Chapter Five
Five
“I still can’t believe the dress didn’t work,” Arden said, weighing two identical peaches in her hands. I grabbed a random one and sniffed it—peachy—then added it to my own bag. “It would work on me if you looked at me right.”
“Well, you’re only human,” I replied. We moved away from the stone fruits, Arden pushing our cart while I punched numbers into my calculator app. “Benji Dexter is some sort of cyborg programmed to write yearning love letters and shoot lasers out of his eyes.”
“If anyone could kill with a look, it’s him. I can’t believe you went back.”
I groaned. “He’s probably filing a restraining order as we speak.”
“You can’t hold questionable actions against someone who’s grieving.” She pointed at me, her expression growing serious. “It’s basically a form of self-defense, but, like, against yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I’m so hungry. I might be a little delirious. But I think my point stands.”
“It does not.”
She moved to the leafy greens. I chewed my lip, gazing at the fresh spinach, heads of lettuce, collards, broccoli.
My dad sparked our shared hobby when he accidentally signed up for a couples cooking class and invited me to tag along—we had a blast and made a point to get together at least once a month to try out a new recipe.
Now, it had been months since I’d cooked anything other than instant ramen or microwave meals.
I hadn’t felt the urge to scour the internet for new recipes in a hot minute, but with a fourteen-year-old to feed and sole responsibility for bills, I couldn’t afford much of anything except frozen meals and cheap takeout anyway.
The ache in my chest reminded me of how much I missed it.
I had twenty-six dollars left. Frozen broccoli would be cheaper.
“Is Phoebe bummed?” Arden asked, loading the cart with all sorts of green goodies. “About him not sending the letter?”
“Not really? I think she’s happy to know.”
“Shitty end to the story, though.”
“That’s what I told him.”
She snorted. “Lucky he didn’t zap you out of existence with his laser eyes.”
We moved out of the produce section into the natural foods. I didn’t bother looking at the shelves, knowing it was out of my price range.
I missed having my shit together. Every time I went grocery shopping with Arden, I couldn’t help the surge of bitterness as I watched her shop around not just for necessities, but little luxuries like a new pan or candle.
I’d shove the thoughts down deep before I had the chance to decipher if I was jealous of her disposable income or lack of responsibility.
I wanted to give Phoebe a good life. Instead, I was scraping by with teaching and an upcoming bartending gig at Noah’s friend’s restaurant for the summer. Possibly a future in selling feet pics on the internet, if there was still a market for that kind of thing.
(Arden assured me there was always a market for that kind of thing.)
“You would tell me if Noah was proposing, right?” she asked, snapping me into grocery store reality. Inspecting the back of a box of Annie’s mac and cheese, she didn’t bother meeting my eyes. Of course she knew. She was the smartest person in the entire world.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
Now she did look at me. “I hate surprises.”
“You’ve been talking about getting married for two years. It wouldn’t be a surprise.”
She widened her eyes meaningfully. “He wants to make me dinner tonight.”
“Doesn’t he always make dinner on Tuesdays?”
She pointed the box of mac and cheese at me. “Exactly. But he made a point of saying it to me. That’s weird.”
It was weird. Total slipup on Noah’s part.
“You think you’d want me to tell you…” I said, guiding the shopping cart toward me. She narrowed her eyes, brandishing the box as if she might throw it at my head. “But if it was actually happening, you’d love being surprised.”
“Wrong. I hate surprises in every capacity and if Noah doesn’t understand that, maybe I shouldn’t marry him.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What?” Her eyes bugged. “Are you serious? How can you be so blasé about me saying something like that. It’s Noah. He’s the love of my life. If I start talking like that, you need to run me down in the parking lot.”
I tilted my head, offering a wry smile, and her incredulous expression shifted into irritation. “I know you,” I said. “And Noah knows you. If he’s proposing, he’s not going to do it in a way you’ll hate.”
She bent to press her forehead against my shoulder.
“I just want to know! I want to be engaged! I want a diamond on my finger, and I want to buy bride magazines instead of sneakily flipping through them on my lunch break,” she moaned, voice muffled.
I wrapped my arms around her, resting my chin on her head.
“You will. At some point.”
“Just tell me.”
“This conversation never happened.”
“Use ‘ketchup’ casually in a sentence if he’s proposing.”
I released her and drifted to the deli, biting my cheek to resist laughter.
My best friend had dreamt about her wedding since childhood.
I couldn’t relate, having spent most of my time exploring the creek behind my house with my dad in search of crawfish and salamanders—but it was a stereotype for a reason.
Weddings are supposedly the most important day of our lives, and Arden yearned for it. Tonight, Noah would put it into motion.
I couldn’t have been happier for her. But that tiny, jagged piece of resentment drove its way through my rib cage, taunts of how far behind I’d fallen.
A year ago, Shawn and I were talking about marriage.
We looked at rings. Arden would send me photos from those magazines of dresses she thought I’d like.
Every week we had a standing double date and while Noah and Shawn discussed their latest video game obsession, Arden and I would beam at each other because we’d found something that felt like a daydream.
And now, my best friend’s life was flourishing while I couldn’t afford to buy spinach.
The three things my mind whispered to me now: Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
It was harder than I would have liked to believe that it wasn’t pathetic for life to stagnate in response to grief. My brain had simply turned on me in the same way the universe had.
“Okay, how about this.” Arden caught up to me, blowing a piece of dark hair out of her face. “Not saying I’m getting engaged tonight, but should I wear my floral halter dress or the black mini?”
I considered this, pretending to study the slabs of meat beneath the glass counter. “You might want to think about the silky green dress,” I said. She inhaled sharply.
“Oh my god.”
“Because it’s so pretty.”
“Vi.”
