Chapter 19 Rachel
I stare at my phone, not really believing what I’m seeing. I read and re-read the string of messages from TJ Doyle. Tyler.
I change the name in my contacts. I have to type it three times before I spell it right. Then I change it back to TJ.
I wasn’t lying. I am tired from the past two days, working remotely to get the new office up and running. I don’t like it one bit. There’s not one aspect of my life that seems familiar anymore. It’s as if I’m walking around in someone else’s shoes. Ones that are several sizes too large.
Also, I’m very deep into a bottle of pinot grigio, but that seems like a detail best kept to myself. I take another long drink.
Yes, this new life in this new apartment with a new workplace and a new superhot, super famous friend feels much too big for me. Any minute, I’m going to wake up, and this will all have been some kind of melatonin-induced fever dream.
But every day, I wake up and I’m still here.
Richie is still dead, and I still have to go to work for CRAP #2.
That’s the abbreviation for the Sharon office.
Pretty fitting, if you ask me. What’s especially crappy is we haven’t been able to get into the building yet, so I’m doing everything remotely.
You’d think I’d like it, but I hate working remotely. It blurs the line between my safe haven and work.
And now today, there’s a string of text messages asking me to go to Vegas and watch TJ Doyle play soccer again. It’s actually a solid plan—if I intended to carry out any more of Richie’s list. Which I don’t, because the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t ever achievable.
It’s not even the baby thing. That seems improbable but not impossible.
No, the impossible thing on the list is forgiving Mom. There’s no way in hell I will be doing that. "I’m not forgiving Mom!" I yell at the ceiling. Since I won’t be able to complete the list, it seems foolish to try to do any of the other things on it.
How do I explain that to TJ? He was only being helpful. Nice. Kind. Why?
What could he possibly want from me in return? There’s only one way to find out.
Me: Why are you trying to help me with this?
When my phone doesn’t ding with an immediate response, I finish the bottle of wine.
Then I start pacing. Or as close to pacing as I can do in my current state.
There may be some stumbling involved. He thinks I’m rude.
He hates me now. I don’t want him to hate me.
I want to understand why he likes me. That’s the problem with texting.
You can’t infer tone. You certainly can’t understand the years of wondering when, or if, my mom was going to show up, and the tremendous shadow that it’s cast on my entire life.
She didn’t even come to see Richie until the very end.
Me: I don’t mean that in a nasty way. I really want to know why this matters to you.
TJ: It would be easier to say in person.
He’s not wrong.
I run to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and reapply my deodorant. I’ve already taken out my contacts, put my glasses on, and changed into sweatpants and an old T-shirt. It’ll have to do. My apartment is far too hazy right now to attempt to make myself look better.
Why am I always trying to figure out what to wear for this man? Seriously, he needs to accept me as I am—no dressing to impress. No, sir. I’m not her. I smile at my little rhyme. At least I find myself funny.
Then, confirming his apartment number, I stumble across the street to find out why my sister’s bucket list means so much to him.
My knuckles barely rap on the door when he yanks it open. He, too, is in sweatpants. Those gray ones. The ones authors write about and women lust over.
Or maybe they lust over that bare chest that’s sculpted and firm and doesn’t have a hint of hair.
"I hope you filmed some content in those," I say, giving him a once-over. "That’s viral material right there."
A big grin filled with naughty thoughts spreads across his face, revealing straight white teeth. "You can hold the camera for me."
Is it hot in here, or is it just my hormones?
I resist the urge to fan myself. The last thing I need to do is to fawn over this man.
He’s not only next level, he’s next stratosphere.
And for some reason, he wants to take me under his wing.
Maybe he’s taken one too many balls to the head.
Maybe he likes charity work. Maybe he’s a little touched.
Whatever the reason, I’m not going to make the situation uncomfortable by getting feelings.
He’s objectively attractive. That’s all there is to it. That, and I’m a little drunk.
I will not make a fool—a bigger fool—of myself simply because he’s nice to me. Perhaps I should have thought of that before I put away an entire bottle of wine. In my defense, how was I supposed to know he’d want me to come over? Time to play it cool.
"Okay, hand it over. What’s your best side?" I hold my fingers and thumbs up to make a frame and squint while I look through it. I come to one conclusion: This man does not have a bad side. "What am I going to record you doing?"
He walks toward the kitchen area. The cooktop is littered with pots and pans while a cutting board and several bowls occupy the granite counter. "I usually try to get some food prep video."
"You cook without your shirt on? Is that sanitary? Aren’t you afraid of getting splattered by hot grease?" I narrow my eyes at his chest. "Also, do you wax or what?"
I truly do not know what has come over me.
Neither does TJ. "Have you been drinking?"
"Maybe I’m drunk on your physique."
He stares at me for a moment.
"Or a cheap bottle of pinot grigio," I confess.
"What are you doing going over to a stranger’s apartment when you’re drunk? Don’t you know what could happen?"
I respond with a hiccup.
Tyler shakes his head, walks to the fridge, and pours me a glass of water from the filtration pitcher. My body shakes with another hiccup as I take the glass from him, spilling a little water over our hands. "Sorry. I’ve got the hiccups."
"Thanks, Captain Obvious."
