Me: Because I need to talk to her. I want to.
There’s a pause in answering this time.
Parker: Yeah, I’ll send it.
A second later, the contact information comes through. I stare at it like it might change or maybe disappear.
Am I really doing this?
Parker: How are you?
My chest flutters with hope.
Me: I’ve beenbetter.
Three dots—gone—then back.
Parker: Yeah. Me too.
I exhale, the sound low and drawn out.
Me: I listened to what you said. I’m going to figure out how to make it right. I’ll call her.
It takes a beat or two but he messages back.
Parker: Good. That’s the Annika I... know.
My courage flickers, then I type the one thing I shouldn’t.
Me: Do you still like me?
The pause is long. Like maybe he went out and mowed the yard or took out the trash. My heart pounds harder with every silent second. Then…
Parker: Like you? I fucking love you but…
My breath catches. He hasn’t used those words. Not exactly.
Parker: Talk to Nadia first. There’s more you don’t know.
A knot forms in my gut. More? What more could there possibly be?
SATURDAY
DeRosa’s smells the same. Bread baking. Italian sausage frying.
Nadia’s already here, leaning against a video game in the corner, quietly lurking like she’s been waiting for this moment for years.
The past closing in on me from all directions—Novadia, Dad, college, tutoring.
“You showed up. Who knew?” she says, her voice curt.
“I called you.”
Her lips curve up slightly. “Parker must mean a lot to you.”
“He does.”
She nods like she already has firsthand knowledge of our relationship. “He loves you,” she says simply.
