Chapter 31 Now
Now
The sound of the building buzzer wakes me from a fitful sleep. I groan, rotating my face deeper into my pillow.
Another buzz.
I thrust off the covers and say aloud, to no one, “Fine! I’m coming.”
Arms crossed over my sweatshirt, I trudge to the hall, tap the microphone on the intercom and ask, “Who is it?”
“Delivery.” A gruff voice. “Leaving it here.” The microphone clicks off.
I groan again but slip on my flip-flops and pad out of my unit and down the steps, to the front entrance. I open the door to a large cardboard box paneled with Jeni’s Ice Creams in loopy orange script.
Maren. I let out a pitiful laugh.
Jeni’s is our heartbreak tradition.
In high school we nursed snubs from boys and mean-girl slights over cones at Twisters. But when our friendship became long distance in college, we discovered a shippable alternative in the midwestern creamery.
Wherever tragedies big and small appeared, the colorful ice cream pints followed.
Like when my grandmother died three weeks into my freshman year and a box showed up outside my residence hall, frosty from the dry ice.
Or the time Maren came down with the flu and had to miss her first big New York Fashion Week event.
Even after college the shipments continued.
The week I was laid off from Ever After, I ate bowls of Texas Sheet Cake for dinner three nights in a row.
And now, the morning after I told her my summer fling with Sebastian Nikolaou had come to an abrupt end, I’m receiving a breakup box.
I crouch to inspect it, wondering if she’d gone with my longtime favorite—Brambleberry Crisp—or a limited-edition flavor, or a combination of a few. A typed delivery note taped to one side flaps in the breeze.
L—he’s an idiot. Also, check your email. Love, M
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and open the black hole that is my nonwork Gmail app. I scroll past DSW promo codes and Goodreads updates until I find one from an unfamiliar address, confirming a two-person reservation for afternoon tea at Fortnum & Mason this Saturday.
In London.
I tap into my WhatsApp thread with Maren. Got the pity pints—now tell me what you did???
I return my phone to my pocket, pick the box up with both hands and head back upstairs. She responds as I’m cracking open a pint called Frosé.
I knew you wouldn’t let me buy you a plane ticket, but this res is much harder to get. If you don’t show up I’ll be pissed. : )
Maren wants me to have tea with her. In London. This weekend.
My thumbs freeze above the screen as I wait for the excuses to echo in my mind.
For once, I can’t really come up with any.
Another message appears: You’ve been wanting to come for years, Leens. What better time than now?
I scan my apartment and realize Sebastian is everywhere: kissing me against the counter, sipping coffee on the balcony, carrying me into my room.
There’s no denying that I could do with a change of scenery.
Then I think about work. I assigned almost a dozen stories and won’t be getting drafts in until next week.
Not to mention, I have yet to take a true vacation as a working adult.
If Mandy gives me a hard time about the last-minute PTO request, I could remind her of that, maybe attach an article about millennial burnout to underscore my point.
I grab my laptop and start looking into flights.