The porch steps groan under my feet. I catch a glimpse of the once bright and colorful flower beds, now mostly crunchy and beige. I sigh, turning the key in the door and stepping inside.
I spent so much time making this placemine.Painting the walls sage green. Picking out deep brown furniture, then adding pops of yellow like sunshine I could rearrange. The bookshelves across from the fireplace are crammed full, sagging under the weight of well-worn novels. Dust clings to everything now, a thin veil of neglect.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work. The place isn’t a complete disaster, but the urge to clean feels a little likesurvival. Scrubbing away grime and swiping away dust always does the trick.Control what you can, wipe away what you can’t.
I wipe the countertops like they personally offended me while thinking about James. Not even his betrayal—oddly enough—but all the tiny ways I made myself smaller over the years. The way I used to triple-check his calendar so he wouldn’t beinconveniencedby anything I had planned. How I stopped buying garlic because he claimed it made everything taste like feet, even though Ilovegarlic.
I scrub harder.
I think about how I used to rearrange my own needs around his moods, and how I thought that was normal. That if I kept everything just right—me, the house, the wine selection—maybe it would mean something.
My phone buzzes somewhere in the distance, but I ignore it. If it’s James, I’m not ready. If it’s Bree, she’ll know I’m spiraling.
Time slips by without me noticing. It isn’t until my stomach rumbles that it hits me…oh, right. I haven’t eaten today.
I scan the room one last time. It’s starting to look less like desertion and more like a life I recognize, so I slip on my flats, grab my keys, and head for the door.
I expect it to hit me on the drive to the grocery store now that I’m not distracted. The heartbreak, the fury. But mostly, I just feel…hollow. Almost like I’m stretched thin and weirdly detached, as if my body’s here but the rest of me hasn’t caught up yet.
It’s not peaceful. Not even close. But itisquiet. And after the way yesterday shattered my entire world with every ugly little truth I didn’t want to see, the tranquility almost feels like mercy.
I don’t want to poke at the bruises while they’re still forming, so I tighten my grip on the wheel,shake off the weight threatening to press down again, and ease into the grocery store parking lot.
Once I’m inside and steering my cart toward the junk food aisle, a little bag of Scottish cookies catches my eye, immediately making me think of my Aunt Rose. She’s the only family I’ve got left now, my mom’s twin, with the same sunshine smile and the same eyes that saw straight through you, but that’s where the similarities end. My mom wore her heart on the outside, gentle in a way that made people lean in. Aunt Rose is all grit, keeping her softness buried deep under layers of dry humor and stubborn pride.
Either way, I like to think I inherited that same smile and warmth, despite never knowing what my father looked like. Mom never said much about him, except once, when she told me he didn’t deserve to know me. That was all I needed. Her silence told me more than his story ever could.
My aunt’s probably tucked away in her cozy cottage, somewhere in the folds of the Scottish countryside. It’s mid-evening over there, which means she’s likely nursing a glass of something strong.
I dial her number with one hand and start scavenging the shelves for anything loaded with salt, sugar, or both. I could really use a dose of her wildly inappropriate life advice right about now.
She picks up just as I chuck a family-size bag of sour cream and onion chips into the cart.
“Juliette, baby! How the heck are you?”
“Oh, you know, just living the dream. If that dream were to include infidelity and hunger.”
It comes out lighter than it should, but that’s the only way I can get the words out without crumbling in the middleof aisle five.
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening, a rare thing for her before she whispers, “Wait…what?”
I take a shallow breath and go for casual, even if my insides are still doing that slow churn of disbelief. “Short story even shorter? I walked in on James and his secret lover yesterday.” I toss a pack of cookies into the cart. “And I haven’t had lunch.”
There’s a pause, just long enough for me to brace. Then I hear that sharp inhale she only ever makes when she’s about to go into full-blown auntie mode. “That absolute muppet?—”
I cut her off before she can really get going. “Don’t worry, I’m handling it. Mostly by stress-buying junk food and garlic, but still.”
I eye the produce section. I should probably balance out my diet so I won’t hate myself later. A few apples and some lettuce should do it, right? Maybe I’ll throw in a couple of bananas for good measure. There’s a rustling sound on her end of the line, like she’s shifting the phone against her shoulder, followed by a deep male voice that has a casual Scottish lilt to it. Who wasthat?
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I’m still at work helping my boss.”
“Your boss sounds suspiciously hot,” I say before I can stop myself, mostly to fill the silence in an awkward attempt to break the tension. It’s not a lie, though. Something about that easy drawl hints at trouble wrapped in charm.
She laughs. “You think so? I’ll be sure to tell him he’s got a fan.”
“I didn’t say I was a fan,” I protest. “I just…appreciate good acoustics.”
I may not be totally interested in men at the moment thanks to James, but I’m not dead. I know when to appreciate the low timbre of a man’s voice, and that one practically came with a warning label and a jawline I could easily imagine.
