Chapter 20 The Heart Emoticon
Reed sent a heart emoticon. He said, Have a safe flight, Heart.
I’ve been hyperfixated on that goddamn less-than-three for seven hours.
The sheer audacity.
Here I am gaslighting myself into thinking this pact is a good idea, and he sends a heart emoticon. We’ve hung out twice! We just drew up a very casual contract. Heart emoticons are the anti-casual. Why would he do that? Is it a manipulation tactic? What’s his angle?
I exhale a flustered breath as I rehash this mentally for the fiftieth time before stuffing my key into my door and pushing into the apartment. A few things register at once as the door swings open—the one that sends fear sprinting through my nervous system is the TV. It’s on.
I slam myself back into the hall.
The lights were also on. And it smelled like paint.
Did my father send a minion to let painters in?
I swallow, glancing up and down the hall, positioning my keys between my knuckles before slowly opening the door again and peeking in. The living room, which used to be a bland white, now gleams a soft blue. Some HBO show is playing on the TV.
“There you are.”
I trip sideways into the door, fumbling with my Away bag. My father is sitting on the brown couch in suit pants and a white button-up that he’s undone around the collar.
What in the actual—
“I’ve been waiting for you to get home, kid. Thought we could grab some dinner. I’ve got a meeting with a big potential client tomorrow in the city. Figured I’d head out here early when I realized you weren’t going to be around to let the painters in.”
Fuck.
“They left maybe four hours ago, after they finished up the main bedroom.”
Every window is open. There are fans I’ve never seen before running in various areas of the room. The photos and framed art I put up last week have all been taken down and set on the ground.
I focus on my exterior. Appearing calm. I move slowly, pushing the front door shut, locking it. Recovering from the shock. “Hi, Dad, I—I can’t go to dinner. I have work to do. I have a pitch meeting tomorrow. I’m sorry—I need to prep.”
“Then we’ll get takeout. Let’s do Italian.”
I press my lips together for a moment. “Okay? Is it safe to be in here with the paint fumes?”
“I have two air purifiers running. We’re fine.” He taps the remote and mutes the TV. “What were you thinking with that bookcase in the bedroom? Nothing’s in alphabetical order. It’s like The Wild Wild West in there.”
I cough. “It’s by color.”
“But all your series are separated. That’s ridiculous.”
“I guess so.”
“What are you reading right now? Any recommendations?”
This is always his first conversation stop with me nowadays. I get my love of books from my father. It’s a smart, distracting topic to hit, and he knows it.
I shrug, trying to act normal, pulling my suitcase into the bedroom.
“You might like Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo.” The windows are open in here as well.
The walls have been painted a goldish brown.
I do a double take at the sight of the leather journal with the garter on it, sitting on my nightstand.
I frown, sliding my eyes back to my unopened carry-on. It was in there, right?
“Oh yeah, I think I remember seeing Stephen King blurbed that,” my father says from the next room. He loves Stephen King. “Can I borrow it?”
I pull Ninth House off the shelf, bring it into the living room, and drop it in his open palm.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
I walk into the kitchen to wash my hands as my mind winds back to the text exchange with him about this apartment.
What do you mean you don’t want me to pay rent? Is there something you want me to be doing for you in that place?
I only want to know that you’re safe and cared for out there, and I want you to talk to me honey.
Pick up my calls, text me back. Bring me into your life.
You’re my only daughter. I’ve been in therapy now with a new guy, he’s great.
I’m on new medication. I’m feeling so zen.
I want to be here for you. Let me be your dad. Let me help you.
“Why the long face?” my father says from his perch on the sofa.
I shake my head. “I just wish you gave me a heads-up that you were coming by.”
“This is my apartment, Rikki,” he says, putting his feet up on the coffee table as a pit the size of Rhode Island stretches open in my gut. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight and be out of here tomorrow. I have an afternoon flight back to LA after my meeting.”
He’s sleeping here?
I dry my hands with the bookish dish towels I have draped over the oven handle.
“Okay,” I say with as normal a tone as I can manage. “What do you want from the Italian place I order from? I’ll go pick it up.”
Five minutes later I burst out the lobby doors, gasping for breath.
I inhale deeply as I stride down the street. Swipe at the two tears that managed to escape. Toughen the fuck up. You did this to yourself.
It’s 11:47 p.m. when I flop into bed with my door safely locked.
I never texted Reed back. To be fair, the phrase “have a safe flight” alone doesn’t necessarily warrant a response; but the heart emoticon at the end changes things.
I maybe should have said thank you. Or at the very least dropped a positive emoji.
It didn’t have to be a heart. I could have sent something less intense, but still upbeat like .
. . a star, or a pretzel, or that monkey with its hands over its eyes.
Texting back now would break protocol and give him the power to ghost me without consequence. I’m already struggling to keep the part of me looking for a serious relationship locked and gagged in a closet.
I lock my phone screen. I have to stop thinking about this, or I’m going to lose my fucking mind. We’re casual. We have a fun pact. I don’t have to send anything back. If Reed’s ever in the area, he’ll contact me, and that’s that.
I glance over at the nightstand where the leather journal still sits.
When I unpacked my carry-on earlier—the journal wasn’t in it, but Heir of Fire was.
I’m already losing my mind.
I’m losing my mind, or the journal is . . . moving.
Which is insane and would bring us back to option A: I’m losing my mind.