“And it has that backless thing going on.”
“Did you help pick the ring? He has such bad taste in jewelry. Blink once if he made you pick the ring.”
I cackled and looped my arm through hers, dragging her along. She would die for the 1920s art deco style I’d directed Noah to. “I think it’s gonna be a great night.”
I blew seventy-five bucks on two bags of groceries, my Check Engine light pinged on the way home, and one of the bags split the moment I stepped into the apartment. So my night wouldn’t be as great as Arden’s.
I knelt to gather the mess, noting the silence.
It had been three days since I’d gone back to Sequest, and Phoebe had slightly cheered up—she’d get home from school and make camp on the couch, music blasting.
It was the first time in nine months things felt relatively okay.
Not good, but maybe, possibly, on the way there.
Now, though, an empty couch welcomed me and Phoebe’s bedroom door was wide open, lights out.
She wasn’t here.
Most days, I arrived home before Phoebe because she had detention or cross-country. Today I ran a little late at work, and then met Arden at the grocery store. I glanced at the oven clock: 5:26. Phoebe was always home by five.
I checked my phone for messages—none. I called her, telling myself everything was normal until her voicemail picked up. Anxiety clutched my throat and I dropped the rest of the groceries on the floor, not bothering to put away perishables, then bolted across the hall, nearly banging down the door.
Noah opened it, brow creased in concern. “What’s up?”
I pushed past him into the apartment. “Is Phoebe here?”
“No.” In the kitchen, Arden turned away from the half-empty bags of groceries littering the countertops and gave me her full attention. “Why? She’s not home?”
I dragged a hand through my hair, letting out a slow breath. “She’s always home by now. I called her, but she didn’t answer.”
“She’s fine,” Noah said. He placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “She’s probably with friends.”
Arden and I exchanged a look. Phoebe hadn’t made friends since the move, and it was something I carried tremendous guilt over.
“Or,” Noah added quickly, “cross-country ran late.”
“Cross-country ended for the year.” I pressed my palms into my eyes. “God. Where is she?”
“Try calling again,” Arden suggested. “I’m gonna go downstairs and see if she stopped by the office to work with Rhonda.”
“Don’t panic until there’s something to panic about,” Noah said. “If she’s not home by six and you still haven’t heard from her, we’ll go from there.”
I swallowed hard, unsure of whether I’d make it to six without losing my mind.
But he had a point; half an hour wasn’t the end of the world, or a call to action.
Time to settle into a happy medium of realism: In all likelihood, Phoebe was fine and simply late, not stuffed in the trunk of someone’s car.
Alone in the apartment, my throat grew tight again. I checked my phone in case Phoebe had responded while I was distracted. She hadn’t.
Things had been so shitty recently, I forgot they could get worse.
I sat on the couch, fingers clutching my phone so tightly they turned white.
5:35 and still waiting. 5:40 and my dad was dead and my sister still hadn’t called me back.
5:45 and the walls began to close in when a new text from Arden popped up: Not downstairs but don’t worry! !!!! She’ll be home soon.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tossed my phone onto the opposite side of the couch. If I ignored it, Phoebe would call. That’s how the world worked, right?
Anything, I thought. You can do anything you want to me, just let her be okay.
My ringtone blasted and I dove for my phone, heart stuttering at the words Unknown Number. There was a nonzero chance the dude from Taken would be on the other end, but I didn’t hesitate.
“Hello?”
“Violet St. Clair?” a woman’s voice said, and my hand shot to my chest, lungs collapsing, anticipating the words hospital and ICU and critical condition. “This is Mary from Sequest.”
I doubled over, gasping like a drowned man breathed back to life. “Oh my god.”
Recognizing my panic, Mary said, “She’s here. She’s fine. She stopped by after school and has been holed up in Mr. Dexter’s office ever since. He asked me to call you.”
“Thank you.” I shut my eyes. My hands were trembling. “Thank you. I’m on my way.”
I fired off an update to Arden and Noah and got the hell out of Dodge.
Pouring rain and rush hour traffic, the scent of gasoline and wet pavement; I was running down the sidewalk before my brain caught up.
Soaked to the bone, hair plastered to my face.
More than a few passing drivers stared—the panic must’ve haunted my features, lingering despite the knowledge that Phoebe was ten minutes away.
I couldn’t trust it until she was right in front of me.
Though it was nearly a year since my last round of cardio, I managed a fairly impressive time, despite the rain and my lungs an inch from bursting in my chest. I threw myself through the door of Sequest. The same woman sat behind the front desk, eyes popping at the sight of me.
“Where is she?” I gasped, moving a hand to my side to rub away a cramp.
“Right through there,” she said, pointing to the blue door. “Do you want some water? Or a towel? I think we have towels in the back.”
“No. No. I…” I focused on my breathing for a second so I wouldn’t pass out. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Oh, don’t be. That girl is a riot.”
She was something, all right.
I pushed through the door, unsure of what to expect, but the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanking the walls and several huge beanbags were certainly not it.
Dark wooden floors and a massive colorful rug covered the expanse of a reading nook.
At the end of the room sat a sky-blue desk thoroughly covered in writing, doodles, and stickers.
I would’ve guessed it belonged to anyone other than the man sitting behind it with his arms folded over his chest, hair standing on end, five o’clock shadow graduating into beard territory. He shot to his feet when I walked in.
And across from the desk, debilitating relief in the form of a pink head of hair.
“Phoebe,” I exhaled. The chair spun and there she was, perfect and unharmed, sporting a Front Bottoms T-shirt big enough to hang like a dress, snacking from a small bag of chips.
“Vi!” Her face broke into a grin, the happiest she’d been to see me since the weekends I’d come home from college. “Wanna take a trip?”