Chapter Seventeen Fridge Your Feelings –Don’t
Linda
“HI, IT’S LINDA. If this is an appliance, surrender now. If you're human, speak quickly—my blender just growled.”
“Linda, it’s Sara. Want to come yell at my refrigerator? The ice-maker had a meltdown and is making one half cube an hour.”
“I’m on my way—make sure you have emotional support snacks for afterwards.”
“You LYING LIAR. You FAKE-ASS ICE MAKER. ”
Linda stood in the middle of Sara’s kitchen, fists clenched, tears welling, as the fridge made a noise like a dying blender and spat a single sad cube into the tray.
“She trusted you,” she hissed at the fridge. “And what do you give her? One ice pellet and emotional instability.”
She slapped the side of the fridge for emphasis. The fridge responded by spitting out a solitary ice pellet like it was deeply offended.
Linda sobbed.
Sara, barefoot and sipping an aggressively large glass of wine, leaned against the counter with the resigned expression of someone who had lived through all of Linda’s emotional boss fights.
“Okay,” she said, gently. “What did Rhys do?”
“Nothing!” Linda wailed. “That’s the problem! He’s perfect!”
And then she collapsed against the counter like a Victorian ghost, her tears catching on a rogue freezer magnet that said ‘Chill Vibes Only’.
Sara slid the wine over to her.
Linda grabbed it. “He brought me coffee. And pancakes. And I love his dog, I swear his dog loves me more than him too. And he told his ex that he’s in love with me—to sell the fake relationship—and now I don’t know if anything is real except that I might be in love with him and I don’t know what to do with that because I am not emotionally equipped for functional relationships or men with excellent jawlines!”
Sara arched an eyebrow. “Micah? The tragically hot barista you said flounced like he was auditioning for Wicked at community theater?”
Linda sniffled. “Yes.”
Sara took the wine back, sipped, unbothered. “Don’t you think ‘accidentally’ running into Micah—with eyeliner sharper than your tax documents—just after you told Rhys that you’d ruined the Beard fake relationship was suspiciously timed?”
“What?!”
Sara sighed, deeply. “You know I love you, and I fully support you in all your appliance drama and emotional repression. But, Rhys is in love with you to the depths of his accountant heart. Like, spreadsheets and amortization tables and all.”
Linda whimpered into the dish towel. “He’s not. He’s gay, remember? I wish he was.”
There was a beat.
Then Sara grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Listen to me, you absolute goblin. That man looks at you like you are the last warm cookie on Earth and he has been emotionally fasting since 2012. I have seen the glances. The forehead kisses. The time he tucked your tag in and didn’t even say anything about it. ”
Linda whimpered.
There was a long silence. The fridge hiccupped. One ice cube clattered into the tray like a slow, dramatic punctuation mark.
Then Sara leaned in and murmured, “I’ve seen love. I watched The Notebook three times while drunk. That man is not faking. And if you don’t name me godmother to your chaos goblin children, I will sue you for emotional damages.”
Linda looked up, eyes red. “But he never says it.”
“Jesus Christ.” Sara handed her a bag of frozen peas. “Put this on your heart before it combusts. Or explodes. Or triggers a kitchen appliance mutiny.”
Linda clutched the peas like a lifeline.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “What if it’s real?”
Sara smiled, soft and smug. “Sweetheart. It’s been real since the alarm clock.”
And in the background, the fridge let out a wheeze and dropped three perfect cubes into the tray.
Because even it knew—it was time.