Chapter 4
four
Georgia
“Seriously, Georgia? Stuffed French toast on a Friday morning?” Maisy’s brows dart up as she surveys the kitchen counter, the black soapstone dotted with broken eggshells, strawberry stems, and spilled sugar.
The sun, lazy in the deep winter, has little to offer, but the Tiffany pendants presiding over the island cast the room in a cozy orange. “It’s not even seven thirty.”
I dismiss her with a wave. “I like being up early.”
“And pretending to be a gourmet chef, apparently. Wait, did you go to the grocery store? Because when we went to bed last night, we were not the proud owners of challah bread and vanilla-bean maple syrup.”
“Actually, the challah is homemade,” I say with a satisfied smile.
Maisy shakes her head and takes the plate I hand her. “That’s it, you’re never moving out. Even if I have to burn your aunt’s house to the ground.” She hesitates and looks at me. “Sorry, too much? That was too much. The poor woman just died.”
“No, it’s fine. I didn’t know my Aunt Julie very well, and the time I did spend with her at that house was a total blur. Not to mention a lifetime ago.”
“I’m sure. How long did you stay with her after your parents passed away?”
I like that Maisy doesn’t tiptoe around the biggest trauma of my life.
“About a month, I want to say? My grandmother never wanted to talk about that summer—or anything before it, really. But I think I came and stayed with you guys first, then did a month with Julie here in Shafer, and then back to Jersey to live with my grandmother.”
“Jeez, Georgia, they just passed you around. A little girl. They really didn’t know what to do with you, did they?”
“My grandmother was the wrong person to be in charge of a kid who had just become an orphan overnight.”
Maisy’s thoughtful as she watches me pile French toast onto a white platter. “Are you okay talking about it? Everyone says I’m too direct, so if I’m being rude or nosy or, you know, ripping off scabs you’d rather leave alone, tell me to shut up.”
I hand her the platter and a serving fork.
“Actually, it’s nice to talk about my mom and dad without someone studying me to see if I’m about to fall to pieces.
” My parents died when I was ten and away at an overnight camp.
That fact has defined my life every day since my Great-Aunt Julie—who lived thirty minutes from camp—took me by the hand and told me my family was gone, and I don’t treat it like a dirty secret.
We sit at the counter, and I dish out French toast and strawberries. Maisy takes her first bite and groans, her eyes rolling back in her head, and I don’t try to hide my delight.
“Good?”
“Amazing.”
Pleased, I let my mind jump to the weekend’s breakfast possibilities. “If you’re home Sunday morning, I’ll make sticky buns. Or cinnamon rolls. Your choice.”
“Georgia, you’re already paying rent, you owe me nothing.”
“No, I want to. Breakfast is my thing.”
She sprinkles powdered sugar onto her plate. “Believe me, your talents haven’t gone unnoticed. I usually stick to my mom’s traditional untoasted Pop-Tart for my first meal. Take that as a warning of what awaits you when you come home with me next month.”
“I like a nice Pop-Tart. It’s more about the tradition. My grandmother was a strong believer in a hearty breakfast, so I was always in the kitchen with her in the mornings. It was the one time she really relaxed and acted like her old self.”
Maisy wipes powdered sugar off her lip. “That’s sweet. I’m glad she gave you that, at least.”
I wonder if I’ve been a little too forthcoming about my grandmother’s deficiencies as a caretaker. “Anyway, plenty more where this came from.”
“Never leave me,” she commands, squeezing my wrist.
“Be careful what you wish for. I drove by my aunt’s house on my way to the store this morning, and even from the outside I can tell it’s going to be way more work than I realized. I thought I’d be moving in there within a couple weeks.”
“Good. Who cares? You can live here until the lease runs out if that’s what you need. We’re having fun, right?” She smiles. “So how’d you like the Phantom? I saw a lot of fine young men checking you out.”
I’m gripped by the memory of Cash cutting through the crowd to get to me, and my chest tightens. The look in his eyes could sustain me for years to come. I try to brush away the image. “You were right, it was definitely an experience. Shafer is nothing like my old school, I gotta tell you.”
“Better or worse?”
