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Ithurts.
I didn’t walk into this thinking it could bust my heart like a brittle ornament, but now as I sob on Nana’s shoulder and she holds me so tight I don’t need to worry about breathing, I appreciate how deep it hurts.
“I know, I know,” Nana whispers, and I believe her. “Oh, my darling, I know.”
I close my eyes and let her hold me together as I bawl my little eyes out.
* * *
I staycloistered in my room for an entire day, alone with the past.
Nana refitted it into a guest bedroom, but it still has my old blue wall and the same wardrobe, the same familiar bookcase, just full of books she thinks guests will want. None of my old fantasy books or old romances, the worn paperbacks from secondhand stores she insisted I bring with me to the new apartment.
Dexter doesn’t call once.
Honestly, I mostly never expected him to—not after the fight we had or the way I left while he was gone without even a note—but part of me subconsciously expected to wake up to a text or call anyway.
It’s the same dumb part of me that wants to hold on to what we had a little longer, I guess.
But if I’ve learned anything from this train wreck, it’s that I can’t let that part of me win.
After calling in sick to work—something easily believable by the thickness of my voice—I sit in my room with my new laptop, looking at numbers, toying with ideas for improving the Sugar Bowl and wondering if we can get by without the other half of Dexter’s payout.
I don’t think he’ll be that heartless, though. I’ll probably get the money as a parting dropkick to the heart.
That’s actually more depressing than losing the money, so I turn my attention to trashy midday TV for a distraction.
Before I know it, another day is shot.
“Junie?” Nana knocks gently on the door. “Time for dinner.”
“Go ahead and eat without me, Nana. I’m not hungry.” I wipe my nose on the back of my hand.
“You might not be hungry, June bug, but youwilleat when you’re in this house. Downstairs in five.”
Groaning, I fall back against the bed and stare at the ceiling, marveling at how easily she makes me feel like an unruly teenager again.
A couple months ago, I lay on this same bed and called Dexter for the first time because I couldn’t survive Nana’s pecking questions.
Now, the thought makes me sick. So I roll out of bed and tread over to the bags I packed.
I don’t want to unpack too much and commit to staying even though I’ve got nowhere else to go. It’s also too tiring to think about forging on to better places, even if I finally have the money to land a decent place in a nice neighborhood that won’t spontaneously flood itself.
Nana expects a certain level of decency, though, so I angry-brush my hair and shimmy into a skirt and blouse. Maybe that’s enough to detract from the bags under my eyes and my lips, chapped and stinging.
Wishful thinking, but here we go.
My five minutes are up, and I descend the stairs to the kitchen.
Nana stands by the stove like always, a wooden spoon in her hand and an apron that saysMy Kitchen, My Rulesaround her waist.
I’m transported back to another time when she was a little less grey and I was a lot more hopeful.
“You’re just in time. We’re starting cozy season early. I thought you might enjoy a nice warming stew,” she says, exchanging the spoon for a ladle which she uses to portion the stew into her little bowls with hummingbirds on them.
The sight of it makes my throat tighten.
“Anything I can do to help?” The words trip off my tongue. I’m so used to saying them it’s almost habit.
