idea of something affecting so much of my life meaning nothing to Jordan. I don’t want to be forgettable. Especially to him.