“To be determined, but I’m optimistic.”
“Don’t worry if the Phantom isn’t your scene. It’s not mine either. Actually, we’re going to some new wine bar slash bookstore tonight. Check it out with us?”
Stalling, I take a sip of coffee.
“Come on, my friends really liked you.”
“Really? Even Avery?”
Maisy chuckles, reaching for another piece of French toast. “Ah, so she showed you her bitter side. Yeah, she’s not always the easiest to get along with, but she and Leann were friends growing up, so she’s here to stay. What did she say to you?”
I bite into a strawberry. Is Cash’s flirting with me a sore subject? “She made it clear I shouldn’t feel too special that your brother approached me. Not that he—”
“Oh god. Yeah, she eye fucks my brother every chance she gets. Subtlety is not the girl’s strength. Don’t even worry about her, Georgia.”
I nod and take another serving that I don’t particularly want. I really shouldn’t ask the question burning in my mind. No good could come of it. Yet I still blurt out, “So is that true?”
“Is what true?”
Keeping my focus on my plate, I cut up my food. “That Cash flirts with everyone.”
Next to me, Maisy falls silent. Shit. She knows. “Yeah, pretty much,” she says, her casual tone making me wonder if I imagined her dramatic pause.
Disappointment cuts straight through me.
Why do I even care? I should say something so she doesn’t realize how much I wanted a different answer, but nothing comes to me.
As vivid as a dream, a memory of last night sweeps over me in brilliant detail: Cash’s body next to mine, his warm scent enveloping me as he leaned close to my ear, washing clean the scent of stale beer and sweat that hung in the room.
The pulsing music dancing under the bass tones of his voice and the soul-deep way his eyes reached into mine.
Pain jolts me out of the memory as I accidentally bite my cheek.
“He was definitely dazzled by you, though,” Maisy remarks, and I’m embarrassed by the way I snap to look at her, trying to read every clue on her face.
“Think so?”
“Well, you’re one hundred percent his type. Beautiful, glam, put-together.”
Glam? That’s a new one. I do love my makeup, but glam is for women who stroll red carpets and jet off to Paris for the holidays, not those of us who rarely leave home and spend Friday evenings perfecting our croissant recipe.
Still, I find myself enjoying the label.
Thinking of myself as Cash Hartnell’s type gives me a little glow.
Now I remember why I care whether his flirting meant something. It’s this feeling—of being someone special. Of Cash seeing something in me no one else saw and that no one else in that room possessed.
“But yes, flirting is like eating, sleeping, or playing football for my brother. It’s what he does. Which sucks for girls like Avery who take it too seriously, but hey, he is who he is.”
“True.”
“So come with us tonight.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, going out two nights in a row? That would be a record for Georgia Grant.”
“It’ll be fun!”
It won’t be for me, though. Socializing is exhausting at best, and I don’t have the energy to face feeling like an outsider in Maisy’s friend group again.
With the exception of Avery, the girls all tried their best to include me; the problem is me.
I never know how to crack that wall, to move past outsider status, and at this point, I don’t want to, anyway.
“I’m good here. Really. I want to stay in and organize my room. ”
“Really? Because if it’s about Avery, I will find a way to make sure that girl stays home.”
“Not at all, it’s me. I warned you before I moved in I’m a homebody. Unless I’m in class, you’re never going to have this house to yourself again, my friend.”
“All right, if you’re sure. But it’s an open invitation. You can change your mind or meet up with us later, okay?”
“Got it.”
Maisy wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Let’s clean up, because I need to get to class.”
“Go.” I wave her off. “There are hardly any dishes, I’ll do them. I don’t have class until nine thirty, anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Now go.”
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not the perfect roommate.”
I can do this.
Ignoring the raucous noise bouncing off the walls of the packed student union, I search for an empty table.
Flashbacks of middle school assault me—that excruciating cafeteria search for a safe place to set down my lunch tray.
Someone jostles me from behind, and my chicken chowder sloshes in its bowl.
The burn of people’s stares turns my face red the longer I stand here.
Come on, Georgia, pick a seat. Any will do.
I spot an empty table tucked up against the corner and book it there, avoiding eye contact with everyone in my path.
