Chapter 9 Playlist I Was Already Confused
I STARE AT THE screen, confused. Myles just texted me, but… he called me Kat.
What on earth?
Did he accidentally type the wrong name or something? But no, he mentioned me, too, by name. And he asked about New York.
I gave him my phone number at the beach that night. Why does he think it’s Kat’s?
I drop my hands to my lap, phone still lit up and resting in my palm. I rack my brain for the exact events that happened that night. I was sitting by the fire, and we were talking about Pearl’s. He mentioned Kat’s departure, then asked for my number.
But—wait.
Did he ask for my number? I was distracted, and when I looked over to find him holding out his phone, I just assumed that was what he wanted. Oh my God, was he asking for Kat’s number? Not mine?
I drop my head back with a groan.
No, no, no.
I didn’t put my name in or anything. I just typed my number and handed his phone back.
Which, now, I’m kind of glad—because this is absolutely mortifying.
How awkward would that have been if I’d put in my name and number, and when he took his phone back, he looked at it and had to say, “Oh, I… uh, actually wanted your best friend’s number, not yours”?
Let’s be honest, it’s still horribly awkward now, but at least I can fix it via text.
I don’t have to watch disappointment dawn when he learns who he’s talking to.
(Sidenote—Myles is interested in Kat? Since when?
Second sidenote—why did Myles Ford feel the need to ask me for Kat’s number?
Doesn’t he know any girl would be thrilled at the chance to talk to him?)
I push my laptop to the side and sit up, crossing my legs underneath my comforter. I think for a few minutes, running through different options in my head.
I finally decide to go with the truth and blame my mistake on being preoccupied with Kat leaving town the next day. It’s definitely less pathetic than Oops, I thought you wanted my number, haha.
With a deep breath I reopen the message and type out, Oh geez, this is actually Amelia. I was so mixed up that night, I gave you MY number. Kat’s number is 774-555-0177. So sorry!
My thumb hovers over the little arrow that would send the message.
What will Kat say when he texts her?
Will she make more time for him than she has for me?
And at what point would her talking to him be a pact violation?
That pinky promise goes both ways… and if I’m really honest with myself, I always secretly felt like the pact served me better.
I never expected either of us to have a chance with Myles, but if the stars aligned and he did take notice of one of us one day…
Kat would be the more obvious choice for someone like Myles.
Outgoing, athletic, confident.
A long second goes by. Then two. Ten.
I stare at Kat’s number for an entire minute, wondering if she deserves this. She’s clearly moved on from everything to do with Kingfisher Cove and has made new friends in Pinecrest. She shouldn’t get a new life and Myles, too.
Slowly, letter by letter, I erase the text. I plug my phone in, put it on silent, and set it back on my bedside table. I roll onto my side and close my eyes, leaving Myles’s message unanswered.
I wake up feeling guilty. Not guilty enough to remedy my petty decision from last night, but enough to recognize that even after all these years of thinking I’m a decent human, it’s entirely possible I’m actually a terrible person.
I avoid looking at my phone and leave it by my bedside as I go downstairs in search of breakfast. I don’t want to know if Myles texted me (er, Kat) again, or if Kat finally decided to acknowledge I’m still alive.
It’s Saturday, which for most people would mean a house full of chatter and activity, with parents home from work for the weekend.
That’s not the case for me, with parents who work in retail, because Saturdays are the busiest for their jobs.
Dad sometimes works half the day on Sunday, but Mom’s home then, and both are off on Mondays.
I made sure to let Trish know I was always free to work Monday shifts, because those are the days Dad decides to clean out the shed or Mom finds some reason to reorganize the pantry.
Sure, maybe sometimes I’ll volunteer to be extra hands at Triton when I’m trying to avoid being alone, but I draw the line at chores at home.
I microwave a bowl of instant oatmeal and cover it with a thick layer of brown sugar, something my mom would get on me for if she were here.
It’s not until I’ve finished eating and rinsed out my bowl that I realize I haven’t been stepping over Margarine all morning.
She usually follows me around like a shadow, especially after my parents have left and I’m her only human left in the house.
Come to think of it, she wasn’t in my room when I got up.
“Margie?” I call out.
When she doesn’t come running, a spike of unease shoots through me. “Margarine? Where are you, girl?”
I check the living room and my parents’ room, but don’t see her.
I open the back door, wondering if maybe my parents let her out and forgot to bring her back in before they left for work.
Margarine’s not a runner, so even if she was left to her own devices to explore outside, she wouldn’t go far.
When I find no trace of her outside, I start to get really worried.
“Margarine!” I call, louder.
A faint noise comes from the laundry room. I slam the back door and run through the kitchen, smashing my elbow as I turn the corner into the small room that smells of detergent and dryer sheets.
Margarine is curled up on a pile of clothes. Her eyes are open and she’s panting, watching me, her tail wagging like she’s still happy to see me but doesn’t want to get up. She lifts her head and sort of leans up on her shoulder, then falls back onto her side.
Oh my God. I think she can’t get up.
“What’s wrong, girl?” I put my hand on her side and realize how heavily she’s breathing. “I’ll be right back, sweet pea, I promise.”
I race up the stairs, grab my phone, and call my mom on my way back down.
“Something’s wrong with Margarine,” I cry as soon as she picks up.
I’m back in the laundry room, and I kneel down.
“I just woke up and I couldn’t find her, but she’s in the laundry room.
” I sniff, and realize she might have had an accident too.
She hasn’t peed in the house since the week after we brought her home. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
“Okay, slow down.” My mother, always calm. My heart is pounding all the way in my throat. “What exactly is she doing?”
“She’s just lying here on some clothes, like she fell and can’t get back up. She’s breathing really hard. Like, panting, but she hasn’t been doing anything. I don’t know how long she’s been here—I slept in, and I don’t know what time you left this morning, or if she was okay then—”
“Honey, it’s okay. Sam’s here today, so I’ll come home to check on her, okay?”
I’m stroking her ears over and over, and notice her food bowl.
“She hasn’t eaten anything. Her breakfast is still in her bowl.
” Margarine’s one of those dogs who start whining at the cupboard where we keep her food a good hour before it’s time for her to eat, and scarfs it down in less than sixty seconds.
Then licks the bowl and floor around it.
That seems to worry Mom more than anything else, because I detect more urgency in her tone when she says, “I’m on my way.”
Mom left to take Margarine to the vet forty-five minutes ago, and I’m a mess.
She had to carry her because Margarine couldn’t stand or walk, but her tail was still going even as my mom tucked her into the car.
I’m supposed to work my first dinner shift at Pearl’s tonight, so I stayed back in case Mom and Margarine have to stay awhile.
I haven’t stopped crying.
I try calling Kat because Margarine’s always been part hers, too. We found her together, after all. Kat doesn’t answer, and in this moment that makes me irrationally angry. Especially because I can’t get Kat’s words from the morning she left out of my head.
She’s a grandma.
What if this is the last time I see her?
Was there something I missed? Some sign that Margarine was sick and I didn’t notice?
She got tired pretty early on our walk yesterday, but I didn’t think anything of it.
Oh my God, what if she dies? If I said something to my parents and they took her to the vet earlier, could we have prevented this?
My sweet, butter-yellow dog has been in my life for so long. She’s been by my side for years, and I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t come home.
I swipe my hand across my eyes. I don’t want to be here alone right now. I just want to talk to someone. I unlock my phone and open my texts to ask if my neighbor Ruby is home, but first my eye catches on the message Myles sent last night.
Before I really even think about what I’m doing, my fingers are moving across the keyboard.