39

HYDE HAS BEEN A LITTLE BIT friendlier today. He hasn’t looked at me sideways once – we’re making progress. He probably just likes me because I feed him. “Here you go,” I say as I set his food bowl on the tiled floor. “Enjoy!”

I check my phone again, awaiting confirmation from Rebecca Fry about her boss’ schedule. I need to confirm an appointment before I book my flight and hotel room. There’s no emails. To my dismay, there are no messages from Blake either.

I quickly check my Instagram. There’s Peter again. He’s in Costa Rica. He’d told me he was too busy with work for a proper honeymoon, and there he is zip lining in Costa Rica with a buddy. At least he’s not with some hot blonde. I check my Facebook, for no other reason than I’m bored. Not having a job leaves you way too much time on your hands. I need to start reading more.

My stomach drops when I see a picture of Blake on my feed. He’s sitting at a bar stool, beer in hand, looking as hot and dishevelled as ever. There’s a leggy brunette on his lap, throwing her head back and laughing. She’s wearing a tight little black dress and worn riding boots. She has a martini glass in her hand, her nails painted red. You can tell she’s one of those women men love, the kind who can rock a tight dress and heels, but also knows how to gut a fish. It’s just one picture, but it’s official… I hate her.

I want to crawl under a rock and die.

Her name is Melanie Sullivan. I remember her name. She’s changed a lot. She’s apparently tagged him in a post, taken just the night before. The caption reads: Having so much fun at The Spot with my good pal, Blake. <3 <3 <3 <3 Watsit Jig. Lol!!!

Four fucking hearts! Not one, not three. Four! Watsit jig. Lol! What the fuck does that even mean?

Next thing you know, I’m Googling it, wanting to know. It’s a fishing lure for Walleye. So what? I don’t get it. It must be an inside joke.

I’m sitting on my sofa watching lame romantic comedies and stuffing my face with popcorn while he’s out on the town with sexy fisherman ladies sitting on his lap and sharing jokes.

He played me so hard. He’s such a player. How could I have fallen for it? I’m so stupid.

Oh, let’s cat shop together! You’re so beautiful! You’re so sexy! Come and sit on my hard-on!

What a load of crap.

I throw my phone on the shag rug in the living room. Hyde peeks his head in, curious. I crash on the sofa. I’m definitely going to Chicago. Fuck this shit!

My phone pings, and I get excited. It’s probably Mrs. Fry emailing the info I need. I scramble on the floor for my phone and turn it on. Unfortunately, it’s not the email I was expecting, it’s a message from Blake. Well, speak of the devil.

Hey Freckles! How’s your day going?

I really want to ignore him but I’m too mad.

Not as good as yours probably, I reply.

Tell me about it.

What did you do last night? I ask.

Hung out at The Spot with buddies. How ‘bout you?

Buddies, my ass.

Was one of those buddies Melanie Sullivan by any chance?

It takes a few seconds for him to reply. The bubbles keep appearing and disappearing, taunting me. He’s probably working on his excuse, weaving a web of lies.

How did you know about that? Are you spying on me? Yeah, she was there. Annoying as always.

My fingers are trembling as I tap, plowing ahead.

She didn’t seem too annoying when she was sitting on your lap. You had a pretty big smile on your face.

What?!

I saw it on your Facebook wall.

What?!

I stare at my phone for the longest time. No reply. Finally…

What?! I didn’t post that photo. I had no idea that photo even existed.

She tagged you. She’s the one who posted it, I explain.

I hate Facebook.

I can’t help but laugh, but I’m still angry.

Well, anyway, you two looked real chummy.

She’s the one who just came and sat on me, half-drunk, talking about the good old days, the time she accidently hooked me with a walleye jig. I pushed her off a few seconds later, and her and her friend wobbled off, giggling like school girls. Trust me, I didn’t want to fuck her. I wanted to call her mother.

I’m speechless. I stare down at my phone.

You just jump in the sack with anyone, don’t you?

What?

I’m sure you enjoyed that blonde you left with, that night at the bar.

Julie? She’s my ex. She had a little too much to drink, and I offered to drive her home. Actually, I didn’t offer, I insisted, he writes. You’re super cute when you’re jealous.

I am jealous. What if I were with Blake? Would it always be like this? Jealousy is no fun – it’s awful. Yet another reason we could never be a couple. He’s too hot, and I’m too damn insecure.

I got an offer for a job in Chicago, I write. Sorry, not a job… an interview.

Cool, eh?

Yeah. Are you considering it?

Hell yeah!

My screen is still for a long minute. I stare down at it, waiting for his reply. After what seems like an eternity, it finally comes.

Good for you. I’m happy for you. Good luck!

Thanks!

Well, I should let you go. Just wanted to see how you were, he writes.

Thanks. Bye.

I finally get the email I’ve been impatiently waiting for. The interview is set for next week, and I’m kind of losing my mind a little. This is huge. I try not to get my hopes up. I’ve managed to book a discounted flight. The fact that I was able to do this last minute is nothing short of a miracle. I’ve also booked the cheapest hotel room I could find. Hopefully, it doesn’t have bed bugs.

