Mariah

Whitney pushes her plate to the center of the table. It’s streaked with stir fry sauce and a few pieces of cooked onion. “That was really good.”

“Thanks.” Whether she’s lying to me or not, I don’t have a clue. My taste buds are gone. That or my brain is too occupied at the moment to really taste anything. “How’s work?”

“Eh, about the same. I think I might be moving floors though.”

“We’re happy about that?”

“Yes,” she gushes. “My schedule would stabilize and I’d have more daylight hours.” Taking a sip of her water, she watches me over the rim. “Jonah asked me out today.”

My jaw drops. “He did not.”

Her laugh floats easily through the air. Mine isn’t as easy, nor is it as engaged. I just don’t feel it.

“I turned him down. I mean, you dated him—”

“I so did not date him,” I insist. “That wasn’t even a date, let alone dating.”

“Fine. But he’s not my type either.”

“But you thought he was mine?”

“I thought you were desperate,” she laughs. “He was a good starter date.”

My hand smacks my face. “Starter date? Men aren’t objects, Whit.”

“Nah, they kind of are.” She runs a finger around the edge of her glass. “Speaking of men, I’ve refrained from asking about Lance so you could bring it up. But, you haven’t and I’m tired of waiting.”

“You’re so kind,” I groan.

“Not really. Spill it. What’s going on?”

What is going on? Hell if I know, but something is because I can feel it. It’s that sixth sense you get when something is awry. That niggle in your stomach that doesn’t quite feel like you have to puke but makes you a little leery of getting too far away from the restroom.

It’s in my scalp, that prickly sensation like my hair follicles are standing on end, waiting for me to process whatever unknown that’s coming.

I’ve told myself over the past two hours that it’s nothing. From the second Lance’s text came through, I’ve passed this sinking feeling off as leftover stress from the day. The problem is, I can’t work it out enough to believe myself.

“Nothing,” I say, getting our plates together and carrying them to the sink. I busy myself with scraping leftover bits and pieces down the garbage disposal and rinsing off the rest. When I finish, she’s still watching patiently like she’s expecting more from me. I toss down a dishtowel. “What?”

“You don’t cook like that just for you. And when I showed up, it was already done, which tells me you had plans. If that’s true, then what happened to them? Because that would explain this ‘my goldfish just jumped out of the bowl’ thing you have going on.”

“Really? Goldfish?”

“Yeah, goldfish. You aren’t crying, so it’s not one of your thousand fictional cats,” she laughs. “People don’t get as attached to goldfish unless they’re like six.”

“Fair enough,” I sigh, collapsing back into my chair. “Dinner was for Lance. He was supposed to come over but I got this short text that he ‘couldn’t make it’ and then my return message wasn’t delivered.”

“So, you think he shut his phone off.”

“Yup. Or it died, I guess, but …” I flex my neck, that half-cringe thing people do when they’re working something out in their heads that I never understand. It’s like the universal delivery, the same as opening your mouth to put on mascara.

The honest way of answering that question has me one step closer to needing the toilet. I’ve been in an anxiety spiral since seeing the app earlier today, but then with Chrissy calling and Lance calling and his phone dying, it’s all adding up to more than I can handle and I’m clinging to reason to keep from toppling over the edge in a freak-out fest.

“What’s the rest of it?” she asks.

“Probably nothing.”

“But …”

“Can’t you let it be?” I laugh, a nervous energy in the words that Whitney doesn’t miss.

“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I let it be. Might as well spill so we can move on to dessert.”

My eyes close and all I see is that little notification on his phone. The green square with the pink splash of color, the same icon I hit every night to talk to him for weeks.

“It’s no big deal,” I say, wiggling in my seat. “I just saw today that he still had the app where I met him. Well, where Nerdy Nurse met him.”

She lifts a brow. “Do you still have it?”

“I deleted it after we went to my mom’s. There was no agreement to delete it. I mean, we aren’t even in a place where that’s a conversation we’re having, you know?”

“But you feel like maybe it was an unspoken agreement?” she asks guardedly.

Groaning into my hands, I try to settle myself. “Apparently, but I shouldn’t.”

“You aren’t wrong to feel this way.”

I hear her but I don’t hear her.

“Maybe it’s nothing, Whit. It’s an app. It means nothing.” Scraping my teeth over the inside of my bottom lip, the words echo in my brain. Like if I hear them enough, I’ll believe them. “It means nothing.”

