38. 38 Parker
38
38 PARKER
ALL BY MYSELF
The upside of break-ups? A sudden abundance of free time to do whatever you wanted, now that it wasn’t allotted to your beloved. The downside?
I could only bake so many cookies before everyone around me became cookies. Even Anya, who had a sweet tooth the size of Manhattan, had turned down my last offering.
Which was how I found myself sitting cross-legged on my bed, a plate of Taylor Swift’s chai cookies next to me while I stared at my open laptop. I was supposed to be working on my dissertation, but instead of a word doc, my screen was filled with beautiful people in regency gowns, exchanging longing looks and loaded conversations.
In the weeks since we ended things, I’d barreled through the entirety of Gigi’s favorite series. There were only two episodes left, and I’d been savoring them. Finishing the series felt like cutting a tie, the only tie to Gigi I had left. Which was silly. We hadn’t spoken in weeks. It wasn’t like she knew I’d been watching her favorite show.
But, still…
Hitting pause, I sank back against my pillows and bit into a cookie. Onscreen, the main couple stood, inches apart, eyes locked. The heroine had confessed that, throughout their fake relationship turned marriage of convenience, she’d fallen for the hero. It was supposed to be simply business, you see. An arrangement that was beneficial to both of them. Separate beds and separate hearts.
Except, it didn’t quite work out that way.
I scoffed, glaring at the lovestruck woman. “You’re lucky you’re not real,” I grumbled as I reached for another cookie. “No happy ending guarantees over here.”
Over the last couple weeks, Cari and Jill had stopped into the coffee shop a few more times. Between asking me how I was doing and crafting their love stories, they’d taught me more about the genre they adored so much. I loved their passion for love stories, and their enthusiasm for teaching me all about it.
However, they’d lost me at the guaranteed happy ending.
Just like this damn show had lost me.
Closing my laptop, I tossed it aside. I did not have it in me to watch these two idiots be happily in love for two more episodes. From the foot of my bed, Wilbur blinked his giant green eyes at me, annoyed that I’d disturbed his slumber.
“Sorry,” I said, stretching forward to scratch him behind his ear. “I’ll keep it down, your majesty.”
He purred his approval, then yawned and settled back in to finish his nap.
With a sigh, I looked around my bedroom, stomach fluttering with restlessness. I knew the cause. Of course I did. I’d been watching the days count down for weeks. Tonight was the night. The show at The Ledge. I knew Gigi was performing, that she’d officially joined Patti Mayonnaise.
Anya had let it slip the last time I saw her. I wasn’t convinced it was accidental, though she played it off that way. Which led to me scouring the band’s social media when I got home that night. Sure enough, there it was. An official announcement, complete with a handful of pictures. I’d stared at them a lot longer than I was willing to admit before I locked my phone and tossed it to the very edge of my bed.
The number of times I’d since navigated right back to that announcement, and those photos, since that night was embarrassing.
But that didn’t keep me from doing it now.
Ignoring the one-eyed glare of judgment from my cat, I opened the app and went to the band’s page. They’d posted a few hours ago, a group selfie taken by Halle, who was front and center and pretty as ever. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wished for the days I was crushing on her. As desperate as I was for something to change then, for something to happen, that desperation was nowhere near as torturous as what I was feeling now.
But, even as I thought it, my eyes found Gigi in the photo, squished between Ryan and Tommy, her hair pulled into two tiny pigtails and her grin ginormously cheesy. My lips tilted of their own accord, even as my heart kicked painfully against my ribs.
God, I missed her.
Tearing my eyes away from the photo, I read the caption: One last rehearsal before Summer Kick-off at The Ledge. Come watch us kill it tonight!
Despite the hurt, pride bloomed bright in my chest. I was happy for her. Proud. Glad she let herself go for this thing she wanted so badly. I…I wished I was there to witness it. For probably the ten thousandth time since Anya told me Gigi joined the band, I wondered if I made the right choice, ending things. Could I have convinced Gigi to do this while staying? Or did I force her hand by walking away? Did she truly believe it was one or the other, and removing myself from the equation made the choice easier?
It didn’t matter. I was here, she was there. She was doing the thing she loved and I…well, I was happy for her. Happy for her and sad for me. But I’d get over it.
I’d get over her .
Tossing my phone aside, I reached for my laptop and opened it. Back to work.
Back to work, back to work, back to—
Goddammit.
