Page 64 of Yours Temporarily

Even with background music to lull the silence, the house feels emptier than before.

The computer displays four fifty-five. Damien and my friends should be back from work soon. I breathe out, staring at the blog’s blank page, a mirror of the void I’ve been feeling since Jeremy and I returned to our lives. The whole façade is behind us, and I hope we are still friends because the café has Jeremy’s fingerprints all over it.

It’s been an entire week after our silent flight back when he worked on his laptop while I watched a movie. Flying first class should’ve been a great experience, but I couldn’t enjoy it while seated next to Jeremy and acting like we were strangers.

I open another tab, now I have five of them open. Maybe it's time to share something on my Facebook page—I haven’t posted a picture in ages.

I shift in the stool, having no desire to scroll through the folder to find what post to share.

The garage rumbles open. My friends must be home. And soon, they barrel into the house, chatting. Damien is arguing with Olivia about some financial thing I don’t have the energy to try to understand.

“What are we cooking for dinner?” Lexi asks.

Damien glances my way, setting his computer bag on the nearby table.

“I haven’t even thought about dinner.” I close my laptop. “Let’s order takeout.”

He frowns. “We’ve had takeout for the last five days.”

Olivia tosses her handbag on the island and wiggles onto a barstool. “I don’t mind takeout.”

“It adds up if we eat out all the time.” Damien yanks his tucked-in shirt from his pants, follows Lexi to the pantry, and snatches a cereal box.

“We can cook pasta,” Lexi says.

I shrug. “Cereal for dinner isn’t bad.” Yep, I’ve lost the desire to whip up meals. As odd as it seems, every time I cook, it brings back memories of Jeremy and our times in the kitchen. I slide my computer into its bag. I’m done working for the day too—not that I’ve accomplished anything. “How was work?”

“Where would you like me to start?” Lexi shakes Corn Flakes into a bowl. “Shall I rant about my boss or rave about the cool house I’ll be house-sitting in two weeks?”

“As long as you’re not house-sitting for six weeks this time.” I slip my arm around her and rest my head against her shoulder. “I need all my friends around as I wallow for the next however many days.”

“I got the Analyst of the Month,” Olivia pipes up, and I congratulate her. ‘The funniest part was getting to throw a pie in Jeremy’s face. It’s a tradition—for the annual pie war, the March analyst gets to throw a pie at the COO’s face.”

My mind rushes to Jeremy and our kitchen food wars. I fight the urge to ask how he’s been doing this week. Has he missed me as much as I’ve missed him? I swallow all the questions and set the computer bag at my feet, slumping further onto the stool.

Damien pours two bowls of cereal, slides one to Olivia, then nudges me. “You want any?”

I shake my head.

A silence settles with the hum of the fridge as my friends pray, then resume eating.

“What happened between you and Jeremy?” Damien’s question catches me off guard, and I blink.

“Did he say anything? Of course nothing.”

His brows rise. “You’d better tell me what he did. Otherwise, I’m gonna confront him tomorrow.”

“Damien!” I slap the island. “You can’t fight my battles.” My secret presses a heavy weight on me. “He didn’t do nothing.”

“You’ve been down ever since you came back from that stupid trip. Kress has been acting strange around me—guilty or something.” He raises his hands. Then his gaze flicks to my ring finger. “You haven’t been flaunting that ring around either. You’re gonna tell me what happened?”

The girls are silent, acting almost guilty, and I clasp my hands together. It’s long past time I come clean.

I blow out air as I’ll need a deep inhale. “Jeremy and I had made an arrangement. He needed a fiancée…” The words fly out of my mouth fast as I focus on the ceiling, clearly needing divine intervention.

“You mean you two were faking it?” It’s Damien’s turn to slap the island.

I jolt, and the cereal bowls shake.

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