Page 127 of Go Back to December

“You don’t have to. Now, when are you letting Baz out of the doghouse?”

I’ve had to school my thoughts not to turn to him. The last glimpse I had of his face, it was awash with hurt and fury, reflecting my own feelings of betrayal and confusion.

Halfway home from the lake, I regretted most of what I had said at the restaurant. I want to trust him, but I can’t figure out how to make that happen. Or if it’s possible that after the second, third, fiftieth chance we’ve given each other, we could try again.

“That’s up to him,” I hedge.

“Don’t you think you’re being harsh?”

“Yes,” I affirm unapologetically.

“I suppose we’ll find out on Monday morning.”

My limbs are sluggish. I can feel all my joints snapping as I pull myself up from the thin air mattress and shuffle to the bathroom. I inhale deeply and search for the scent of evergreens. In the shower, I cry a little. Just enough to give in to the raw loneliness I feel about the day stretching ahead of me.

As I clean and unpack and do laundry, I keep trying to construct a plan for the future. But everything is so uncertain, I can’t find my focus.

I rifle through a stack of Christmas cards. Manny sent a postcard from Bohol that reads, “When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving through you, a joy.”

The café is my proudest accomplishment. But it is not the work of my soul. I haven’t uncovered that yet, and I won’t find it by staying here. Stuck. Borrowing other people’s apartments.

Other people’s families.

My buzzing phone pulls me out of my pathetic musings.

Craig

Hey, sorry, just catching up with messages.

No, no, it’s fine. It’s not like I was mugged or anything.

Mallow

Did you kill a lot of terrorists today?

I’m sorry, okay? I’m the worst.

THE WORST.

I’m making up for it. You’re getting a delivery in a few hours.

Please tell me no fruit were harmed in the production of this delivery.

Get your arse out in front of the building and you’ll find out.

The small bench outside the building freezes most of my backside. Hopefully, it will also eradicate some excess cellulite while I wait for Craig’s present. When I lift out my phone to check the time, my message notifications pop up with an extreme selfie of the Johnsons’ dog Minnow.

Sent by Dooley.

That’s cold, Dooligan.

What? Minnow wanted to say hi. And also, you’re being insane.

I don’t want to talk about it. Wait, did you get him groomed? Are those bows?

You can inspect in person. We’re out for a walk a few blocks from you.

Not in the mood for company.