Page 20 of The Hearts We Fumble
Aside from moving my mattress, everything is just as I left it.
The far wall is still painted bright purple, a bold choice my younger self once insisted on. A collage of newspaper scraps—cutouts of headlines, words that meant something to me—sprawls across the space above my desk, spelling out my name. At some point, I had taken black paint and traced over the letters, making them stand out in sharp contrast against the chaotic background.
I set the box down near my half-open closet, which looks like a war zone. Piles of clothes spill onto the floor, unfolded, waiting to be put away. Somewhere in the mix are the random boxes I packed in a rush—makeup, jewelry, hair products, random knickknacks—things I shoved together without any organization just to get it over with.
I’ll have to go through it all eventually, especially if I have any hope of getting ready for class in the morning.
But right now? I just don’t care.
“Want help putting some of this away?” Tatum asks, standing in the doorway, arms crossed as her gaze sweeps over the mess.
She bites her lip like she’s not sure where to start. Honestly? I wouldn’t even know where to tell her.
Before I can answer, my stomach growls loud enough to break the silence.
I sigh, tossing a dismissive hand in her direction. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later tonight. I still have two loads of laundry to do.”
Tatum raises an eyebrow, but I don’t give her time to argue before adding, “And right now, I’m starving. Let’s go grab a bite at Rosey’s.”
Her face instantly brightens. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
And just like that, we’re out the door, leaving the mess behind for future me to deal with.
Tatum forces a smile like it’s physically paining her not to help me sort through the mess.
It’ll get taken care of eventually.
Besides, the sun is finally out after days of nothing but gray skies, and the last thing I want is to spend another afternoon cooped up inside.
Using my foot, I nudge a pile of clothes aside, spotting my purse buried beneath the heap. With a quick tug, I drag it free and sling it over my shoulder.
I rake my fingers through my hair, attempting to tame the chaos, before grabbing a scrunchie off my desk and pulling it into a messy bun.
The cooler air makes my decision easy. I slip on my Braysen University sweatshirt, pairing it with distressed denim shorts. My curls rebel, frizzing in every direction, but I ignore them.
Getting dolled up is the last thing on my mind right now.
“C’mon.” I grab Tatum’s arm, giving it a playful tug.
She giggles, shaking her head with a mock exasperated sigh. “All right, if you say so.”
She still doesn’t have a car of her own, though she’s been borrowing Reed’s when she needs to get around.
We load into my beat-up Nissan Altima, and as soon as I start the engine, the yellow check engine light blinks at me—a not-so-subtle reminder of one more thing I’ve been avoiding.
Colter had Hayes look at it the last time I was at their house. He figured it was a sensor issue, nothing urgent, but something I’d need to fix soon.
I keep meaning to stop by Kavlik’s, but it’s been shoved to the bottom of my to-do list between moving back home, work, and life.
The drive to Rosey’s is short, the familiar neon sign blinking at us as we pull into the lot.
Rosey’s is one of those quintessential small-town diners, the kind where everyone knows your name, and the coffee isn’t fancy but always hot. It’s just down the road from Sweet Tooth, the bakery where we work.
Baking was one of the few hobbies I picked up while growing up.
When my mom realized I wasn’t built for sports, she encouraged me to explore something creative, something I could actually be good at.
And I loved it—the careful measuring, the way flour dusted my hands, the satisfaction of pulling something warm and sweet from the oven.
