Page 78 of Reply All
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Gingerand I spend the whole weekend vegging out, cuddling in bed, watching reruns of our favorite dumpster fire reality TV shows. We indulge in snacks—chocolate for me, cat GoGurts for her—and nap often. We also spend the entire weekend ignoring Will Jacobs’s texts and calls—which proves to be much simpler than I expected. Turns out, outrage is a great motivator.
After scheduling my date with the vet for next weekend, I decide the best way for me to help myself get over Will is to completely cut him out of my life. And while it’s a horrible thing to do, especially without having a conversation about it first, it was even worse of him to disappear for almost twenty-four hours. Which is exactly what happened.
I don’t get a single text or missed call from him until early Sunday morning.Sunday.
By then, I’m still unsure of my decision to go on a date with Dr. Sloane—Declan—the following Friday. But Will’s almost relaxed text message asking me how Ginger was enraged me. So I cut him off.
All week, I’ve been ignoring his texts, sending his emails into my trash bins, and rejecting his calls. I don’t read the messages, and I don’t listen to the voicemails. I know it would be easier to block him, but I still can’t make myself do it. You don’t fall out of love with someone just because you’re angry at them, and while I’m making progress, I’m not able to carve him out of my heart just yet.
It’s difficult and takes nearly every ounce of energy that I have, but I manage to get away with it. I manage to listen to what my heart is telling me: it’s time to move on and let go.
It’s what I keep reminding myself of as I put the finishing touches on my makeup for my date with Dr. Sloane. We’re not going anywhere fancy—just his favorite Mexican place on the Lower East Side—but it’s the first date I’ve been on in almost a year, if not more, and I want to put some effort into it.
When my apartment intercom buzzer goes off, I freak, though. The doctor is ten minutes early, and I am far from done. My hair is still a mess, and I have my left cat eye to complete, which isn’t something you can do in a few seconds. It takes time. Dedication. Complete silence and concentration. Maybe even a prayer here and there. One does not simply slap on a cat eye. Not if we want it sharp enough to kill a man.
With a sigh, I press the buzzer and tell him, “I’m not ready yet, so can I buzz you up? I’m sorry, but I think you’re like ten minutes early!”
He doesn’t reply, but I hear the gate open through the intercom. I unlock my front door and leave it cracked—a risk in this building, but whatever—and run back into the bathroom to finish getting ready.
When I hear the front door open and close, as well as the sound of male footsteps walking into my apartment, I call out, “I’ll be ready in a sec and then we can go!”
“Who are you talking to?”
My hand freezes mid-swishof my liner at the sound of Will Jacobs’s voice. This, of course, results in a cat eye that rivals the mask of any member of The Incredibles team.
I gasp quietly, my whole body tensing.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I whisper to myself.
“Uh, you know, your bathroom door is open. And this apartment is kinda small—reallysmall, actually. So even your whispers are pretty audible. And I think you fucking know why I’m here or you wouldn’t be frozen like that, unable to even face me.” It’s clear by his voice that he’s angry with me. And honestly? Who can blame him? I did something really horrible. I ghosted him. That’s not something nice people do.
I haven’t been nice.
I drop the eyeliner on my small counter, completely forgetting about my horrible makeup, and exit the bathroom to find him standing by the door, looking absolutely delicious. He’s in a suit and tie, which makes me believe he came here straight from work.
He’s working late again? On a Friday?
I grimace, wanting to chastise him for the hundredth time for not putting his mental health before work but then realize: Jeez, I’ve got some balls when I’m probably contributing to some of that stress.
“I—I’m sorry. But I can’t talk about this now.”
His lips press together, his hands fisting at his sides. “You can’t talk about this now? Seriously?”
I clear my throat and check the time on the oven, silently begging to universe to somehow keep Dr. Sloane occupied until I can get rid of Will.
“I… I have to finish getting ready.”
Will looks me over slowly, as if drinking me in, wanting to absorb the way I look. Something about the desperation in his eyes makes me want to burn his expression into the side of my brain.
“You look so fucking beautiful,” he says in a gust of a breath, like he tried his best to keep it in and failed.
“Thanks. But you need to go.” I clear my throat once. Swallow twice. “I… I have a date.”
He sucks in a breath. The look in his eyes is almost… devastated. But it makes no sense. None of this makes any sense.
“A date? What do you mean you have adate? With who?”
