Page 102 of We Can't Be Friends

“How’s the apartment, freckles?” my dad asks while I’m grocery shopping. Cal hadn’t done his weekly delivery yet. I figured I could pick up a few items for dinners this week, not that I’ll be the one to cook.

My apartment. Haven’t thought about it in a few weeks.

“I don’t know,” I admit truthfully, “I haven’t checked in with my landlord.”

“Isn’t January the three-month mark?” Is it? I guess so. “Wasn’t that the earliest you could potentially go back?”

“Yeah, it is. I’ll call after we get off the phone.”

“Please do, then let me know.”

“How are you and Mom?”

“We’re good. Excited to see Miller and Riley for Christmas. Are you sure you don’t want to come home?”

“Yeah,” I choke out, biting my bottom lip.

“We’re going to miss you, freckles.”

I’m going to miss them too. I don’t tell him that, instead lock the words away in the tower I built for them in my brain.

My dad catches me up on his work. After he retired from playing baseball—imagine him having kids who wanted to live on ice instead of with a ball in their hand—he’s worked as a high school coach. He enjoys developing players' skills and their love of the game. Mom owns a flower shop, it’s why I love flowers.

Our conversation, mostly him talking, takes up the entirety of my time in the store and my walk back to the apartment. We get off the phone when I’m in front of the door, struggling to find my keys.

I rustle around my purse, cursing myself for the disorganization. The bag has at least seven interior pockets—sue a woman forkeeping her entire life in the bag and then never being able to find anything.

But if you needed a lifesaver or a paperclip, I probably have it.

Living with Callum has made me a tidier person.

My bedroom isn’t a mess. My laundry doesn’t sit in the dryer for four days waiting to be folded, then in a basket clean for another four. There is food in the fridge, and I eat at least one, if not two, homemade meals a day.

Cal even bribes me to clean my bathroom. I wish it were with a kiss, but sadly, it’s usually for a latte from my favorite coffee shop.

However, I like to think of my purse as an extension of my mind.

A happy exterior but a clusterfuck of dark pockets filled with pointless thoughts on the inside.

Fishing around the pockets, I still haven’t found my keys, but I do see an old Tamagotchi that Emerson and I bought last summer.

Geez, Chloe, I curse myself.

Found them.

Shoving the key in the lock, I push my right shoulder into the door, my hand weighed down by grocery bags, barely turning the knob.

Something they don’t tell you about having a golden retriever is that you need good balance. Before I can even take five steps into the place, yellow fur and groceries invade my line of vision. My ass hits the floor.

Two petite hands catch one of the bags. Thank goodness, the one with the eggs.

My palms dig into the hardwood, pushing myself up.

“Here.” One of those hands is outstretched to me. Her chunky and low British accent draws my head up. I don’t recognize her. The female gives me a weak smile.

Confused and annoyed, I ignore the help. Standing on my own, I clean up the discarded items. I drop everything on the counter. Turning to face her, we are eye to eye, the same height.

She’s pretty. Hazel eyes. Fresh strawberry blonde hair. Perfectly straight teeth, and a slender nose just like her body.

---