Page 23 of Your Every Wish
“Have a nice time,” I say and limp away.
“Before you go, how’s that problem at home?”
“What problem at home?”
“The one in Vegas.” She waves her hand in the air. “Oh, never mind.”
Before I can press her, she’s gone. Poof. Like a puff of smoke. She’s a kooky one, that Misty.
When I get back to the trailer, the funky smell that seems to permeate the walls has been replaced by fresh-brewed coffee. Emma is sitting at the little kitchen table in her PJs, sipping away. I help myself to a cup, find the half-and-half in the refrigerator, and join her, deciding that a shower can wait for caffeine.
“Get a little morning exercise?” She takes in my running clothes over the rim of her mug.
“There’s nothing else to do around here. Hey, did you tell Misty about your boyfriend?”
“Dex? No. Why?”
“I don’t know. She said something that indicated that she knew something about him. Like she knew something about the two of you.”
“What did she say?”
“She mentioned that the guy who fixed our window . . . his name is Liam, by the way . . . is single and that she thought he’d be good for you. I told her you already had a boyfriend. She said, ‘If you can even call him that.’ It was weird.”
“And snide.” Emma laughs.
“Did she see him when he drove you here?”
“Maybe. I wasn’t paying attention.”
I start to tell her about Misty’s Las Vegas comment but stop, realizing that it’ll take more of an explanation than I want to give. “Don’t worry about it. I probably misunderstood her. But she’s a little off, right?”
“No. She seems pretty normal to me. Clearly everyone here likes her. I get the impression she’s sort of the unofficial mayor of Cedar Pines.”
“That’s not saying a whole lot. The place is filled with nutter-butters.”
“Eccentric, perhaps. But not nuts. Besides, eccentric is good. It’s interesting.”
“Whatever. I’ve got to shower.” I kill the last of my coffee, pour myself another cup, and take it with me to my bedroom.
My phone is vibrating on the nightstand, and I deliberate on whether to answer it or even look to see who’s calling, ultimately deciding to let it go to voicemail. Why take a chance? It’s probably just Madge anyway. I’d rather not spend the morning screaming at her.
The water pressure sucks, so I don’t linger in the shower like I usually do. By the time I dress and blow out my hair, I’m craving more than coffee. Good thing for Pop-Tarts, the breakfast of champions. I wonder if this dump even has a toaster.
Sure enough, there’s one on the kitchen counter. It’s circa 1972 but it’ll do. Emma has spread out on the table with her laptop and notebooks, so I eat at one of the folding tray tables in front of the TV. Kelly Clarkson has lost a shit ton of weight.
“You mind? I’m trying to write,” Emma says.
I can see the moment when she feels bad about asking me to turn off the television because she turns red, then quickly adds, “You know what? Don’t worry about it. I can move outside.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I flip off the TV.
“Really? You’re sure? I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for? It’s your job, for God’s sake. You’re entitled to quiet.”
“Thanks for being understanding.”
I roll my eyes, then go back to nibbling on my strawberry Pop-Tart. Not the most nutritious breakfast, but hey, I earned it. For lack of anything else to do, I scroll through my phone, intentionally ignoring the missed call and voicemail that’s marked on my screen. It can wait.
