Page 37 of Curveball: The Baby and the Grump

It’s making the whole last month and a half with her seem like a dream. It was a good dream, so good that I almost want to get injured again so I can dream it all over again. Almost.

But she’s not here now. And honestly, it’s a little concerning. I hope she’s okay. I mean, it’s not that we made specific plans or anything today. I’ve just grown so used to seeing her that I really notice when she’s gone.

The other day, she and Matt both came over, and that was awesome. It felt like family in a way I didn’t realize family could feel. If only they could always stay.

I pick up my phone to see if she’s left me any messages. I’ve got half a dozen emails and so many social media pings that I’ve actually run out of space for new notifications, but there’s nothing from Freya.

I stare at it for a while, trying to decide what to do, then cave and pull up our messages. As casually as I can, I text her, asking where she is and if she wants to come over at all. I don’t want to sound pushy or anything, but we hardly get any time together anymore, and I miss seeing her.

For good measure, I add that too.

Five minutes go past and still nothing, so I decide to call her just in case. The phone goes straight through to voicemail, the answer message a scratchy recording of her saying This is Freya, leave a message.

“Hey,” I start. “It’s Jackson. Obviously. Hope everything’s okay. I was kind of hoping to see you tonight. Obviously fine if you can’t or don’t want to come over. No problem. Just hope you’re all good. And if you are about and want to come over, then I’m here now, and it would be cool to see you. Okay, bye.”

I hang up, feeling awkward. That was not a great voicemail. I’ve done better voicemails. Everyone has done better voicemails. Maybe I should call her again.

No, that will be too pushy. I don’t want to be too insane.

Instead, I shove my phone into my pocket where I won’t be tempted to look at it, and decide to walk through to the kitchen to see what Pierre has left for me for today.

The first thing I see when I step into the room is a box on the counter, wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied up in a pretty ribbon that’s got Freya written all over it. I rush over to it and rip the ribbon off, tossing the paper on the floor.

Inside is a whole batch of freshly baked cookies, hidden under an envelope with my name handwritten on it. I pick it up, turn it over, and take out a greetings card with balloons on. She’s blacked out the words Happy Birthday and written To my friend instead in her blocky handwriting.

A warm flutter bounces through my chest at her referring to me as a friend. A worse one hits me because I know I wish we were more. But still, it’s heartwarming. Like, I know we’re friends, and sometimes I think we probably are more than that. But we don’t really talk about it very much, so it’s nice to have the confirmation.

Inside she’s written: Jackson, sorry I missed you. Was in a hurry. Have an extra shift at the hospital tonight and had to go. Hope practice went well today. Freya x

I put the card back in the envelope and grab a cookie, shoving it in my mouth. God, she makes some of the best chocolate-chip cookies I’ve ever eaten in my life. That woman could do anything. Oh, I wish she was here. And it’s not even anything to do with the fact that I’m horny — I mean, I am, but that’s not the point.

More than anything, I like to hold her and sleep with her in my bed. It’s nice to know that she’s cared for, that she has nothing to worry about. At least I hope she feels like she’s cared for with me. I want her to feel like she doesn’t have to worry about the weight of the world anymore, at least for a little while. I want her to feel safe.

Ugh, all this worrying is going to give me wrinkles.

I go into the fridge to find the spaghetti that Pierre has prepared for my dinner. I slop it into a bowl, fling it into the microwave then sit down to eat all by myself.

And then I start to think about Freya again. Like I ever actually stopped.

Maybe I should call her again. I glance at my phone, and she still hasn’t even looked at any of my messages. I know she’s at work but usually she’s good at replying to messages.

What if something has happened?

I decide to call again, if only to explain that I’m not worried anymore because I got her package. Even if that’s a lie. I am worried. I mean, I’m sure she’s alive, now. Probably. Unless something happened at the hospital.

Not entirely to my surprise, her phone goes straight to voicemail again. “Hey, me again. Jackson. Got your package. Thank you very much. You know how much I like your cookies. Oh, God, that sounded more like a euphemism than I meant it to. Sorry. I mean… Yeah. Anyway, thank you. Give me a text when you get time. Okay, see you later. Bye.”

I hang up quickly and slam my head onto the table in despair. How do people leave voicemails every day without them sounding terrible? Is that even possible? I’m pretty sure an office job would kill me.

I’m not actually an awkward person, if you’d believe that. One of my major traits is an incredible reserve of confidence. And yet something about Freya makes me stammer and stumble like an idiot.

I finish my dinner then move to the sofa to watch a movie or maybe just have a lie down. I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll put something on to doze off to.

By the time the TV loads up, I’m already half-asleep, so I just let whatever comes on keep playing.

And then mind drifts back to Freya again, as I think about how perfectly our two bodies fit on this couch. About how much I wish I was holding her in my arms.

I didn’t even think it was possible to miss a person this much.

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