Page 32 of Blue Moon Love

But what if she was?

And what if she was planning on changing that before her birthday?

And, most importantly, who the fuck did she plan on being her first?

Jonah I-played-in-the-NFL Walsh.

15

KENNA

“She’s madder than a snake who married a garden hose.” ~ Archie “Witty” Whitlock

Thoughts whirled in my head like sugar in a cotton candy maker while nerves popped in my belly like kernels of corn in hot oil as I wrapped a section of hair around my curling wand. Tonight would be my third date with Jonah. We were going to meet at the annual Christmas festival. It was very public, which was what I was telling myself I was feeling out of sorts about. But I knew the truth. The truth was that my anxiety was due to the fact that my time was running out. My birthday was three weeks away; if I was going to do this, it was most likely going to be with Jonah.

I should be happy that I had a good candidate. So why did I feel like I couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in on me?

After finishing my hair, I retouched my lipstick and mascara before heading into my bedroom for a fit check in my full-length mirror. I’d chosen a form-fitting olive-green turtleneck that matched my eyes, my ‘good butt’ jeans, and my Steve Madden black, square-toed, stiletto calf boots. As I stared at my reflection, I was surprised that I looked…normal. Good even. There were no outward signs of the fight or flight status I was currently functioning at.

I checked the time and saw I had about thirty minutes before I was supposed to meet Jonah at the tree-lighting ceremony. Technically, he was on duty tonight, but all the guys on the crew were going to be at the tree-lighting, and then Jonah suggested we hang out after for a little bit.

Even though our second date had been at the Movies in the Park, this felt more…official. Maybe it was because, growing up in Wishing Well, if you hung out with someone during Movies in the Park, it was casual. Going to the tree lighting with someone was pretty much the equivalent of declaring your undying love for that person.

Obviously, since he didn’t grow up in Wishing Well, Jonah hadn’t known the significance of his request to meet him there. And as a rational adult, I knew it didn’t actually mean anything. But that didn’t stop me from having a mini-panic attack.

I needed to get my thoughts out. A quick journal session would help me to clear my mind and restore balance to my world, that felt like it was spinning out of control. If I word vomited, then the hope was I wouldn’t actually vomit.

Good plan.

I opened my nightstand, where I kept my journal, but it wasn’t there. That’s strange, I thought. I glanced down to see if it might have fallen between the nightstand and the bed, which it had a tendency to do if I left it on top of the nightstand instead of putting it away in the drawer, but it wasn’t there either. I lowered down onto my knees and checked under my bed, but there was no sign of my journal.

“Where is it?” I asked myself out loud as I stood and tried to remember when the last time was that I’d written it.

On average, I wrote in it once a week, but the last couple of weeks had been a little hectic with Sam staying here, which reminded me that he wouldn’t be staying here any longer. At his PT appointment this morning, they removed his brace and cleared him to drive and climb stairs.

As I continued looking for my journal, my chest tightened painfully, and my stomach churned as tears began to fill my eyes. It hit me then that my emotional state might not have anything to do with Jonah, our date, or my deadline; it was more likely due to the fact that Sam was going home. He was no longer going to be on my couch. As the realization sank in, I was even more convinced that was what was upsetting me.

Over the past two weeks, I’d still been able to see him every day without the restrictions of the boundaries I needed to put in place. That was over now. I was anxious and on the verge of a meltdown because I didn’t know what the future looked like with less Sam in it.

Crap. This was not good. Not good at all.

The more I looked for the journal and didn’t find it, the more anxious I got. It was like a snowball picking up mass and speeding down in an avalanche of emotions.

“Okay. New plan,” I told myself as I headed out to the front room.

I would clean up the blankets and pillows from Sam’s bed on the couch so that I wasn’t reminded of them not being used tonight when I got home from the festival.

Would it work? I had no clue. But it was better than hyperventilating before I even left the house.

My chest was even tighter than it had been moments before as I gathered up the pillows and bedding. As I pulled them into my arms, the sheet got stuck in the crevice, so I tugged harder. When I did, the cushion came up and tumbled onto the floor. I picked it up and was putting it back in place when something caught my attention. My journal was leaning up against the armrest; it must have been in the crevice.

“What the…” I picked it up and read the page it was open to.

It was my last entry. The one I’d written right before I’d gone out with the guy in Dallas.

Why is it out here?

As soon as I asked myself the question, a flashback of me coming home the night before played in my mind’s eye. Sam with his back to me. His deer-in-the-headlights expression when he turned around. Him being out of breath, and when I questioned him about it, him blaming it on a bad dream.

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