Nathan, as it turns out, has no balls.
We ate chicken. We drank wine. I played with the giant carving knife just to watch him sweat. He rambled on about work.
He did not ask whether I’m a murderer.
At this point, I’m curious how long this can go on for. He’s clearly wanted to break up for a while, and now he’s worried I’m going to murder him. Surely he will locate his balls and actually say the words “Please move out of my apartment and never contact me again” soon?
On the plus side, I have more time to look for a new place while I wait for the inevitable. Just this morning I found a very promising one-bedroom with no income requirements. It looks like a dump in the pictures, and the landlord asked to see a picture of my feet when I emailed, but, hey. It’s cheap.
Sometimes I think about the fact that the twenty-two-year-old version of me would be absolutely horrified by almost-thirty me. That shiny, smug newlywed with a four-bedroom house was so certain that she had life figured out and it was all going her way.
Guess what, asshole?
I also halfheartedly applied for a couple of new jobs over the weekend, and already got a rejection from one. I’m really killing it lately (pun intended).
But I don’t actually want a new job, if I’m being honest. I’ve published three romance novels under a pen name, and the third one is actually selling some copies. It’s an unexpected turn of events, considering how few people bought my first two books, but it means I’ve had to work overtime on the next one, so I don’t lose momentum.
And maybe, with a little luck, they’ll start selling enough copies so that I don’t have to worry about finding another mind-numbingly boring day job.
Of course, now I have to worry about a podcaster shining a very bright light on my past, and possibly someone finding out that it’s actually a suspected murderer writing their new favorite rom-com. No one except my agent, my publisher, and my grandma knows about my career as a romance author, but I’m a favorite subject for the amateur internet sleuth.
The thought nags at me all weekend. Monday morning, I run extra miles on the treadmill in the gym at Nathan’s complex, and then head to the grocery store because I need to tell my feelings to chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
The grocery stores are never empty in L.A., even on a weekday, because no one here has a real job. I maneuver around a woman at the entrance who is talking on her phone and wearing leggings that probably cost more than my entire outfit. They make her butt look great, though.
I turn my cart into the produce section. Maybe I’ll get something to chop into tiny pieces in front of Nathan.
(A nicer person would just say, “Hey, you heard about the podcast, didn’t you?” and put him out of his misery. I should try to be less of an asshole. Tomorrow, maybe.)
A slim blond woman is tapping a butternut squash with one finger, and I try very hard not to imagine smashing the squash against her head.
I fail. Squash, as it turns out, is a weakness of mine.
I wonder whether it would even hold up after being smashed against a human head. It would probably explode and you’d just end up with a headache and squash all over your face.
The woman looks up and notices me staring at her. I smile like I wasn’t just imagining bludgeoning her to death. She walks away, casting an alarmed glance over her shoulder at me.
I really should try to be less of an asshole.
I don’t want to think about murder, but I can’t seem to stop it. I don’t do it with everyone, but I’ve imagined killing a whole lot of people.
It started not long after Savvy died. Everyone said I was a murderer, and I couldn’t say for sure that I wasn’t, so I started thinking of all the different ways I could have killed her. I thought that if I went through enough options, I might actually land on something that sparked a memory.
So far, no luck. But maybe one day I’ll stumble on it. I’ll imagine killing a waitress with my empty milkshake glass and it will all come rushing back. Ah yes! That’s right! Savvy and I fought over whether strawberry or chocolate milkshakes were best and I flew into a rage and murdered her with my glass. Take me away, Officer!
I really wish the police had found the murder weapon. It would have spared me a lot of imaginary killings.
My phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen to see the word Grandma, which is unsurprising. Telemarketers and Grandma—the only people who use the phone in the way it was originally intended.
I accept the call and press the phone to my ear. “Hey, Grandma.”
The guy next to me gives me a small smile, like he approves of me talking to my grandma. I push my cart to the corner, in front of the cabbage.
“Lucy, honey! Hi. Are you busy? Am I interrupting?”
She always asks whether she’s interrupting, like she thinks I have a packed social calendar. I don’t even have any close friends. Just some work acquaintances who will definitely never speak to me again.
“Nope, just grocery shopping,” I say. “How’s Nathan?”
“He’s … you know. Nathan.”
“You always say that, and I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never met the man.”
“He’s fine.”
