Chapter 4
nova
“I feel like dog shit, Luna,” I groaned, popping one of the nausea pills the doctor had given me. “I do not want to go out and get a Sunday roast.”
“But it’s Sunnnday,” Luna whined, drawing the word out like a child before chucking a shoe in my direction.
I dodged it—barely—and shot her a glare. “Throw another, and I’ll aim for your expensive candles.”
Luna ignored me, already rummaging through the pile of jackets by the door. “Come on. You’ve been moping around all weekend. Fresh air. Gravy. Yorkshire puddings. You’ll thank me later.”
I sighed, slumping farther into the sofa, my face half buried in a pillow. “We live in England now, Lune. Sunday roasts are a weekly occurrence. I can skip one.”
She huffed dramatically, hands on her hips.
To be fair, we had upgraded since moving to London.
Our flat was actually nice—big windows that let in enough light to make it feel airy, even when it rained, and smack in the middle of a much bougier neighborhood than we had any right to afford.
Whereas in Chicago, our apartment was much smaller, and I was sleeping out in the living room.
It had two bedrooms and an office, which I’d been using for work. Though, at this rate, it was probably going to become the rice kernel’s room—eventually. That thought alone made me glance over at the closed door, as though the empty room already knew what was coming.
We’d thrifted most of our furniture from charity shops across the city—mismatched chairs, a secondhand sofa that was somehow both hideous and perfect, and a little kitchen table that wobbled if you leaned too hard on one side.
Luna called it “charmingly eclectic,” which was her way of saying we were broke, but resourceful.
Otherwise, we lived pretty minimally. The walls were still mostly bare, except for a couple of prints Luna had hung up. It was ours, and it felt bigger, cleaner, and better than anything we’d had back in the States.
I looked around, taking it in—the cozy disarray, the faint smell of coffee from this morning still lingering in the kitchen—and sighed. This was home. Whether I liked it or not.
“It’s not about the roast,” Luna said finally. “You need to get out. You’ve been hiding in here like a hermit all weekend, and I’m not letting you wallow.”
I cracked an eye open and scowled. “I’m not wallowing.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got your sweatpants pulled up to your knees like a gremlin, Nova. That’s wallowing.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I let out another dramatic groan, sitting up enough to glare at her. “Fine. But if I throw up at the pub, you’re cleaning it up.”
Luna grinned, victorious. “Deal. Now go put on something that doesn’t scream ‘I gave up on life.’ ”
“You look cute,” Luna said.
It was September, but there was a brisk chill in the air, yet somehow Luna looked like we were going to a club in Mykonos. She was in a cropped white top and a long, white maxi skirt. She had big, gold hoop earrings, and her hair was straightened.
On the other hand, I was wearing a black cardigan, my black Docs, a cropped black top, and a pair of wide-legged jeans. My hair was straightened because Luna insisted.
“Do you think I need to call him?” I asked as we walked toward the White Swan, a pub that supposedly did an amazing dinner on Sundays.
“Who? Hot assistant coach?” She linked her arm through mine. “Fuck yeah.”
I huffed out a breath. I couldn’t date. She knew it.
Plus, I was never . . . ever going to fraternize with anyone at my work because look at where that got me.
Let’s not forget to add the fact that in a few months, everyone was going to see my round belly and be utterly disgusted with me, not wanting to date a pregnant lady.
“No.” I paused. “Austin.”
“Hmmm,” Luna responded.
“I feel like I need to tell him.”
“I mean, I agree. He is the biological father or whatever,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulders. “But you can wait a little bit. When people first enter rehab, they don’t really have phone privileges and stuff, so I’d wait a month, maybe until your next appointment.”
I nodded and bit my lip. “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll wait a month. Plus, with my PCOS, it may be better to wait until I’m past twelve weeks.”
I closed my eyes as we walked in silence to the pub. Luna pulled my shoulders, forcing me to face her.
“I’m worried as shit about you,” she said seriously.
“You aren’t yourself. I’ve been reading about it, and for a minute, I thought it was hormones and the stress of your life, but you’re really fucking down lately.
” She grabbed a strand hanging in my face.
“Like, when was the last time you washed your hair, Nove?”
No idea. “In America?”
“That . . . no.” Luna shook her head. “Unacceptable. We gotta get you out of this funk. Otherwise I’m mentioning it at your next appointment, and we’ll get you some happy pills.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t against medications, but there weren’t many I could take safely. “I . . . I’ll get over it. I think I need to get out.”