Most Shafer seniors have tight friends, people they’ve gone to class with, partied with, and even lived with for years now.
I can only wonder what that’s like. But it’s oddly comforting to be on a campus of twenty thousand and not have to worry about running into anyone I know.
Well, except for one person.
Every time I glimpse a guy with great curls across campus, my stomach does a tiny flip.
I need to stop letting my mind wander to last night because every time I do, that feeling fills me up again—the feeling that something is actually happening, something that’ll open a door I can’t go back through.
Maybe it’s a sign I’ve kept to myself too much the last few years and I’ve forgotten how charming some people can be.
But no man has ever worked his charm on me like Cash did.
It’s not that I don’t believe Maisy. I’m sure he flirts with dozens of girls a day and does it better than anyone, but it’s hard to accept I misread his interest so much.
I head for Data Analytics, taking the stairs into the red brick building and then searching out the classroom, double-checking the room number on my schedule.
The whole time, that feeling clings to me.
As I enter the lecture hall, my eyes ignore my instructions not to scan the half-empty room for that curly hair, but they don’t find what they’re looking for.
After choosing a seat in a middle row on the far right, I commit to keeping my gaze forward for the rest of class, even as more students stream in and seats fill up.
Ninety minutes later, I head out into a day that’s turned gray and blustery, and my uncomfortable sense of anticipation finally settles down.
He was probably joking about being in my class, anyway, and that’s for the best.
Exhaustion weighs me down by the time I pull the front door closed behind me. The house is silent, and I exhale the weight of the world and sag against the solid wood. Much as I’m loving having Maisy as a roommate, I’m relieved to be alone. I need my quiet time to decompress after a long day.
I send out a series of emails to nearby handymen, junk haulers, and real estate agents in an attempt to get organized for the task of cleaning out my aunt’s house and prepping it for sale.
Aunt Julie’s saddling me with this task is a mystery, and with her gone, I’m sure it’ll remain that way.
She never had children, and I’m not in contact with any other family members who might know why she chose me of all people to inherit her home.
My only connection to the place is a few visits back when my parents were alive.
Plus the hazy weeks I spent there following their death while my grandmother frantically sorted through the legal and emotional matters of losing her only son and becoming my guardian.
Armed with a cup of tea and a classical playlist bubbling from my phone, I wander up to my room to finish the last of my unpacking, when I’m greeted by the sound of my toilet running continuously.
I pause in the bathroom doorway. I could call Maisy and get the landlord’s number to arrange for a repair, but that could take days.
Better to attempt a DIY—I’ve replaced a toilet part or two in my day.
A peek inside the tank reveals clean, new-looking parts, except for a flapper so degraded I wonder if it’s as old as the house itself, though that’s good news. It’ll be an easy fix.
One trip to the hardware store and one shiny new flapper later, I slide the tank lid back on. Pure silence.
“Nice,” I congratulate myself. “The sweet sound of success.”
So maybe a DIY toilet repair isn’t the most exciting way to spend a Friday evening, but at least I’ll have a story to impress Maisy with when she gets home.
Besides, I enjoy handling these things on my own, collecting proof that being alone isn’t the sad tragedy our culture makes it out to be.
Some people are meant to have lots of friends, to marry and have kids, to make relationships the foundation of their lives, and some of us can be happy with our homes, our hobbies, and ourselves.
The pain comes from wishing it could be any different.
Forgoing unpacking, I sit on my too-soft mattress with my laptop and run a quick job search, as I’ve done daily since arriving here.
An actuary job is at the top of my list, though I’m not picky.
I’m also flexible on position and salary, so long as it keeps my mind busy with numbers and provides enough money for a decent apartment.
My only strict requirement is location: fifteen miles or fewer from the town in Jersey where I lived with my grandmother.
Not because it’s an idyllic area or even because there’s anyone I miss, but because it’s familiar. What I miss is my comfort zone, my quiet daily rituals, my walk to the coffee shop downtown.
The only new job posting offers abysmal pay; I click it anyway, filling out the application as classical music fills the quiet as effectively as it did in my grandmother’s silent house all those years.