40
My excitement fades an hour later as I pull up in front of the address he texted me. His car is parked on the street, so I
know I’ve got the right place, but...
Oh boy.
I don’t mean to be judgmental, I swear, but when I tell you this place is a shack, I’m not being rude. It’s a literal shack,
a crumbling building the size of a garden shed. I’ve actually seen it before on my old running route. I always gave it a wide
berth, just on the off chance it was haunted. It definitely looks like the type of place that would be haunted. The roof is
collapsed, and almost all of the windows are missing.
I don’t care how much I love John, I am not sleeping in that thing. As least not until I get an updated tetanus shot.
I get out of my car and approach John, who’s leaning against his own car.
“So?” he asks, gesturing to the shack. “What do you think?”
I open my mouth to lie, but what’s the point? Only a rabid raccoon would find this house appealing. “It looks like a good
place to get murdered,” I say honestly.
He snorts with laughter. “Maybe I am going to murder you,” he says. “Maybe I’m actually pissed you went to New York, and I’ve tricked you into coming here.”
“No, too creepy!” I protest.
He grins and pulls me toward him. “Sorry.”
I let him hug me for a moment, enjoying the warm strength of his arms. “For real, though, is this actually where you live?”
“No,” he says. “I just didn’t want you to get lost. The streets around here are confusing. Hop in your car and follow me.”
I roll my eyes. “The streets around here aren’t confusing . I’ve run them, like, a hundred times. I own these streets!”
John laughs and gently pushes me toward my car. “Yeah, yeah.”
I get into my car, shoot a quick reply to the text Kiara’s sent me ( YAY! Tell me everything at coffee tomorrow!!!! ), and follow him down the street. He turns left, then right, then left again, then doubles back past the shack. I’m about
to call him and tell him to stop being annoying when he finally puts his blinker on and turns into a driveway.
My driveway.
The driveway of my old house.
My hands are shaking a little as I pull in after him and climb out of my car. There’s a hot lump in the back of my throat,
and my eyes are prickling dangerously. The For Sale sign on the front lawn now says SOLD.
John holds his hands out to the house. “Voilà,” he says. “That’s French for ‘look at this.’” He grins at me, then his smile
falters when he sees my face. “Oh, shit. What’s wrong? I thought you’d be excited.”
“I am ,” I say in a tiny, tremulous voice. “I am excited. It’s... it’s...” I can’t find the words. “Did you really buy it?”
“Mm. It’s an awesome house. Needs some work done, but I can do most of it myself.”
“But... how ? Isn’t this place really expensive? Plus with you buying the shop—”
John shrugs. “I’ve been saving up for a place for a while now, and my parents loaned me a bit.” He looks up at the house. “Before you left, I heard you telling Dave that the people who owned this place were going to sell it, so I had my real estate buddy get in touch with them. I haven’t actually moved in yet, though. Closing’s not for a few weeks.”
“You mean—” I go hot with mortification. “You got in touch with them before I went to New York?”
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. He must’ve thought I would change my mind. He must’ve thought I wasn’t really going to leave.
He stares at me, bemused. “No. I did it the week after you left.”
I stare back at him. “So... you knew I’d come back?”
That seems way out of character. And also sort of condescending. Did he really think I wouldn’t stay in New York?
His mouth turns up in a fond, amused smile. “No, Em. I’m not a psychic. This is an awesome house. I bought it because I wanted
to. But now that you’re back, if you want to live in it with me...” He shrugs. “That’s just a fringe benefit.”
I study his face. “You mean it?”
He rolls his eyes. “ Yes . I bought it because I wanted to buy it, so there’s no reason to go into a big guilt spiral.”
“No, I meant... you really want me to live here with you?”
“Oh! Yeah,” he says. “If you want to.”
I walk into his arms and hook my chin over his shoulder, staring up at the facade of my perfect little house.
“I want to,” I say, as the first tears slip down my cheeks.
We’re in bed at his apartment sometime later, curled up in the darkness and talking about the house—what colors I want to paint the walls, the outdoor fire pit John wants to build in the backyard—when I snatch a sudden breath.
John stares at me. “What is it?”
“Wordle,” I say. “The last day.”
“Oh, shit,” John says. He sits up, reaching toward the nightstand to grab his phone.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s too late.”
I can see the wall clock in the moonlight.
It’s 12:32 a.m.
I missed the deadline. My streak is over.
John stares at me in horror. “Shit. Shit , Em—”
I shake my head. “Don’t apologize.”
“Er—I wasn’t going to apologize,” he says with a rueful grin. “I was just going to say that really sucks.”
I laugh, surprised by the bright, easy sound of it.
I know I should probably feel devastated. I should be crying and swearing and kicking myself for forgetting. I was so, so
close. Three hundred and sixty-four days. Three hundred and sixty-four words.
They’re all floating around in my head, but the funny thing is, all I can think of is the last one I tried.
RIGHT.
I lie back down on the bed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You sure?” John asks. “You were so excited to reach a year.”
I smile and shift closer to him, letting my three-hundred-and-sixty-four-day streak go with a shrug of my shoulders.
“I’m sure,” I say. “We can start again tomorrow.”