I closed my laptop and leaned my head against my headboard, groaning. It was useless. I could not focus. Not when my brain had latched so tightly onto the fact that, in a matter of hours, Gigi would be taking stage. How was she feeling, I wondered. Was she nervous? Excited? Happy?
Was she thinking of me?
Before I could think better of it, I grabbed my phone and opened the text thread with Gigi. It’d been inactive since two hours before the breakup, when I told Gigi I’d stop by the bar on my way home. She’d sent me a heart emoji. The amount of time I’d spent since then staring at that stupid red heart was…well, it was pathetic. It was almost like I thought if I stared enough, if I wished hard enough, I could undo it all. Go back and change my own mind, take back my words.
I could stay.
But real life didn’t work that way, and now that tiny red heart glowed up at me, mocking me.
I ignored it and typed out a quick message:
Break a leg tonight
No frills. No emojis. Just the words. I stared at them until they blurred and swam on the screen, my thumb hovering over the Send button. “Send it,” I whispered. “Just send it.” Closing my eyes, I blew out a deep breath. Then…I sent.
I watched as the message went from lost-in-the-ether to delivered. Then, I watched some more, waiting, hoping, for the little dancing dots telling me she was replying.
Nothing.
Swallowing my disappointment, I put my phone down and reclaimed my computer. After closing out of the lovesick fools on my screen, I navigated to one of my favorite true crime documentaries. Maybe murder would make me feel better.
God, that was a messed up thought.
However, fifteen minutes into the documentary, I did start to feel better. It could always be worse, I told myself. I could be murdered instead of sad.
I had just settled deeper into my pillows, a fresh cookie in hand, when my phone vibrated from somewhere in the blankets. Gasping, I jolted upright. Frantically, I foraged through my self-pity nest, earning a disgruntled meow from Wilbur as I disturbed his nap yet again.
“Sorry, bud,” I said as my hand wrapped around my phone. “Mommy’s a mess.”
He blinked his agreement then laid his head back down. “Please, please, please,” I whispered as I swiped it unlocked. “Please be her.”
It was not her.
No, it was Simon, texting from the kitchen that he was making popcorn, and did I want any?
Deflating, I sank back against the headboard. Of course it wasn’t Gigi. Why would it be? Just because I sent her a silly little text for the first time in weeks? Maybe I should’ve included an exclamation point. Or a smiley face. Something to portray that I was excited for her. Happy for her. Maybe she thought it was sarcastic. Maybe she thought I literally wanted her to break a leg. Maybe—
“Ow!” I jerked my foot away, glaring at Wilbur. He blinked back, as if he hadn’t just taken a swipe at my unsocked foot. “What was that for?”
Blink, blink.
“I feed you and snuggle you,” I grumbled, cradling my assaulted foot. “And this is how you repay me?”
Blink, blink, yawn.
“Oh, does my misery bore you? My apologies, good sir. I’ll try to be more exciting in the future.”
Yaaaaaawn.
I gasped in outrage.
Then I realized I’d been offended…by a cat.
Okay. Yeah. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous.
For the hundredth time that night, I slammed my laptop closed. It was time to do something about the sad state of…well, me.
“Simon,” I called before I’d even swung open my bedroom door. “We’re going out.”
Simon peered around the corner at the end of the hall, a vision in goopy green facemask and a pink satin headband. “Come again?”
“We’re going out.” I marched down the hall and took the giant bowl of popcorn from him.
He followed me as I dropped it off in the kitchen. “What do you mean, we’re going out? It’s Friday night. You know I don’t go anywhere on Friday nights. Friday nights are me time .” His words were a constant soundtrack as I looped my arm through his and led him back down the hall, pushing the bathroom door open. “Parker, dollface. I’m gonna need you to communicate like a big girl. What’s all this about? What—”
“Simon.” I put my hands on his satin-pajama’d shoulders. His hazel eyes glowed gold beneath the facemask. “We’re. Going. Out.” Lifting my brows, I urged him to get the meaning, to not make me say it. Because if I had to say it, I was pretty sure I’d chicken out.
Finally—dear god, finally—he gasped. “Are we grand gesturing ?”
I pressed my lips around a smile and spun him around, shoving him into the bathroom. “You have thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?” He looked back, horrified. “That’s not nearly enough time—”
I swung the door closed on his protest and went back to my room. Pulling open my closet door, I reached in.
I knew exactly what to wear.