8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Now
For the rest of the evening, thoughts of Theo dance in the corner of my mind, refusing to be ignored. I know that I have no business contacting him, and I don’t plan to—but I can’t seem to stop thinking about what I might say if I did.
It took me so long to pick up the pieces of my life, but eventually, I accepted things as they were. I even began to think that everything worked out for the best, once I met Daniel and moved to New York and realized that I was on the brink of seizing a life of security and ease. Armed with Daniel’s credit card and endless time to do whatever I wanted, the version of me that once thought about sticking around Amity to run the store with Theo seemed impossibly na?ve.
I’m better off now.
So why do I keep thinking, What if I had called just one more time?
***
It’s half past nine and I’m in the middle of my nightly skincare routine when my phone buzzes with a call from Daniel. Huffing in annoyance, I quickly dry my hands and barely manage to answer before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Hey, babe.”
“Hey.” I put the phone on speaker, freeing my hands to pick up my retinol. “Did you just get home? I called after we ate dinner.”
I hear the beep of the microwave in the background. “Yeah, I saw. That merger has all of us working late. I thought it would be finalized before the wedding, but—”
“You’re going to make the wedding, right?”
Daniel lets out an irritable sigh. “Yes, Nina. I’m going to make our wedding.”
I bite back the urge to point out that on my last birthday, he was so late getting home from work that we missed the restaurant reservation I’d made months prior. I suppose missing his own wedding might be a step too far, though.
“Sorry,” I say in my best placating tone. “We had to go to the venue and sort out all the new details today. It was a bit stressful.”
He snorts. “I wish picking out ribbon was the most stressful part of my day.”
Since he can’t see me, I direct my glare at the mirror as I squeeze retinol onto my face. As always, two drops go along the thin line of scar tissue where my birthmark used to be. “I’m sorry you’re under stress at work,” I say evenly.
“It’s just the same bullshit. This guy who transferred from Boston is the dumbest fuck I've ever met."
I smooth my hands over my face, rubbing in the product. “Hmm.”
Daniel goes off on a tangent, and I attempt to listen as I switch out my retinol for eye cream. I know a lot about small business operations, given the way I grew up, but the finer points of Daniel’s job evade me. I have a hard time conceptualizing his mid six-figure salary, much less the enormous sums he deals with on a daily basis, and when he complains, my sympathy is often lost under memories of my parents fighting tooth and nail to keep the lights on.
He works hard so you don’t have to, I remind myself. You have three hundred dollars’ worth of skincare right here because of him.
“Anyway,” he says eventually as silverware clanks on his end. “I need to eat something and hit the sack. I have to be back early in the morning to get this sorted out.”
“Hold on. Did you see the text I sent you earlier? I wanted to make sure you’re okay with—”
Daniel cuts me off. “Nina, look, I don’t have the time or energy to read a paragraph about wedding shit. I’m taking time off so we can get married in North Carolina like you wanted. I need you to let me focus on work until then.”
I pause in applying my eye cream, fingers frozen on my cheekbones. In the mirror, I watch my face fall. It’s not that I thought this conversation was going great, but his complete refusal to engage has taken me aback. “Alright.”
Daniel sighs again. “My food’s getting cold.”
“That’s fine. Go eat. I love you.”
There’s a beat before he responds. “Love you too.”
“I hope tomorrow is bet—”
The line goes dead.
I finish up in the bathroom and head back into the guest room. Mom has it decorated like a high-end hotel room, but I’ve been here for over a week now, and I’m not a particularly tidy person. There’s a pile of worn-but-not-yet-dirty clothes tossed over the armchair in the corner, my suitcase lays open on the floor, and various forms of entertainment—magazines, tablet, vibrator—cover the bed.
I turn off the overhead lights, leaving only the lamp on the nightstand to see by. I shove my stuff to the side and crawl under the covers. On the off chance that Daniel has sent a follow-up text, I pick up my phone and click over to my messages. Nothing.
At this point, Daniel’s grumpy moods generally roll off my back; however, something about our conversation tonight has lodged a piece of discontent in my chest. I replay our exchange a few times, trying to pinpoint what’s bothering me. It could be the fact that he acted like our wedding was an inconvenience to him. Or the fact that he didn’t bother to ask about me or my day—except to mention how much more stressful his was.
I let out a sigh, equal parts frustrated with Daniel and myself. Work has always come first for him, and it’s never been a secret. Three weeks before our wedding is not the time to start challenging that.
I roll onto my side, reaching to turn off the lamp, but pause when I catch sight of my purse a few feet away. It’s on the floor, slouched against the wall, and I can see the corner of Theo’s business card peeking out of the side pocket.
And then, before I have the chance to think too hard about it, I pull out my phone, open a new text, and type in the number I never forgot.
There are a million questions I need to ask him, a million things I want to know, but all I write is, Hi.
I hold my breath after sending the message, but he doesn’t make me wait long for a reply.
Hey there, Sass.