When I told my parents I totaled my car, I assumed they’d be pissed, but they were only worried I’d been injured. My mom even drove out to Charming to pick me up after my last final yesterday.
I try not to think about the accident. It reminds me of that argument with Nick, and I’ll do anything to not think about him.
My mom nudges me again. “Maybe tomorrow we can get your phone replaced.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“Oh, then on Monday. I’m officially on winter break too.”
“Sure. If you want.” I accidentally left my phone at a laundromat the day after I moved out of Nick’s house. By the time I figured out I had lost it and returned to the Laundro-rama, it was gone. I didn’t have the money to replace it and was still too upset to pick up shifts at Moe’s, so I figured I’d just wait until I got home to get another one.
I’ve been wondering what Nick’s messages said. He’d left me a few before I lost my phone, but I hadn’t had the guts to listen to them. But it’s not like any good could come from that. It’s clear Nick’s still in love with Gemma. The sooner I come to terms with this, the better. I spent the first few days crying myself to sleep and moping. It still hurts, but I guess it will for a while.
I’ll survive. It doesn’t feel like that at the moment, but I will. In the meantime, I just want to sit on this couch in my pajamas until I leave for London on Wednesday.
When the doorbell rings, my mom looks at me. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No. I’m all yours this weekend.”
She squeezes my arm. “After the movie, we’ll go for barbecue. That’ll make you feel better.”
My stomach lurches, and I try to smile. “Sounds good.”
She peeks through the peephole. “Mercy.”
I chuckle and slouch deeper on the couch. It’s good to be home. I’ve missed my mom and her weird little ways. She always says mercy when someone’s hot. “Who is it?”
“I think this one is for you.” She opens the door. “Hello.”
“Hi, Mrs. Dawson. Is Abigail here?”
My eyes widen when I hear that deep voice. No way. There’s no way that’s Nick. He doesn’t even know where I live.
“And who would you be, dear?” my mom asks sweetly.
“Nick Silva, ma’am. And these are for you.”
Holy crap. I’m not hallucinating.
“These flowers are gorgeous. Thank you, Nick. I’m Gail. Come on in. Make yourself at home.” The door closes. “Abby! A handsome young man has brought us flowers. Unglue yourself from the couch.”
I close my eyes. It’s a mother’s job to embarrass her children, I suppose.
With a deep breath, I sit up and take stock of what I’m wearing. Thick socks, duckie pajama bottoms, and a t-shirt that says “Introverts unite… separately, in your own homes.” I dust off popcorn crumbs from my clothes and push my saggy bun back.
Defeat makes my shoulders droop. Would it have been so hard to get dressed today and look nice? No, I have to look like a homeless nerd.
Whatever. I might not be wearing my exterior armor, but that doesn’t mean I’m not strong. I don’t need clothes to be tough.
I set aside my yarn and crochet needle and stand up. It takes me a moment to turn around, and the first sight of Nick is a punch to my solar plexus. He’s wearing jeans and a Bronco sweatshirt that strains across his chest and shoulders. His hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it.
I’ve missed him so much. My eyes burn, but I tighten my jaw and wrap my arms around myself.
“Abby.”
That’s all it takes, him saying my name, for me to burst into tears.
Next thing I know, his strong arms come around me.