My friend looks at me, her head tilted to the side. “What brought this on?”

“I saw it on his phone today. It was lying there. I wasn’t snooping.” I try to reason with myself, fighting a surge of bile in my stomach. “I’m just paranoid, I think.”

“You think?” she asks, trying to override the laugh that wants to permeate the words.

“Insecure. Do you like that word better?”

“I don’t like any of them, to be honest.”

Me either.

My muscles pull tight across my back, my neck tensing as I struggle to stay even-keeled. I’m a ball of taut, twisted emotions on the inside and out and a good, loud scream is the only way I can think of to release some of the energy. But that’s what crazy people do and I’m not going crazy. Not today, at least.

“I’m just struggling with being smart and being open at the same time,” I explain. “I want to be open with Lance, give him all the benefit of the doubt. I don’t want to burden him with Eric’s sins.”

“Sounds very reasonable of you,” she grins.

“But, at the same time, I did that with Eric and look where it got me. That wound still stings and if I don’t pay attention to that, I might get stung again.”

Whitney chuckles. “It must be terrible to be so logical. You can’t even have fun.”

“I know,” I whine. “This is the first time since Eric where I’ve felt like maybe I’ve put those rose-colored glasses back on. Like maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see and not what was real. I refuse to do that again, you know? I won’t be that blind girl ever, ever again.”

“You aren’t blind. You’re nervous and nervous is good. Nervous is smart. But you being nervous makes me want dessert.” Whitney stands, slipping her sneakers back on.

“I think I have leftover brownies,” I offer without a lot of initiative.

“Come on,” she says, pulling me up. “Let’s go buy overpriced slices of cheesecake at Peaches. We’ll bring them here and binge watch a show.”

I don’t love television, but I also don’t love sitting around sulking. Or worrying. Or lamenting over a man I’m not sure is mine.

“I don’t even have a show,” I note, shoving Lance out of my mind.

“Oh, girl, I’ll fix that.”

She gives me a complete list of all the offerings currently available on my subscription service as we get in her car and head through Linton. The streetlights are on, casting a pretty glow over the little town I’ve come to love.

“The one about royalty is my pick based off your fabulous descriptions,” I add, watching Dr. Burns’ office pass by.

“You’ll love that.”

“I don’t want to watch it if you’ve already seen it,” I protest.

“Only one episode,” she insists. “Besides, I watch so many shows I can’t remember what they’re about. It’s one of the fabulous things about being me—”

“Hey.” I lean forward quickly, the seat belt snapping me back in my seat. I try to see down the side road leading to Crave but we’ve gone by it before I can get turned around. An eerie calm fills my veins as my brain clears out everything that’s not absolutely necessary. “Take a right up here and go around the block.”

“Why?” she asks as she hits the breaks to slow down for the turn.

“Just do it.”

My breath steams up the window as I pant against it like a puppy. Using the sleeve of my shirt, I wipe off the fog so I can see.

The side streets are fairly empty except for a few cars sitting on the street in front of houses. There’s a dog in the yard of the large Victorian house I love on the corner as we turn and make our way back toward Beecher Street.

My breath is the only sound in the car as I pull oxygen in through my mouth. There’s a burn in my chest, like the bitter fluids from my stomach have somehow escaped and now fill my entire cavity.

Whitney pushes the car slowly up the road. There, just a few slots back from the corner, is Lance’s car.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper. My clothes feel too clingy, everything too tight, too itchy, as we pass the parked car. There’s nothing around open this time of night in this part of town except Crave.

He did blow me off.

Mentally, I start linking things together, things I hope don’t belong together. Things like a broken date with me, his car at the bar, the app I saw today.

Stop it.

My hand shakes as I toy with the necklace rising and falling with every harsh breath. I tell myself the gut instinct I had today that something was wrong was actually right and I should have some sense of comfort in that. But I don’t. I don’t when it’s still churning, warning me there’s more to come.

“You think he’s in there?” Whitney asks, watching me out of the corner of her eye.

Gulping, I nod. “Yeah.”

“It was rhetorical,” she sighs, pulling through the stop sign as a car comes up behind us. “Where else would he be?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, picking at the corner of my fingernail. “Just head to Peaches and let me think about it.”

“By thinking do you mean talking? Because I have opinions.”

“I’m sure you do,” I grumble. “His brother owns Crave,” I note. “Maybe he’s there talking about something with him.”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound persuaded.

“Maybe.” Neither do I.