While I don’t want to be here, my mom was right to send me home. I don’t realize how much I need a shower until the hot water hits my skin and soothes my aching muscles. Afterward, I want nothing more than to collapse on my bed and forget about what’s happened. Pretend it’s not real, a horrible nightmare I’ll soon wake up from. But that’s not my reality. I have to get my shit together and take charge of everything, just like I do in every aspect of my life. There isn’t time for me to have a breakdown and let my emotions win.
Time to move into get-shit-done mode, like tackling my overwhelming number of emails. For most people, work wouldn’t be a priority. For me, it gives me a sense of being incontrol that I desperately need when the rest of my life is in chaos.
Probably should call Brian, too. We’ve traded a few texts but haven’t chatted since our call yesterday. It would do me good to hear his voice. He has this innate power to effortlessly calm my soul.
And research how to plan a funeral. Thinking about calling the funeral home brings back my nausea, and my eyes well up again. I have no idea how to plan a funeral. Don’t know where to start. It’ll need to be perfect. My mom will demand perfection for her best friend. Judy deserves it.
I shake my head and wipe the tears from my face. No more wallowing in self-pity.
After pulling my dark brown hair into a messy bun, I head into the living room, plopping onto the blue-and-white plaid couch that’s been a permanent fixture in this house for my entire life. A relic of the late 1980s that my mom refuses to part with, claiming there’s nothing wrong with it, and that manufacturers no longer make furniture that lasts this long. She might be right, but that doesn’t mean this living room couldn’t use a major overhaul.
My eyes dart around the room, taking in the light oak coffee and end tables, the cream Berber carpet, and the brass picture frames that adorn the walls. The only things that have changed in this room since I was born are the photos inside the frames and the TV. It took years, but my mom finally upgraded to a flat-screen TV about a decade ago. Being in this house is like being in a time warp, thrusting me back into my childhood and the insecurities that came along with it.
Letting out a deep sigh, I recheck Judy’s phone, hoping I’ve missed a call or text from Jake, even though I know it’s unlikely. I can’t believe he hasn’t called me back. I know it’s been years since he last visited and isn’t as close with his mom as he usedto be, but I thought he still talked to her. At least that’s the impression Judy always gave. Maybe she was merely saying it to keep up appearances. That’s what my mom would do if the roles were reversed. Not that I woulddareto stop calling my mom. She’d send the police after me if I went more than a few hours without returning her calls or texts.
Oh my God.
What if something’s happened to Jake? Images of his body, mangled in a car accident, flash across my mind. What if he got into an accident on his way and no one knows where he is? Should I call the police?
Goddammit, Kate. Stop spiraling and assuming the worst.
I try calling and texting again with no reply, making me more worried than angry.
Overwrought, I lean into the couch, grateful to be wearing a pair of cozy PJs with a soft blanket draped across my legs. At least I’ll be comfortable if I’m going to spend the entire night worrying about him.
After grabbing my phone, I place a delivery order with the local pizza place because a girl’s gotta eat more than granola bars, and nowhere around here delivers a charcuterie board and bottle of wine. God, I wish Chelsi were here. I know if I called, she’d jump in her car and start driving, no matter the time of day. But I’d never ask that of her and probably wouldn’t let her even if she offered.
I close my eyes for a few minutes, attempting to calm my nerves and focus on the tasks at hand, starting with conquering my inbox. I open my laptop and pop in my AirPods, planning to listen to my Get Shit Done playlist, primarily consisting of Taylor Swift and eighties and nineties music on constant repeat.
Tonight’s goal: inbox zero.
Yes, I’m lying to myself. I’m more likely to see the Loch Ness Monster than achieve inbox zero in my lifetime. Perhapsreducing my inbox from more than a thousand emails to fewer than a hundred is more reasonable, letting me temporarily forget about the accident, Judy’s death, whatever might be going on with Jake, and the uneasiness I have about talking to him.
Thirty minutes fly by without any tears, and I’ve made a somewhat noticeable dent in my inbox, when the doorbell rings. The pizza place is pushing their thirty-minute guarantee. Not that I care. My grumbling stomach would settle for anything that’s not burnt hospital coffee or granola bars at this point.
I place my laptop on the couch and head to the front door. I can almost taste the pizza. God, I’m starving.
My entire body freezes as soon as I open the door.
It’s not the pizza.
It’s Jake.
Standing on my doorstep, appearing exhausted—but not devastated. His six-foot-two-inch muscular build looks almost exactly like I remember, with a few glow-ups elevating him into Adonis territory, a doppelgänger of Austin Butler. He’s added more muscle than he had in college, causing his dark jeans and gray T-shirt to hug his frame like they were designed for him. His thick, wavy, sandy-blond hair is longer and has a tousled, lived-in style that probably gets better every time he runs his fingers through it. And there’s a little crinkling around his steel-blue eyes due to age and years of laughter. My brain struggles to comprehend how the man in front of me can resemble my former best friend yet be a total stranger.
He cocks his head. “Were you expecting someone else, Kitty Kat?” he asks with a deep, raspy tone that sends unexpected tingles across my skin.
“I ordered pizza. I thought you were the delivery guy. What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? You called me. Fuck. I don’t know how many times. I lost count,” he says, confused with a tinge of frustration in his voice.
“Why didn’t you answer any of my calls? Or respond to my texts?” I yell, wildly gesturing my arms. “I thought something had happened to you. Do you have any idea the horrific scenarios my mind concocted when you didn’t respond?”
He winces, grabbing the back of his neck. “Shit. I’m sorry. Didn’t intend to make you worry. Can we continue this inside before the entire town hears it?”
“Of course,” I reply, stepping out of his way. My anger at him for ignoring my calls and texts dissipates after seeing him, knowing he’s okay. Safe. Alive. Unlike his mom. My stomach sinks, realizing I’m minutes away from breaking his heart.
I can’t remember the last time he was in this house. It had to be during our freshman year of college. He should look out of place, standing in the middle of my mom’s outdated living room, but having him here makes it feel like no time has passed. Like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
