Chloe
Thanks, but I have a list of things that need to get done around the house before the weather turns.
Dad
The gutters, windows, and attic? Don’t worry about it. It’s all done.
This week hithard.Jaxson must have stepped up, and thank god for that because I would never have survived without the extra help. As it was, by the time Friday rolled around, I was amere husk of a human, my feet and back aching from my morning shifts at Jo’s, my shoulders drooping from the weight of other people’s emotions, my brain fuzzy with bone-deep exhaustion. Too tired to eat, I crawled into bed sideways, still fully clothed, my sneakers hanging off the edge of the mattress.
It was pitch-black when I awoke. I stretched my arm out, seeking the nightstand, but found only more bed. For a moment I lay there, utterly discombobulated, before I remembered I was sideways. I shifted, located the nightstand and my phone, and hit the button. 2:57.
Jesus Christ. I had slept for eleven hours.
If I got up now, I might crash at noon, but I had an afternoon shift at Jo’s tomorrow and a small mountain of paperwork. I didn’t have time for naps. Should I try to go back to sleep for another two? My stomach growled, letting me know that wasn’t an option.
Boxed mac and cheese. That was what I wanted. The kind with the day-glow orange powder that clumped together if you didn’t add milk. I never added milk. Those damp, tangy clumps of over-processed cheese were the food equivalent of thick, fuzzy socks.
My stomach growled again, an insistent reminder that I hadn’t eaten since the handful of pistachios I’d gobbled down between clients yesterday afternoon. I rolled out of bed.
After a cursory shower, I slipped on my fluffy robe and wool socks instead of getting dressed. I wasn’t ready to admit the new day had truly begun. Three a.m. was a gray area between yesterday and tomorrow. It was gremlin time. Nothing counted during gremlin time.
I padded into the kitchen, put a pot of water on the stove, and grabbed the blue box of mac and cheese from the pantry. While I waited for the water to boil, I leaned against the counter and scrolled dog accounts on social media. I couldn’t have adog—Miriam, the woman who owned the Craftsman bungalow I had rented for the last three years, was very protective of her hardwood floors—and I wasn’t sure I even wanted a dog, but I found their goofy, simple feelings soothing.
I kept right on scrolling with one hand while I used my other to dump the macaroni into the boiling water. Ten minutes later, I drained the pot and stirred in the powdered cheese, leaving it clumpy. I grabbed a fork and the pot and sat cross-legged on the floor. No point in getting extra dishes dirty when I was the one who would have to wash them.
I had just switched from dogs to llamas when Steven’s text bounced on the top of my screen.
Steven
I’m sorry.
I swallowed the food in my mouth and left the fork there, the tines clamped between my lips, while I typed back.
Chloe
For being a jerk a week ago? I might have cared more if it hadn’t taken you so long to apologize.
His reply was immediate.
Steven
I might have apologized sooner if I cared less.
My head tilted and my brows pinched as a bloom of sympathy unfurled in my chest. I knew that feeling. It was so easy to let the words roll off my tongue when they meant little, when they followed an accidental shoulder bump or a moment of forgetfulness. But sometimes…
Sometimes when it mattered most, when Icaredthe most, fear clogged my throat until I couldn’t push the words past it. Fear that the words would be wrong. Fear that they wouldn’t beenough. Fear because once they hadn’t been enough, and nothing I could say would ever change that.
I knew that feeling so damn well. It knocked me sideways a bit that Steven might, too.
And then he took it one step further.
Steven
I thought about it every day.
My lips parted on a surprised huff and the fork fell in my lap with a harmless thump.
Chloe
