My eye roll comes with a groan. “Do you have to be so cocky about it?”
“I have every right to be cocky,” she says. “I heard it for myself.” Ellie flashes me a wicked smile, slowly shaking her head. “Kat really shouldn’t have been talking so loud in the library.”
I can’t confirm whether or not my eyes actually bulge out of my head, but just the mention of Kat in the library instantly converts my brain into a wave pool and my mouth into a leaky inner tube, sputtering out air. And that smile—that devilish smile with that stupid little dimple—could put me in a watery grave.
“Hey, Murphy?” A worried Brooklyn interrupts from behind the bar, stalling my pending short circuit. “I thought the baby shower was booked for tomorrow.”
I swallow hard, breathe for the first time in too many seconds, and turn to ask Brooklyn what she’s talking about. Before I can get a word out, a woman with armfuls of light-blue gift bags and pacifier-shaped Mylar balloons answers my question.
I turn back toward Ellie with a wobbly smile and panic-stricken eyes. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but…I have to get back to work,” I choke out, pressing my palms against the table and helping myself to my feet. “Are you driving back to school now?”
Ellie lifts a shoulder, that self-satisfied smile still lingering on her lips. “I don’t have to. I’m free up until a meeting tomorrow at four, and I already turned in my final projects. You know, in case there was a reason I should stay tonight.”
My belly button sucks in toward my spine. “I have to study tonight,” I say. “But if you really wanted to, you could come over and quiz me.” I’m embarrassed to even offer.
“Of course, what time?” Ellie’s eagerness throws me off-balance, and it takes me a second to recalibrate.
“Wait, really? Are you sure?” I can hear the balloon woman’s voice getting louder and louder, and Brooklyn’s desperate stare is hot on my temple, but I’m not walking away from Ellie until I know I can reach her again. “I’ve gotta go, but…text me?”
“Wait, hang on.” Ellie extends one arm, blocking me from the bar. “I, um. I actually deleted your contact.” She sheepishly holds out her phone. “Do you mind?”
twenty-four
All along the white quartz countertop, black plastic takeout containers drip with brown sauces and yellow curries, and greasy white to-go bags spill over with packets of soy sauce and crab rangoon. It’s not lost on me that the night before showings Mom got delivery from my favorite Thai restaurant, the authentic one she normally vetoes for being too spicy. Call it a peace offering after our blowup earlier this week, or call it an edible apology for selling my childhood home. Either way, as we load up our plates with heaping spoonfuls of comfort food, I’m the first to grab a paper towel and a bottle of all-purpose cleaner to erase any drips and drops. We’re nothing if not a household of silent apologies.
With full plates and extra napkins, we each claim our spot at the table, Mom and Dad at either end with me facing the living room. My mind instantly wanders to a sad place. How many family dinners like this do we have left? Less than a dozen atthis table, but altogether, maybe less than a hundred? How often will I fly down to Florida? And will we opt to eat at restaurants when I do, the way you take visitors out to eat when they come to your city? I lift another bite of panang curry into my mouth, letting the spice burn against my tongue for a few extra moments before washing it down with water. The burn lingers, and so does the churning in my stomach.
“What time are we planning to be out of here tomorrow?” Dad asks, slicing a rice noodle with the side of his fork.
“Nine thirty should be okay,” Mom says. “Tom is getting here at nine, but showings don’t start till ten.”
Tom is another agent at Mom’s brokerage who volunteered to run showings. Having Mom show this particular listing felt, quite literally, too close to home.
“So we’ll do one last walk through with him and then…”
I tune out the real estate talk, just like I have all week. There’s no point in listening when I absorb so little of it, especially when what I do understand just gets me worked up. Picturing generic couples voting on whether my room should be the nursery or the office feels wrong, like strangers playing dress-up with my house and choosing all the wrong outfits.
“Are you good to be out by nine thirty, Murph?” Mom asks, and I jump back in at the sound of my own name.
“What? Tomorrow? No problem. My final’s at ten.”
My breath cements to the inside of my lungs at the reminder. I check the time on the stove clock—6:55. Just over fifteen hours until the test and only five minutes until Ellie said she’d be stopping by. The dense wall of real estate talk has allowed me toavoid the topic of tonight’s visitor, but I better have an explanation by the time she gets here.
Which, the doorbell announces, is right now.
Mom and Dad turn toward each other, each silently waiting for an explanation from the other. Meanwhile, my stomach threatens to reintroduce every bite of curry I’ve swallowed in reverse order.
“Grubhub guy again?” Dad speculates. “Or is Chess coming over for a final check before the showings?”
“Actually,” I say, pushing back from the table and onto my feet, “that’s for me.”
Mom and Dad perform a synchronized flinch routine.
“A friend,” I explain. “To help me study.”
“From class?” Mom asks, and I want to say yes. That would make the most logical sense and save me an explanation I don’t care to shape. But I haven’t rehearsed this lie.
“No, someone from high school.” I try to keep a casualthis happens all the timeair about me, but everyone at this table knows better. It’s not even that they’re leaping to romantic assumptions, although who’s to say that they’re not. The truth is that I haven’t brought over someone new, romantic or otherwise, since the spaghetti night before what turned out to be my last high school softball tournament. Back then, Mom made a point of shaking everyone’s hand and repeating their name to be sure she wouldn’t forget.Hi, Lauren. Nice to meet you, Lauren. There’s pop in the fridge if you want it, and let me introduce you to my husband. Honey, this is Lauren, she’s an outfielder.Hopefully we won’t see that same behavior tonight.
