I sweep two crystal flutes from the cupboard and fill them to the brim. Maybe she fell asleep? Her residency at the hospitalhasbeen kicking her trash lately, and a spurt of guilt fills me at the thought of waking her up.
Two glasses in hand, I tiptoe to her bedroom door and nudge itopen with my hip. Her unoccupied bed is flawlessly made. I frown. It’s Monday. She never stays at Cams on these nights since her hospital shift starts early on Tuesdays.
I circle back to the living room, set the full glasses down on the coffee table beside her book, and text her.
Kate: Where you at, Liza Guyza?
Liza: Forgot to tell you I decided to stay at Cam’s. Love you!
The plush cushions give way as I sink onto the couch. Disappointment settles over my enthusiasm like a wet blanket.
I pluck both glasses of Prosecco off the driftwood coffee table and take turns sipping out of each of them. Crossing my ankles on the table, I accidentally knock Liza’s book onto the floor. I glance down at the cover. A bare-chested man holds a swooning damsel in clear distress while a basket of apples dangles precariously from her hand.
I scoop it up. “The Blacksmith and The Orchardess?”
Orchardess?Really?I don’t think that’s even a word. What, are romance writers running out of material these days? Another long bubbling sip tickles my tongue, but this time out of Liza’s glass.
Of course she didn’t take her book—she’slivinga live-action romance right now.
I take another lengthy sip.
But I don’t think Cameron The Finance Guy is also secretly a blacksmith. And he’s not nearly as ripped as this sweaty cover model. I eye the man’s muscles as I tip Liza’s glass and finish it off. You know whodoeshave abs like these?
Brandon.
I glower at the stupid book, realizing my incredibly successful day is in danger of ending with backsliding thoughts of Brandon freaking Roberts. If that doesn’t depress me, I don’t know what will.
A lonely silence presses against my ears, and I wander around the condo, sipping and shuffling, shuffling and sipping. Is this what it will be like once Liza’s moved out? Just me and the beige-colored walls to tell about my day? The finality of that massive diamond on her finger has changed everything.
My head grows fuzzy and warm as I ignore the groceries on thecounter and shuffle back to the couch. Sadness hangs heavy in the air, like it also knows Liza won’t be coming home. A tear escapes without my permission, and soon, I’m bawling.
I don’t feel like a fierce boss woman anymore.
I fall, timber-log style, onto the indigo throw pillows that Liza picked out last month. I cry into them for a long while until my blurry eyes snag on Liza’s dumb book again. I snatch it off the table.
What would it be like to find my own big-bicepped blacksmith? Would I evenwantto be his orchardess? Maybe he would wait for me to get home, and I’d tellhimabout Amantha’s exhibition plans instead of talking to the walls.
And then we’d pick apples or something?
I’m not quite sure what an orchardess does besides swoon with an impressive amount of cleavage.
My thoughts aren’t making sense anymore, and my tears only flow faster. The champagne glasses are soon empty, my heart turns heavy, and a headache begins to soak into my temples.
I was never great at being without Liza, even as a child. Especially if it meant I was one on one with my parents. She always made me feel safer somehow, even though my parents rarely disagreed with her aboutanything.
I don’t bother lifting my head from my snotty pillow to swipe my phone off the coffee table. Maybe Amantha is still in the city and hasn’t returned to the suburbs yet? I check the time. Unlikely. She and Val are probably back home with Anthony. Maybe Susan is visiting, too. I think of them all around Amantha’s worn dining table, and the lonely ache only intensifies.
Iwantmy big-bicepped blacksmith.
Now.
Opening my phone, I skim my contacts for someone who might be free tonight.
Someone who just might have identical abs to the blacksmith.
Although it’s a bad idea in the making, I find myself searching for Brandon’s number. Maybe just talking to him will make this night not feel so lonely? It’s not like I’d ask him to come over or anything. My head feels woozy, and I have an inkling I’m not thinking straight.
But after a minute of searching, I still can’t find Brandon’s number.Maybe I renamed him something after we broke up? I do that sometimes. My soggy brain is making it hard to remember.
