Page 48 of One Wrong Move

“Mom.”

She chuckles. “All right, I’ll stop. I just want you back home.”

“I know,” I say. It’s definitely a part of my guilt trip, my parents’ clear reluctance with my entire London adventure. Knowing I was letting down more than just one person with my sudden decision.

“I have to go, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Lunch break is over, and I have class in five.”

I grab a package of linguine. Look down at the overflowing basket and realize I’ll struggle to carry it all home. “That’s okay. What are you lecturing on today?” I ask. Mom is an English literature professor, and I always love hearing what’s on her schedule.

“We’re doing Victorian literature for a few weeks. You know—Dickens, Hardy, Tennyson. Today, I’m lecturing on… let’s see here. Social norms and gender roles, and how the authors reflected the rapidly changing society of the nineteenth century.”

“That sounds riveting,” I say, and I mean it.

Mom’s voice is pleased. “Thanks, honey. Have a good evening.”

“Have a good day,” I tell her.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I pay for my large grocery haul and add it to the two other bags I’m already carrying. Working in the center of it all as I do is dangerous. There are too many fun shops to pop into on my lunch break or on my way home.

The walk to Nate’s townhouse isn’t long, but the heavy bags make it feel endless. I have to stop twice to rest, and when I finally make it home, I’ve gone from slightly annoyed to pissed off.

He has no right calling my parents.

No right to tell them about our private business, my choice with regard to the money, or to make the case to my parents in hopes of getting them to sway my decision.

My stomach is tied in a tight knot. One that has slowly been loosening over the past week, but now is back to its viselike hold on me and my tattered nerves. Uncertainty hangs over me like a question mark.

I unlock the door to Nate’s townhouse. “Hello?” I call. But the place is empty, the lights are off, and it looks just as it did when I left this morning.

He’s been out of the house more than he’s been in since the archery and the rain. When I felt like we started to become friends. The last three mornings he’s been gone before I came down to the kitchen, and he hasn’t returned home until after I’ve already gone to my bedroom, shut my door, and either watched reruns of my favorite show on my laptop or wrote in my journal. I’ve heard him walk by. Up the next flight of stairs to the top floor, the one I’ve never been to.

It almost feels like I’m living here alone.

I put the grocery bags on the large kitchen island. One of them tips over, and two oranges roll out onto the stone countertop.

It’s time to get real.

If I’m living here for another month, I need to start cooking real food for myself. Stock up the pantry with stuff, do a bit of meal prep, and maybe make some lunch wraps to bring to work.

A month.

That’s what he’d wagered. And I can’t pretend like the lump that seems to be stuck in my throat doesn’t have anything to do with the why behind his bet. I’d asked Nate, and he was adamant. This isn’t something he’s doing for Dean, and this isn’t at Dean’s behest, and…

I think I believe him.

I want to believe him.

Which leads to other questions. Mainly…

Then why?

I open the fridge and start unpacking one of the four grocery bags I’ve brought home. Onions, carrots, a large zucchini… The fridge was almost entirely empty. It’s also enormous, and my purchases hardly fill the vastness.

That’s when I hear the front door open.

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