“I see.” She clears her throat. “Listen. I have a favor to ask.” “What’s that?”
“It’s a small favor, really, and I’d like to remind you that I’m nearly dead.”
“You’ve been saying you’re nearly dead for twenty years.”
“Well, then it stands to reason that I must really be getting close then!” She cackles.
“Are you drunk?”
“Lucy, it is two o’clock in the afternoon. Of course I’m not drunk.” She pauses. “I’m merely slightly tipsy.”
I bite back a laugh. “What’s the favor?”
“I’ve decided to have a birthday party. A big one. It’s the big eight-oh, you know.”
“I do know.”
I actually do. Grandma’s birthday is the only one I can remember without the calendar reminder.
“You’ll come, of course?” Her voice is hopeful. Shit.
“I can’t have it without my favorite grandchild there.” She’s switched to guilt.
“You do know that it’s tacky to tell me I’m your favorite when you have three grandchildren?”
“We both know that Ashley and Brian are assholes.”
“I think we’re supposed to pretend to like them anyway.”
“Well. I can’t have a birthday party with only the assholes.” I would laugh if it weren’t for the swiftly mounting dread.
“Do you think you could take some time off work?” she asks. “I was fired.”
“Oh, perfect! I mean, I’m sorry,” she adds hurriedly. “You know I didn’t like that job anyway.”
“I retract my apology. Congratulations on being fired.” “Thanks.”
“Since you have so much free time, maybe a longer visit? A week? I’ve already talked to your mom, and she says you can stay with them as long as you want.”
“A week?” I shriek the words so loudly that a passing woman looks very startled.
“Well, this is all very last-minute, and your mom has that broken leg … we would need some help getting everything together. I’d let you stay with me, but there’s no room, of course.”
The prospect of spending one day in my hometown is bad enough, but
an entire week?
Seven days in the place where I’d once been successful, and married, and had lots of friends who were jealous of my (fake) happiness.
It would be the opposite of a triumphant return. Five years later, I stumble back in, an unemployed divorcée with no friends. I can’t even tell people I’ve published three books. I shiver as the produce mister turns on, spraying my arm as well as the cabbage. I inch away from it.
“Unless you’d rather bring Nathan and stay in a hotel? I’m sure your mom would understand you staying in a hotel if you bring him.”
I imagine, briefly, inviting Nathan to come to Plumpton, Texas, with me. I wonder whether that would be the thing that finally gets him to dump me. Visiting the scene of the crime is probably a bridge too far, even for him.
“You can say no.” I hear a clinking sound on the other end, like ice cubes against glass. “I know you must be very busy…”
“You know I’m never busy.”
“It’s so weird how you always say that. People your age are usually so proud of being busy. One of the girls from church has told me at least a hundred times about how busy she is. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a cry for help.”
“You talked to Dad too? About me staying with them?”
“Of course not; I try to avoid having conversations with your father whenever possible. But Kathleen talked to him. We wouldn’t just spring you on him.”
“He never did like surprises.”
“No. Does that mean you’ll come?”
I stare at the butternut squash and consider smashing it against my own head.
“Lucy?”
I blink. “Sorry. Squash.”
“Don’t buy squash, you’re coming to Texas!” “Oh my god.”
“Right?” She’s hopeful again.
I sigh. I can’t say no to the only family member I like. One of the only
people I like. “Yes. I’m coming to Texas.”
A soft voice, a voice I always try to ignore, whispers in my ear, “Let’s kill—”
I grip the phone tighter and will the voice away.
“Oh, wonderful! Do you think Nathan will want to come?”
I take a shaky breath. The voice seems to be gone. “I don’t think he can get off work.”
“Oh, sure. Well, I’ll just buy you a plane ticket then. You okay to leave this weekend?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense, I want to. I’ll be dead soon anyway.”
We might all be dead soon, but that seems like too much to hope for. “Sure, this weekend.” I reconsider her last statement. “Wait, are you
sick?”
“Not that I know of, but my friends are dropping like flies, so really, it’s only a matter of time.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Now, listen, I don’t drive much anymore, but I can probably make it to Austin to pick you up. If my car starts. You never know these days.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll rent a car. And I’m getting a hotel.” “Well, your mother won’t like that.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers. “And Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“You heard about that podcast, right? The one about you?”
