Page 23 of Knot So Social

I get engrossed in the questions, wondering every time I click next if a message will pop up to say I’m not suitable for their program. Nothing appears. Maybe it’s a sign.

Either way, I’m desperate enough to apply.

Just after I hit “submit,” my battery dies. Well, my eyes won’t stay open any longer, and the nurses already turned the lights down for the night. I set my phone on the bedside table and gratefully roll into the pillows. It’s been one hell of a day.

I’ve stopped throwing up by morning, but the doctor keeps me in for the full twenty-four hours. I catch up on sleep, and then, since my phone’s dead, I take myself off to the activity room where I play chess with an old man stuck full of tubes. I have plenty to be grateful for, especially when I hear the way he wheezes for breath after the slightest exertion.

That crash could’ve killed me.

Life is a gift that shouldn’t be wasted on stressing over every little thing. Que será, será, as they say. Especially here in the hospital, people are always short on time and even shorter tempered, except for those waiting to die. Perhaps once it’s no longer possible for us to be busy, we accept the solitude with grace.

I don’t want to wait until my life is ending.

The doctors clear me in the early evening, and I make my way home through the humid sunset, on a train crowded with too many bodies.

My humble one-room unit welcomes me with the scent of instant noodles and used socks as I collapse in the single recliner.

“Good to be back,” I murmur. Takes me a good half an hour to rouse myself and put my phone on the charger. I drop it on the desk and boot up my old PC, which a decade ago used to be top of the line for gaming. Flicking through my emails, I get a shock when I see a response from Heat Wave asking me to come in for an interview in two days.

“Geez,” I mutter to myself. That was quick.

I scan the information, noting a registration I’ll need to get as well as a police clearance certificate. Not bad, for a job that pays like a trade, plus overtime. My phone gets enough charge in it to turn on and lights up with half a dozen missed calls. All from Joel.

That’s weird. Is he the one with an emergency, because he never calls first?

My finger hovers over the button when someone pounds on my door.

“Jeremy? You there?”

Chapter eight

Joel

Despite being the middle of summer, a cold winter chill descends on our house. After grilling me all the way home on the drive last night, Tracey stiffly accepted my apology, and yet when we woke up this morning, she ignored me with an icy determination. And it seems she’s not done punishing me, even though I’m home from work.

Of course, I’ve been busy all day, breaking my back in narrow manhole spaces and roof cavities, trying to finish this stupid job that should’ve been done by now. But I just had to discover a set of unearthed lines installed half a century ago. That’s why I hate renovations.

And right now, my relationship looks like a renovation. Like hard work.

Tracey aggressively cooks a stir fry as I come out of the shower and park myself on the couch.

“Do you need a hand with dinner?” I ask.

She ignores me.

I shake my head and flip on the TV. Yeah, I made a mistake, but I apologized, and even sent flowers this morning, so what more do I need to do? I’m right here, trying to help and make things right, but we can’t fix things when she stonewalls me.

Maybe I just need to keep trying, to be more understanding of her needs. “How was your day, Tracey?”

She slams her spatula on the bench, making me twitch. “Fine.”

The word all men dread hearing from a woman’s mouth. I swallow down a groan.

“Fine? Doesn’t sound like it.”

“You’ve been home ten minutes and you’re already trying to pick a fight?”

Irritation worms its way up my throat. She’s not the only one who’s got emotions—her anger has its own intensity, like a different kind of alpha vibe that sets me on edge. But instinct tells me if I voice my frustrations, this situation will get a whole lot worse.