Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
ANNIKA
I don’t even have to open my eyes to know something went wrong last night.
My mouth is dry. My head is pounding enough to make me dizzy and there’s a faint lingering warmth in my chest that says I enjoyed myself.
Which is worse.
Because good times are usually because you made a bad decision. I’m having drinks with my clients’ family. No good can come of this, can it?
I let out a gentle groan, rolling onto my back and dragging the comforter over my face like that will undo whatever version of me decided margarita night was a good idea.
Spoiler alert: It was fun.
I’ve already said too much. I wish I knew. Did I say that Parker and I had been together? Did I say anything about my past? This is why I don’t drink. Not being able to remember everything and control the narrative makes my head spin. It also makes me nauseous.
My ringtone sings on the nightstand. I freeze.
Please don’t be Parker.
Please don’t be something I regret.
I reach for it anyway, heart thundering.
Parker: Hope you’re feeling okay. Do you want a protein shake before I head to the stadium?
I respond quickly so he thinks I’m a professional and already on my way to work.
Me: I feel great. Your family is nice. See you next week at your appointment.
Next week? We had sex two nights ago. What in the world am I doing?
I see bubbles dancing on my screen like he’s trying to figure out what happened.
Don’t worry Parker, I am too.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Let’s assess the damage from last night.”
I scroll to the top of the thread with him where I messaged him first and my immediate response is to crawl back under the covers and stay there forever.
Me: Your sister told me about the time you cried because she wouldn’t marry you when you were four. Did she break your heart?
Parker: She said no. I’ve never recovered.
I press my lips together fighting a smile. He can take some jokes at his expense. So far I haven’t said anything terrible.
Me: And now I can stop picturing tiny cowboy boots and a bowl cut, so thanks for that.
Parker taps the like emoji, but doesn’t message back.
Next one.
Me: Apparently you fought a garden snake with a plastic sword.
Me: A knight with plastic armor. Glad it wasn’t poisonous.
Parker: I killed it. I stand by the decision to use as little force as necessary.
Me: That’s on brand for you.
Me: Were you wearing cowboy boots?
Parker: Absolutely. I’m a tough guy. Rugged.
I drop my head into my chest, heat creeping up my neck. This back and forth all seems so normal like we’ve been talking and texting forever.
Uh oh. There’s more.
Me: You are. I felt those ridges.
I close my eyes and hope it says not delivered.
Why would I say that?
Parker: That sounds like a compliment. I’ll take it.
Me: Don’t let it go to your head.
Parker: Too late. The blood is rushing to it now.
Me: Stop.
Parker: You started it. But seriously, you’re causing me to have a constant boner. I’m at a sports bar with a friend and I can’t stand up.
I bite my lip, something soft curling in my chest despite the embarrassment and I scroll again.
Parker: You okay?
Parker: Do you need a ride home?
That stops me and I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary. Because this feels like the Parker from his house. One that listens and cares. Not the guy from college.
He’s steady. Checking in on me. Not pushing.
Me: Already ordered car service. I’m very responsible.
Parker: That’s debatable. Tonight anyway.
I huff out a breathy laugh.
Me: I’m always responsible.
Parker: Anna…
My body stills.
Parker: Text me when you get home.
Another one two hours later.
Parker: Anna, are you home? It’s well past midnight.
Anna.
Something in my chest knots up.. He called me Anna twice. He made a choice to start calling me Anna. Why? Maybe he’s giving me a choice. I don’t know how I feel about that yet.
I don’t know how I feel about any of this.
Parker.
His family.
My career.
My past.
I drop my phone on the bed and push myself up, head spinning and head toward the kitchen in search of anything that might make me feel human again.
Water first. Then something to soak up the alcohol. I should have eaten last night instead of letting my nerves dictate my moves. I need bread or crackers. Anything.
My body may be moving slower than usual, but my mind is already racing ahead. What does it all mean? Last night was… easy. Laughing with Noelle, Sutton and Birdie like I’ve known them longer than a few hours. Letting myself exist in a space where I had no control.
I didn’t put distance between us or let them do all the talking.
I participated in the conversations. Who is the best pop singer of all time?
Whitney? Mariah? Taylor? When Noelle said Taylor, the shit hit the fan.
