Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Why did lightning strike for some people, and not for others? Why did some of us pick the wrong people over and over again, and others got it right the first time? Why were we told as kids to listen to our hearts when things like geography or timing or luck seemed to matter so much more?
What did our hearts know, anyway?
Twelve
Nate
Emme didn’t call, text, or stop by again on Monday.
I didn’t hear from her all day Tuesday, either.
Or Wednesday.
At first, I felt guilty because I figured it was my fault for acting like nothing was different between us on Monday morning after everything that had happened Sunday night. Her feelings were probably hurt. Or maybe she was confused. I knew I should reach out, apologize, explain myself, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone or go across the hall and knock on her door. And maybe I was wrong, anyway. Maybe she was totally fine and simply busy at work. After all, she had told me she would be really busy this week.
But I missed her. Not just her help with Paisley, but her company. Her face. Her laugh. The way she made me feel. We’d spent so much time together over the last several days, it was hard to believe that before Paisley arrived, we might have gone a week or so without even seeing each other in the hall. There were probably entire days that passed where I didn’t think about her once. Now that seemed impossible. I couldn’t get her out of my head.
After a while, I started to get angry with her. Was she punishing me? Was she purposely ignoring me in order to make a point? Was she sending some sort of message that said I don’t want anything if I can’t have it all? Was this some passive-aggressive way to let me know I had already succeeded in disappointing her in less than twenty-four hours?
Wasn’t she the one who had said she wanted to be open and honest? This seemed like a juvenile game to me, and I wouldn’t play it. If she was upset about something, she should tell me, not expect me to read her mind, goddammit! This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to get involved with her in the first place. She was too emotional. She didn’t understand me. And clearly she’d lied about having no expectations. In the meantime, I was tired, crabby, and lonely, trapped in my apartment with no one but a baby for company and hardly getting any sleep.
By Wednesday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. When I heard her voice in the hallway around 10 PM, I raced over to my door and put my ear against it.
“Absolutely, it went great,” she was saying. “Don’t worry about anything, just get some rest. Are you glad to be home?” A pause. Keys jingling. “Good. And how’s Frannie doing? I saw the picture, she’s so cute! All that hair!”
Coco must have had the baby, I thought. Sounds like it was a girl. I heard her key turn in the lock.
“Well, I can’t wait to come see you both. You let me know when you’re ready for visitors.” Another pause, followed by laughter. “I bet they are. Sounds good. Okay, take care of yourself. Bye.”
After that, I heard the door to her apartment open and close. I straightened up, trying to think of some reason to go over there and see her. A concrete reason, not an emotional one. My eyes scanned the room, but nothing jumped out at me. A moment later, Paisley, who had been napping in the swing, woke up and started to cry. It was while I was in the kitchen making her bottle that it hit me—her plastic containers, the ones she had brought the spaghetti and meatballs in. I’d eaten all the leftovers from them yesterday and washed them out. I could return them. That was a good reason, wasn’t it?
After feeding Paisley, I put her in the sling, gathered up the containers, and went across the hall. I knocked on the door, my stomach jittering like I was a teenager picking up his first date. Quickly, I ran a hand through my hair and checked my breath. I was fairly certain I’d showered and brushed my teeth sometime today, but I definitely hadn’t done anything extra. Did my clothes match? Were there stains on my shirt? Had I put shoes on? Yes, no, yes. Fuck. I was nervous. I heard footsteps inside her apartment, and my chest tightened up. But when she opened the door, I played it cool.
Well, as cool as a guy could wearing a baby on his chest and carrying a bunch of GladWare.
“Hey,” I said casually. “I brought your containers back.”