Page 112 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
Will the food be on the dining table? Or is Mrs. Gallagher fed up with me and doesn’t plate up my dinner anymore?
With anxiety churning in my stomach, I venture towards the kitchen. There’s a clamminess to my hands as I gently knock on the door frame.
Mrs. Gallagher is hunched over, cleaning the stovetop. “What the heck is caked on here?”
Uh-oh. Did the singed paper somehow ruin the burner?
Before I can retreat, Mrs. Gallagher lifts her head and finds me. “Yes, miss?”
“Umm.” My voice falters. “Did you, umm, make dinner?”
Mrs. Gallagher wipes her hands on her black half-apron and moves to the kitchen island. She lifts a metal covering, revealing seared chicken, steamed green beans, and a baked potato.
“I was wondering if I’d see you tonight,” she says with a small smile.
“I hope you don’t take offense at my lack of eating your meals.”
She waves it off. “New surroundings. Ryder was the same, but he came with attitude. I’m grateful you’re not another musician. Over the years, Ms. Knox has had too many of them around for my liking.”
“You’ve worked for my aunt for years?”
“Off and on. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t tell you.” She then hums a laugh, gesturing at the stove. “But, can’t complain. Ms. Knox bought this rundown, old manor house and still upgraded every appliance in this kitchen.”
“Oh, the kitchen didn’t come like this?”
“Heck no. I told Ms. Knox, when I first saw this place, no way in heck I’d cook in here.” She hums another laugh, sprinkling a little more garnish on my meal. “That woman isn’t afraid to spend some money. I’ll tell you that much.”
My aunt’s outfits and her hairstyle already led me to the same conclusion.
When I don’t respond, Mrs. Gallagher grows tight-lipped, as if she’s said too much. She throws a dish towel over her shoulder and goes back to scrubbing the stove. The awkwardness ripples over me, and I’m quick to thank her and move into the dining room.
Whoa. The twelve-seater table feels so lonely. I take a seat at the end and give myself an internal pep talk about actually eating this meal.
I pull out my phone, opening to Jill’s last text, and type:“Any tips on how to eat dinner?”
I stare at the message without hitting send. Do I really want to worry her? Yes, she started feeding me candy bars when I was having trouble eating. But she won’t want to know I’m still grieving.
We don’t have the same relationship we did back home. It was nice to think about how our relationship used to be. But that’s just it.Used to be.
I delete the message and open my browser to the Sky Chaos Late Show clip. As Ryder begins to play, I slice through the chicken on my plate. I close my eyes and listen to the band playing together. I lift my fork and open my mouth. The texture hits my tongue and I try to identify the seasoning Mrs. Gallagher used.
“Way to go, Sprout,”Dad’s voice whispers into my ear.
I put my fork down and frown at my dinner, admitting, “This is really hard.”
Twenty-One
Thewaitingroomthenext day smells of lavender and something citrus. I think it’s supposed to be calming, but it just reminds me of the funeral home.
I sit in the corner chair, my phone in my lap, staring at the locked screen. 9:57 a.m. Three more minutes until my appointment. The driver dropped me off fifteen minutes early this morning, as per Miranda’s explicit instructions.
My thumb hovers over my phone, wanting to open something to distract myself. But I just sit here, listening to the tick of the wall clock.
At 10 a.m., the inner door opens. Dr. Novak stands in the doorway.
She’s mid-forties with short blonde hair with streaks of silver peppered throughout. Her kind eyes sit behind wire-rimmed glasses, and she’s wearing a soft gray cardigan over a white blouse and dark jeans. Approachable but professional.
“Alice.” Her smile warms. “Come on back.”
