Page 18 of The Luck of Finding You
But she can help me with this. She can be my moral support.
“I can do that,” she promises.
“How?” I ask, because he really does have dreamy eyes.
“Okay, kick things up with Mo. Flirt a lot. Talk about what you’ll do when you meet in real life. Ask if he wants to date.”
“I don’t want to do that!” I tell her. She doesn’t need to hear my explanation again; she already knows. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.
She gives me a little shrug. “Well, you’re screwed.”
“Ugh.”
There’s a knock on my door before it opens and then Gran is standing there. “Join me for some ice cream?”
“Hi, Gran!” Holly yells through the phone.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Gran says back. “I’ll call you on Friday!” They have a weekly phone date every Friday afternoon.
“You should go get some ice cream, clear your head.” Holly smiles at me and it hurts my heart how much she looks like Mom. “You’ve also got to stop running from love.”
“I’m not running from anything,” I say. “I’m stuck to the ground. Not literally, but no running is happening.”
“Uh huh.”
“You can’t tell me to stop running from love when you’re doing the exact same thing!” If I weren’t so emotionally drained from today, I probably would have kept this to myself.
“I’m not running from anything. I’m just waiting for the right guy. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
I want to tell her that yes, it actually is the same thing and that it’s just a different excuse, but instead, I smile at her and tell her I’ll keep her updated.
Then I head upstairs to eat some ice cream with Gran. I moved into her basement after Mom died, when I wasn’t ready to face the world alone yet. It’s been five years now, and I’m still here. Some days I day dream about what it would be like to get my own place, but for now I’m grateful for the company in the evenings. And tonight I’m grateful when she fills up my bowl for seconds and relieved that when she asks about my day, she doesn’t probe when I don’t give more than “It was fine” as an answer.
Instead, we spend our evening talking about the latest season ofSurvivorthat we’ve been watching together.
8
TALLY
I don’t hear from Noah until Friday morning, when he tells me that he’s landed and he’ll be at the shop later that afternoon once he gets unpacked.
Unfortunately for me, Noah’s text wakes me up and I have ten minutes until The Book Shop opens. I have never been a morning person, and since I was reading the historical romance I needed to read for book club, I stayed up most of the night because I couldn’t stop reading. Instead of showering, I decide that I’ll just use my key to Marsha’s apartment and shower up there during my lunch break.
I open the shop ten minutes late, but there are no customers waiting, so I’m able to do a simplified version of my morning routine as I help the three customers who come in before lunch.
Slowly, noon rolls around and I lock the door, turning the sign to say that I’ll be back in a half hour. I go through the back door, head up the staircase on the outside of the building, and let myself into Marsha’s old apartment.
The apartment is the same as the last time I saw it: Marsha’s mugs on her open shelving, her faded afghan draped across her couch, a neat pile of books next to the TV. The flowers on the windowsill are dead, but other than that, it’s exactly the same. I grab the towel she always saved for me from the hall closet and lock myself in the bathroom. I sigh as the hot water hits my shoulders. I don’t have the time for a long, luxurious shower that my mind is aching for, so I quickly scrub my body and am rinsing the shampoo out of my hair when I hear a door.
Not just any door, but the door to the apartment.
I freeze.
The door that I know I locked behind me when I came up here.
I have no idea what to do in this situation, so I turn the water off because that seems like the best idea. As far as I know, no one else has a key to this apartment, so it’s got to be a burglar. Or a murderer. Was someone watching as I came up here and just waiting for a moment to follow? The shower head drips its final drops, and I listen closely for the murderer approaching the bathroom now. Because, yes, now I am one hundred percent convinced that I am about to die.
I grab my towel and wrap it around my body. I don’t really want to die naked, but I don’t think I have enough time to put on my clothes before whoever is out there comes bursting in here.
