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He disappears into his room, then returns to the kitchen island with a couple of paperbacks. There’s a slight self-consciousness to him as he lowers them in front of me, his finger brushing my hand.
Shit. I’m in trouble if his finger brushing across mine is making me feel like I’m going to internally combust.
“It’s okay if you don’t like them,” he says.
“They’re only choices you made from deep down in your soul.”
“Exactly.” And then, with a smile that would put Mona Lisa to shame, he disappears into his room.
I hope he’s enjoying that view of his.
Sighing, I take a slug from the subpar drink. I can practically hear my mother making some disparaging comment about women who day drink, but the mercurial part of me revels in it. Yes, I’m a classless woman. No, I don’t care. I prefer myself this way.
Then I grab the books and go park myself on the armchair by the SAD light. Something about it drew me to it from the first moment I walked in here. For one thing, it’s directly by a window. For another, it looks…loved, I guess. Like it’s the kind of chair that anyone would want to sit in on a rainy day.
These days are going to be metaphorically rainy. It’s 11:30, and I’ve already had all my excitement for the day. Sighing, I prop my cast on an ottoman and turn the chair a little to peer out the window.
To my shock, I can see right into the apartment across the alley. The woman inside of it, who’s blonde or maybe white-haired, is staring directly back at me. I wave, and she ducks out of view. Huh, that’s weird. Then again, maybe she thinksI’mweird for breaking the unwritten rule that we’re supposed to pretend the people in the buildings around us don’t exist.
My gaze pivots to the next set of windows, maybe a different apartment, and I see a woman feeding a baby in a high chair. She’s too far away for me to see her expression, but weariness is apparent in her every moment. I feel you, sister.
Sighing, I set the books down on the coffee table and grab the first one.
John Dies at the End.
I set it down again, because I’ve already come close enough to the void for one day, thank you very much, and go grab my phone to turn on one of the podcasts Danny recommended. Even doing something as simple as that is taxing with the cast. It’s hard not to feel down. I like moving. Being.Doing. Normally I run in the afternoons, but I won’t be running anywhere anytime soon. The doctor said the only thing I can really do to keep in shape is some arm and chair exercises.
I settle back in the chair and plug the phone into a nearby outlet, but the battery’s already charged enough that I’m able to turn it on.
I can practically feel the frown dragging my face down as I see a text from Byron on the home screen.
How’s it going. Have any accidents.
Um. Creepy much?
I text back:
You know this is part of my official phone record, right? If I die, PEOPLE WILL KNOW.
Oh, for God’s sake. You’re so fuckin overdramatic. That’s why it would never have worked.
No, it would never have worked because you suck, and I broke up with you.
You deserve what’s coming to you, Mira. Karma comes for all of us.
That final line is the title of his latest attempt at a single, which makes it more annoying but no less creepy. My judgment really is shit when it comes to men—and the fact that I spent months sleeping with Byron is proof that chemistry means nothing. We had plenty of chemistry. But he’s self-involved and lazy and kind of dumb. I’d feel mean for saying that last bit, especially because people have been making me feel dumb my whole life, but it’s true. He’s really, genuinely pretty stupid.
Go drink some of your sour milk, you psychopath.
Aw, shit, you got to this one too?
No, but I don’t mind him having to pour it out just in case, the jerk.
I send another text.
Goodbye, forever.
So why do I have a sinking feeling it won’t be?