Because sitting at home was killing me.
I sat at home and thought about my failed marriage. I sat at home and remembered when Austin threw a glass at me, how it shattered, how I sank to the floor with blood dripping down my hand and thought, Is this love?
I sat at home and thought about my mom—my dead mom—and all the moments I missed in her last months because I’d been consumed with Austin. Consumed with trying to hold together something that was already beyond broken.
I sat at home and wallowed in my own filth, trapped in a loop of sad, disgusting thoughts because I didn’t know how or where to begin loving myself. I couldn’t find peace, not in my work, not anywhere—not when I was puking in bathrooms and embarrassing myself in front of people I barely knew.
“Let’s go get food,” I said suddenly, pointing at my stomach. “The kernel is hungry, and this smells good.”
Luna’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Now you’re talking.”
She grabbed my arm and practically dragged me inside the little pub. The place was packed, which surprised me—I always figured Sunday roast was a quiet, family affair, but apparently not.
It was loud, warm, alive. A stark contrast to the walls I’d been hiding behind.
“Looks like the whole city had the same idea.” Luna squeezed us through the narrow entryway.
I took a deep breath, letting the chatter and clanging of plates drown out the noise in my head.
We found a small table in the corner, one of those wobbly ones, but Luna grinned like we’d hit the jackpot. The pub buzzed with life—warm light, the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and laughter spilling over from every corner.
The waitress appeared quickly, a smile plastered on her face despite the rush. “What can I get you two lovelies?”
“Two Sunday roasts,” Luna said without hesitation.
“And drinks?”
“Pint of lager for me,” Luna replied smugly.
“Just a soda, thanks,” I added, my voice quieter.
I don’t know if she fully understood how deep my gratitude ran—how much I owed her for being the one person whose hand I’d always take without question. It was so big, so overwhelming, that sometimes I didn’t know how to say it out loud.
Our food arrived not long after, carried by the same smiling waitress, who carefully placed the plates in front of us. “Here we go, two roasts. Enjoy.”
The plates were almost comically large—piled high with roasted meat glistening under a drizzle of gravy, golden Yorkshire puddings puffed to perfection, crispy roasted potatoes, buttery carrots, and peas.
The hunger hit hard and fast, like I’d been starving for weeks. I dug in without hesitation, barely coming up for air as I shoveled in bite after bite.
Luna watched me with a smirk. “Hungry?”
“Don’t judge me,” I mumbled around a mouthful, already diving back in.
For the first time in weeks, I felt grounded. Not floating. Not drowning. Just here. Full.
“Feeling better now?” she asked, raising her pint.
“Much,” I admitted, leaning back in my chair as the warmth of the meal settled over me.
An older man wandered over, his face lined with age, but his eyes bright and curious. “Pardon me, ladies,” he said, his voice gruff but friendly. “Did I hear American accents? I thought so. I live in the building next to yours—saw you moving in the other week.”
Luna’s face lit up. She was a people person, so random conversations like this were her thing. “No way. You’re our neighbor?”
He nodded, pulling up a chair like he’d been invited. “I’m Clive. Live on the ground floor next door. Been there twenty years.”
“Nice to meet you, Clive.”
Before I knew it, Luna had ordered him another pint, and Clive was settling in like an old friend.
And then it snowballed. A few more older men from the bar spotted Clive and decided to join, dragging over chairs and plopping down like we were the entertainment for the night.
They introduced themselves with booming voices and clinking pints, telling us everything they thought we needed to know about living here.
“Tourists always go to Big Ben first thing. Don’t bother, it’s a clock!”
“If you want a proper local pint, skip the fancy craft beer pubs. Stick to places like this.”
“You’ll need wellies come winter. The rain doesn’t stop here.”
“Markets are the heart of London—Spitalfields, Borough, Camden. But don’t go to Camden on a weekend. Bloody nightmare! Or any of them for that matter.”
The advice kept coming, and soon Luna was in her element, laughing loudly and somehow becoming the center of attention. She had a whole group of older men around her, all raising their glasses and trading jokes.
The pub had gotten louder, more chaotic, and somehow even more alive. More people piled in, squeezing into every available corner.
I couldn’t help but laugh as Luna cackled over another round of pints with her newfound fan club. She was thriving.
The door chimed, the sound somehow cutting through the noise, and for some reason, I turned to look.