Page 94 of Making New Plans

35

Hunter

After the longest week of my life, I stumbled wearily back to my apartment after working late on Friday. After locking myself in, I discarded my bag on the floor next to the dead plant that I hadn’t bothered to water since coming back to Boston.

I flicked on the lights and experienced a dull ache in my hollow chest when I looked around the one-bedroom apartment I’d had since I’d moved to Boston. Dark brown cabinets and marble counters in the kitchen, cold lighting overhead, and basic, tasteless furniture that I’d picked out of a catalog and had sent to my apartment so I wouldn’t have to shop. The depressing black couch had barely been used due to my intense work ethic and also because it was made with the stiffest leather I’d ever felt. Probably another reason I should’ve actually gone into the store before buying all this crap.

After switching on the TV, mostly to break up the silence, I made dinner. Which consisted of digging a boxed chili dinner out of the freezer and popping it in the microwave. The smell instantly reminded me of Monty’s, but the taste did not. I ended up dumping most of it in the trash.

Every move I made felt slow and cumbersome, like I was underwater. Exhaustion ate at me from the inside out. I’d been working with the big-time client for a week now, and it was painful. Then again, most things were nowadays.

I’d been hoping for a client flush with ideas for a pinnacle of wondrous architecture that people would take pictures of and next to for generations.

But was anything like I’d hoped it be? Of course not. The man I’d been dealing with the most, Todd Fletcher, was a bellowing, egotistical moron that spat when he talked and called me “sport,” “son,” and any other number of demeaning nicknames. My face felt like granite at the end of the day from restraining my expression and the string of insults clogging my throat.

And the building? He insisted on making a spiral monstrosity in an awful mustard yellow. The color was non-negotiable. But then again, so were most things where Todd was concerned. The building was supposed to house as many offices as they could cram into it for high rental fees.

Groaning, I sank down onto my couch and tried to wriggle into a comfortable position with little success. It was time for my guilty pleasure. The one thing I couldn’t help turning to each night since I’d been back. The only thing that ever brought a smile to my face these days.

I unlocked my phone and flipped through pictures Louis had sent me of Arwen. When I’d told him I was leaving, Louis had been nearly as heartbroken as I’d been to leave the sweet puppy. I could tell she knew what was happening. Her narrow face had been so serious, and she’d hooked her front legs over my arm as if giving me a hug and telling me not to go. She’d been the only one.

My heart grasped at the pictures of her out for a walk, playing with the tennis ball I’d brought her, and snuggling with Louis.

Then I flipped through old pictures from the last month. Chloe and I at the concert. Owen and I sweating buckets at Uffda. Working out with Chloe on the beach. One of me that Owen had taken while I was drawing at the Twisted Oak. Chloe bent over her planner. Carter, Owen, and I sitting around a bonfire. Me with my sledgehammer at the old house. Chloe and I at the Furry Family and Bikes, Brews, and Bonfires events. Arwen and I out for walks around town. Sal and I at Monty’s. Chloe and I in bed together.

As gut-wrenching as it was to look at the pictures over and over, it was like pressing a bruise to see if it still hurt. I felt so numb and hollow at work that I needed to look at these to feel my heart again.

Staring hard at the picture of Chloe smiling, snuggled in my arms, sheets barely covering our nakedness, I wondered for the thousandth time, had I made a mistake?

Before I could conclude my nightly brooding, the picture disappeared under the call screen with Sal’s name on it. I quickly muted the TV.

Heart pounding, I answered, “Hello?”

“Hello, Hunter.” Her dry voice immediately calmed my mind. “How’s Boston?”

“It’s fine.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “How are you?”

“Donny, the pet yoga guy, passed out in one of my classes after I told him mine were much more strenuous than his.”

“That’s, um, great?”

She chuckled, the sound like two rocks rubbing together. “Oh, he’s fine, and I win, so everything worked out.”

“You always win, Sal.”

“Not always,” she muttered.

Before I could ask what she meant, she fired another question, “How is Boston, really? How’s that fancy project?”

I thought about lying, but Sal would know and probably wouldn’t let up until I was unconscious like poor Donny. Plus, I didn’t want to stop talking to her.

“To be honest, it’s not as engaging as I’d hoped.” I launched into my list of issues with Todd and the building. Venting was such a relief since I had no one else to turn to with my actual thoughts.

Sal listened, muttering responses that involved a lot of swearing.

Once I was done, she didn’t even hesitate. “Sounds like you should quit and come home.”

Home. My jaw clenched. I’d already had that thought. And no matter how many times I tried to push it away, it kept coming back, like a tantalizing dream.

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