Lauren purses her lips. “Touché.”
It’s not the explanation I wanted, but at least now she knows I’m onto her.
“Come on.” I shove the cookbook back in my bag, then loop my arm with hers. “I’ll tell you everything. But we have to walk and talk, or I’ll be late for work.”
“I can’t wait,” she says giddily. “You met Hot Chef in the hot flesh!”
“At one point, I even held his hot hand.”
She screeches, “Thea! What? How?”
I sigh as I hit the crosswalk button and glance her way. “You are truly never going to believe me when I tell you.”
CHAPTER 6NOW
July 16, eighteen days until “vacation”
I am splayed on my bed, sheets thrown off, hands tapping the mattress. I can’t fall asleep. Last night went this way, too, which means I’m on track to spend hours counting the watermarks on my ceiling, reading a book I’m not invested in (if I read the one Iaminvested in, I definitely won’t fall asleep), drinking a glass of water, and practicing meditative breathing… none of which will work. Then I’ll finally succumb to sleep at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night and wake up a few hours later, the second the sun is up.
I’m exhausted. My mind is racing. I can’t stop worrying. Something’s off with Alex.
I felt the shift right after we agreed to the vacation, and since then, as we’ve texted, coordinating our schedules, figuring out how long we want to go and which days we can both get off. Alex has been quiet, subdued—very un-Alex.
And, like the scaredy cat I am, I haven’t pushed, haven’t pressed, haven’t asked what’s bothering him. Because I’m afraid what’s bothering him isme.
I don’t know why, can’t put my finger on it. It’s a gut feeling that something I’ve said—or haven’t said—upset him. I could ask. Ishouldask. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’m terrified I might find out that I’m right.
I’ve spent enough time in therapy the past year and a half to know what Sue, my therapist, would say if I told her why I’m spiraling and how I’m handling it. She’d say my fear of talking to Alex about this is exactly why I should talk to Alex about this. Then she’d remind me that conflict avoidance does not equate toconsequenceavoidance.
“Dammit, Sue.” I paw around my nightstand until I find my phone.
Before I can overthink it and talk myself out of texting him, I write the first thing that comes to mind and hit send.
You still awake?
I chuck my phone across the bed and pick up my boring book. I’m not going to lie here, staring at my phone, hoping Alex responds. Dreading how Alex might respond.
My phone buzzes. I drop the book, scramble for my phone among the sheets, and flop onto my stomach. I hold my breath as I read Alex’s response.
Why wouldn’t I be??
I squint at my phone’s screen, registering the time. Huh. It’s only ten p.m.
So, I type,somehow I missed that it’s not the middle of the night.
My phone buzzes with his response.
Give yourself some credit. You’re on a grandpa’s sleep schedule, so thinking it’s the middle of the night at 10pm isn’t far off.
Relief whooshes through me. He teased.
I bite my lip, my thumbs hovering over the screen. Then I type,I really appreciate that you compared me to a grandPA.
Everyone knows it’s only grandpas who go to bed at 8pm—Grandmas are the party animals.
I smile.You do realize not all grandmas are as cool as your mom.
Don’t let Lydia hear you calling her a grandma. Mia’s lucky she gets away with calling her Nones.