32. Indy
THIRTY-TWO
INDY
I hum when I walk into the house after my morning row. I went alone today because Nick was working late, and I didn’t want to wake him. I wonder how long it will take for somebody to notice he’s not sleeping in his own room at all anymore. We haven’t gotten caught yet.
I’m not sure if I want my family to figure it out, so we have to have that conversation with them or if I’d prefer to postpone it as long as possible.
Where I can usually predict their reactions pretty well, me being in a relationship with Nick is the one area where I have no idea what any of them would say.
I suppose we’ll have to bring it up one of these days.
There’s still a bit of time until we leave.
I have my job in the marina until the middle of September when tourist season starts to wrap up, and Nick is staying on at the restaurant until the beginning of October.
After that? We decided on Chicago. We’ve been staying up late into the night making plans.
I don’t think Dad will really mind whatever I tell him I’m going to do next year.
Mom’s been much more reluctant about this gap year plan I presented to her in the spring though.
She nearly hyperventilated when I told her I wasn’t going to school in September, and she only calmed down a bit when I told her about the bartender job in Boston because at least that was some sort of plan.
Not a plan that made her especially ecstatic, but it was a plan, at least. Mom likes a good plan.
Which is why I swore my aunt to silence when I declined that bartender position a few weeks ago.
Unless I want to freak Mom out again, we need to have all our bases covered for Chicago before we break the news. It’s happening no matter what, but I don’t want her to worry about us.
I love my parents—I don’t want to just torch bridges and create unnecessary tension.
Which means we’ve done this thing responsibly.
Nick’s already got a job lined up at a restaurant.
The chef at the restaurant where he works right now is so impressed with him that he asked around when he found out about Nick’s plans, so now Nick’s got a position as a station chef waiting for him in October.
We know how much money we have saved, have a rough budget figured out, and we have a list of apartments we’ll go and check out soon.
And I can’t wait.
Because I’m happy.
Nauseatingly, disgustingly, stupidly happy.
I hum while I open the fridge and peer inside. Mom’s at work, but everybody else is home, so I’m going to make pancakes for breakfast.
I’ve just poured the first batch of batter into the pan when Dia walks in. Honestly, it feels more accurate to say she drags herself in. She slumps into the seat at the counter and drops her head on her arms.
I raise my brows at her. “Late night?”
It takes her so long to answer that I start to think she didn’t hear me, but eventually she mutters something I can’t decipher.
I frown. Ever since we got back from Ocean City, it feels like I’ve barely seen her. I make a face. That asshole move where a person falls in love and then neglects everything else? Seems I could be the poster boy.
I go and sit down next to her and poke her shoulder with my finger.
“Dia?” I say.
“I’m fine,” she mutters into her arms.
I poke her again until she lifts her head.
“I’m making pancakes.”
She sniffs pointedly. “By the smell of it you’re making charcoal.”
“Shit.” I jump up and rush back to the other side of the counter. I scrape the remains into the compost bin and start again.
The front door opens and closes and footsteps come closer. Bridge appears in the doorway. She frowns at Dia.
“Oh. So you’re not dead. Good to know.”
Dia blinks at her for a bit before she groans and thumps her head against the counter.
“Sorry. I totally forgot.”
Bridge presses her lips together and exhales through her nose before she shakes her head. “Did you at least call the doctor?”
“You’re like a broken record,” Dia says.
“Indy, back me up on this, for fuck’s sake,” Bridge says. “She’s tired all the time. Suddenly there are bruises all over her and these weird red dots on her legs, and she keeps saying she’s fine, but clearly shit’s not fine.”
“Jesus Christ, Dia,” I say. “Grab your stuff. I’ll drive you.”
She slaps her palms on the counter and glowers at both of us. “Stop fucking ganging up on me. I’m telling you, I’m fine. I’m a bit tired. Big deal. This is, like, a vitamin deficiency or something.”
I point at her face. “Your nose is bleeding.”
It takes her a moment to register what I said, but then she touches the underside of her nose with the tips of her fingers and frowns when they come back red. I hand her a tissue, and she glares at me as she takes it and presses it under her nose.
We stay in this silent standoff, Dia glaring at me and me handing her tissues until the nosebleed stops. Bridge goes and takes care of my abandoned cooking attempts when there’s a smell of burning food again.
“You’re going to the doctor,” I tell Dia after I drop the last bloody tissue into the trash.
“No. I’m going to Boston. In five days. Stop being a pain in my ass.”
Bridge and I exchange glances as she stomps out of the room.
“That went well.” I sigh.
She makes a face and gives a grim nod.
Neither of us is that hungry for pancakes anymore.