I bend over at the waist and place my mouth on the far side of the rim of the glass. Then, bending a little further, I tilt the glass away from my body until I can drink from the opposite side.
"Rachel, are you okay?"
I lift my gaze, still drinking, to see Tyler bent over, looking through the veil of my hair. I stand up and say, "Voila! Hiccups are gone!" I pose like Vanna White revealing the newest letter on Wheel of Fortune.
"What was that?"
I place the glass down on the counter, slowly and methodically to ensure I don’t accidentally spill it or drop it on the floor. I’m not super trusting of my motor skills right now. "That was the only useful thing my mother ever taught me. How to cure hiccups. Never fails."
It’s true. I remember my mom showing me that when I was little. It’s worked every time. Of course, most of the time when I do it, people have the same panicked reaction that TJ had. They think I’m about to upchuck.
He takes my glass and refills it. "Did you only come over because you’re drunk?"
I nod. "Well, that and I really need to know something."
He resumes his place at the cutting board, squinting at the recipe card.
He studies the directions and then moves diligently while he chops the zucchini and carrots.
Of course, he would eat zucchini. I only eat it in bread form with chocolate chips added.
With all of the coordination I still possess, I climb up on one of the kitchen stools and lean my elbows on the counter, facing TJ. The room spins a little.
"What do you need to know?" he asks. He consults the card again.
"Why do you care about my list? You were blowing up my phone with all these … plans." I wave my hand around. "Why are you making plans for me? What’s it to you?" Then, to soften my abruptness, I add, "I mean why are you even thinking about me at all?"
He puts down the large knife he’s been chopping with.
He looks at it for a moment and then moves it to the other side of the cutting board, away from my reach.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times.
"I just thought you could use a little help. You know, like you’re too close to it, so you can’t see the forest through the trees. "
I squint at him, trying to figure out what he means.
"Maybe not the forest through the trees. I’ve never been good at those phrases.
What I mean is that because of your grief, it might seem very overwhelming and like you don’t know where to start.
But because I’m not in your shoes, I can see that there are very easy ways to do some of the things your sister wanted to do. "
He’s not getting my point, although he’s not wrong. It all seems like too much. "No, but why me? Why do you want to help me?"
TJ shrugs. "I dunno. You’re nice. You put up with my mom and my family’s antics without running screaming in the other direction. You live close by."
"So basically, proximity, and I let your mom push me around. Got it."
TJ smiles. "I dunno why. Also, I really want to know why I was on your sister’s list."
"That’s easy. You’re hot." In the morning, I can feel mortified about my behavior. Right now, I speak the truth. In vino veritas.
"Okay, maybe," he agrees. It’s not like being good-looking is a shock to TJ. "But don’t you think it’s weird you keep crossing my path? It’s gotta be for a reason, right?"
"Would it be crazy to say my sister’s behind this?" I ask. That’s got to be the answer. Christ, she’s the one who set this whole thing in motion to begin with.
"Yes, unless you believe in ghosts and possession, in which case I’m going to have to draw the line."
I spin around on the stool, which is a colossal mistake as it makes me more dizzy. I grab onto the edge of the counter to stop the world from spinning. "I wish I could say I did. But I haven’t heard a word from Richie yet. I keep looking."
"Is Richie short for something? I’ve never heard of a girl with that name before."
"It’s short for Richelle. Whenever Richie was trying to introduce herself to people, especially in a crowd, she would say, ‘It’s like Michelle, with an R.
’ She’d take her finger and draw the R out in the air.
Or if it was a hot guy, on his chest." I make the shape of a capital R in the air like Zorro.
"So your names were …"
"Yup, Rachel and Richelle Cramer. No one ever accused my mother of having good taste. Or any taste at all." I wrinkle my nose. "Her name is Renee, and her brother is Robert. Guess she wanted to keep the ‘R’ thing going."
"What do you have to forgive her for?" After consulting the recipe yet again, TJ tosses the vegetables in a bowl with some olive oil and then pours them onto a foil-lined sheet pan.
He slides it into the oven and then returns to the counter.
I watch as he unwraps chicken breasts and measures out salt and pepper.
He meticulously sprinkles it on the meat.
"I’ve never actually seen anyone measure salt and pepper before."
"Can I tell you a secret? I can’t actually cook. If I don’t follow this recipe step by step, it’ll turn out inedible. Trust me, I know this from experience. Also, there’s a big difference between teaspoons and tablespoons, especially when it comes to salt."
I’m relieved for the change in topic. My absolute least favorite thing in the world is to talk about my mom. "Then why do you pretend to know how to cook?"
TJ looks at me, his blue eyes piercing through my drunken fog. "Isn’t that what we’re all doing online? Pretending to be something we’re not?"
I scoff, "No. I don’t pretend at all. I’m very open about what I do for a living."
He shakes his head. "No, Rachel, you’re not. You’re not even to the level of pretending. You’re doing something much worse."
How dare he insult my job? It’s not glamorous. I get that. But it’s needed. Hell, I saved his parents’ house four days ago. How quickly we forget.
I’m about to launch into him when TJ quietly says, "You’re hiding. You’re so far deep in the shadows that I’m worried you’ll never find the light again."
Ouch.