Birdie and Noelle insisted it was Whitney.
Since I’m closer to Noelle’s age, I agreed with her.
We took it to the people eating and drinking to break the tie…
karaoke time. Of course, Birdie and Sutton won.
Noelle said, “That’s no fair you’re a real singer.”
We couldn’t stop laughing.
I haven’t had that much fun in a very long time. There lies the problem. Now, I want more of it.
I grab a piece of bread and throw it in the toaster, push the button, and lean against the counter.
My phone rings and I look down at it. It’s Noelle.
I answer by clearing my throat. “Hi.”
“Good morning!” she chirps, entirely too cheerful for this hour.
“Is it?”
She laughs, “You survived margarita night. That’s a win in my book.”
“A win? I’m on the prowl for ibuprofen.”
“Worth it?” she asks with her voice climbing an octave.
“Totally. I didn’t realize how stressed I’ve been.”
“Good,” she says. “Because Birdie and Sutton already asked if you’re coming next week.”
Next week.
The idea shouldn’t be appealing, yet it is.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll come,” she says, her voice exuding confidence.
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “We’ll see.”
Noelle’s just as persistent and confident as her brother.
“Oh, and I found something this morning,” she adds, excitement threading through her words. “It’s adorable. I found a picture in one of our old albums of Parker holding a bunch of flowers. Standing in front of me, proposing.”
It takes a minute to pull that memory from last night, but I read the texts with Parker.
“He was dead serious as a toddler and got mad when I laughed at him. According to my Dad, I wanted to marry a football coach.”
“That tracks considering your dad is a college coach and you’re married to the offensive coordinator.”
I hear her smile. “Parker’s a hopeless romantic.”
There goes my chest again, tightening. “Romantic?”
I guess I didn’t tell them we slept together or she wouldn’t be trying so hard to get us together.
“He hides it well, but when he falls… he falls hard.”
“Noelle, Parker and I have a working relationship,” I say, trying to draw a line that I want to erase.
“Right. That’s why you… oh I need to go. The baby needs to be fed. Talk soon.”
The conversation feels too normal. “Thanks for inviting me, really.”
“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing lots of you. Parker needs someone like you.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest at the way she seems so sure about whatever exists between Parker and me. “Okay, you better go. Thanks again.”
I spread a little peanut butter on my toast, fill a glass of water and swallow and throw painkillers down my throat.
Somehow I manage to shower, dress and start my daily routine.
The mailbox sits at the end of the driveway. A feeling. A flicker. My stomach knots as I pull close.
Don’t open it. Just go to work. It’ll be here when you get home.
Do I listen to myself? Of course not.
I pull on the black metal tab and see a folded piece of paper, no actual mail.
My breath catches. I’m careful and cautious like it could blow up when I inch it out.
My hands are steady. How, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a note from Parker making sure I got home last night. My mind is trying hard to come up with a scenario for a folded note to be in my mailbox.
I unfold it.
You don’t get to pretend you were just a child.
You saw what he did.
You heard the cries.
You ran away when it came out.
No more running.
My vision blurs. Not from tears but from overwhelming fear and blood rushing through my veins. My head, pounding harder than it was from a hangover.
No. No, no, no.
This isn’t the same as before. This is specific. Someone that knows details. My fingers crumple the paper. A sharp spike of panic hits my chest, fast and suffocating.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Control it.
Use your training. Breathe in and out.
I’m fine.
I glance around the quiet street. It’s still and empty but that’s not how it feels.
It feels like I’m being watched, observed, and my skin prickles. I turn slow and deliberate, scanning the houses, trees, parked cars.
Nothing.
Yet, something shifts in the distance. A flicker of a movement. Gone before I can focus on it.
My heart slams harder. I throw the wadded up paper in my tote bag, my movements now a little erratic trying to flee. I roll up the windows, lock the doors and peel out. Go.
When I get a mile away, I reach for my phone. Parker’s name sits at the top of my messages. My thumb hovers. Tell him. I mutter, “You trust him. Tell him.”
But my brain shuts it down. Not yet. Not until I know more. Not until you can control this. I lower the phone and slide it back into my bag and force myself to go to the office.
I can’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone and feels like whoever left the note was close enough to watch me read it.