I’m searching through my wardrobe for an appropriate outfit. It needs to be perfect because it represents my style, my taste. If I’m hoping to get a buyer position in women’s wear, I can’t show up in an outdated outfit. I can’t afford to buy myself anything new, so I finally settle on a classic black Chanel dress.

It’s the same dress I wore on a date with Peter a few months ago, but I don’t think about him. My mind is suddenly full of Blake. I picture him taking this off me. He’d most likely not gently take it off, he’d tear it off. This is vintage Chanel, it can’t be torn. I resolve to never wear this around Blake. Then I wonder, are we ever going to ever be together again? Not if I move to Chicago.

I study my collection of shoes. It’s extensive but I haven’t bought a new pair in forever. A lot of them are a bit scuffed. I finally choose black T-strap vintage pumps. I decide to pair the outfit with a cool necklace I bought myself not long ago. I study myself in the mirror, and debate whether I should wear my hair up or down. I think about Blake again, about the way he handles my hair. One minute he’s gentle and pulls it from my nape over my shoulder with the softest touch, and the next he’s tugging at it as he does me from behind. He loves touching it and always tells me how much he loves it, natural and wild and untamed, as it was when we were kids.

I shake my head. How am I supposed to get anything done if all I can think about is Blake Taylor? I really need to get him out of my head.

I decide to wear my hair down. An up-do would be too much with the Chanel and vintage heels. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Although, I am trying very hard.

Hyde is sitting in the corner, studying me very intensely as I slip on the dress and the shoes. I add the accessories and stare at my reflection in the tall mirror in my closet (Peter’s closet, I should say). “So what do you think?” I ask him. “Do you think it works?”

He lifts his chin and his whiskers twitch. I take this as a ‘yes’.

“Yeah, I think it works too.” I should probably ask my friends for advice and not rely solely on the facial expressions of a cat, but everyone is so busy. “I think you’ll like Chicago,” I tell Hyde. “We’ll probably live in the city, and you can stare out of the window at all the skyscrapers and the river.”

I wonder if I’ll even be able to afford a place in the city, if I’ll even have a view. I’m fantasizing again, building up expectations. I always do this. I did this with Peter, and look where that got me. In reality, I’ll probably only be able to afford a shoe box with a view of a parking lot, where Hyde will be staring at nothing but busy people walking to work and back, couples making out on the hoods of cars, and drug deals. I wonder if the crime rate is high in Chicago. I’m not used to big cities. I make a mental note to Google it, but isn’t it too late now to worry about this stuff? I’ve already booked the flight and hotel for the interview.

If only I could talk to Peter about this. He was always a good decision-maker, save for the one he made when he decided to leave me at the altar.

I’m just getting out of my dress when my phone rings. I’m shocked when I hear Maddie’s voice.

“Hi, Auntie Maeve. How’s it going?”

“I’m great,” I tell her. “What’s up with you?”

“I’m good. School’s boring, and Jake’s getting on my nerves as usual.”

I smile. “How are your parents?”

“Good,” she says. “Busy… you know how it is,” she adds, sounding so much older than her ten years.

“So what’s up?” I ask again, curious to know why she’s calling. She usually only calls around Christmas and her birthday to make sure I’ve received a copy of her gifts wish list.

“I was hanging out with uncle Blake yesterday,” she starts. “We made peanut butter cookies. His cat is so cute! He says his cat is much cuter than yours.”

I laugh. “Oh he does, does he?”

“Well, he said your cat is beautiful but has no personality.”

I suddenly feel very defensive of Hyde. “Well, Hyde is just the strong silent type, you know. Very smart.”

How dare they badmouth my cat over cookie dough. Who do they think they are?

“Anyway,” she goes on. “Uncle Blake talks about you a lot, and he seems really sad these days.”

So apparently, she’s still on this matchmaking quest of hers. I’m curious. “How does he seem sad?”

“Well, he’s not smiling as much as usual,” she tells me, “and he’s organizing things a lot. Daddy says Blake likes to organize when he’s depressed. He says when he was younger, he used to drink beer a lot when he was depressed, but now he just organizes his shed and his house.”

“Well, that’s a good thing,” I tell her. “He’ll always be able to find what he’s looking for.”

“That’s not the point,” she says, her words sharp. “He’s just not happy. I think he misses you.”

My heart sinks. I miss him too. He’s all I can think about. Yet I don’t say these things because the last thing I want to do is give my ten-year old niece false hope. “He’ll bounce back, I’m sure. It’s that time of year… everyone gets a little gloomy in November.”

“I’m worried about him,” she says.

“He’s fine,” I assure her. It’s not like he’s on crack. He’s not hoarding or gambling. He’s just organizing, for crying out loud.

“Blake says you have an interview in Chicago for some fancy job,” she says. “Are you going to move there? He says it’s really far away.”

“Maybe…”

I’m met with silence. She’s not happy.

“I’ll still come to visit,” I tell her but my stomach is heavy because I know I won’t be able to visit much at all.

“Promise?” she says.

My eyes tear up, and I need to swallow the lump in my throat before I say, “I promise to do my best.”