The Falling (Brightest Stars, #1)(9)

CHAPTER NINE




The water came back on right after Stewart left. I washed the sheets and towels in the few minutes I had between appointments.

Elodie managed to be busy with a client each time I finished with mine. I was dying to ask her how she knew that soldier with the strange name and quiet presence, but we kept missing each other. I usually stayed out of other people’s drama—I had enough of my own—but Elodie hardly knew anyone here, and I was curious about this connection of hers. The only people she talked to were on Facebook.

My next client was a sleeper. He usually conked out within five minutes, which left me with the entire hour to think about my brother. Oh—and how much I was dreading tonight’s dinner. I was slightly envious of Austin for being far away in North Carolina, sleeping past noon and working part time at Kmart.

I also thought about Elodie’s friend, how he wore pants throughout his treatment and how the amount of tension he held in his body wasn’t healthy for such a young guy. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. If that. He had a baby face, smooth skin, and a sharp jaw.

My last client of the day was a walk-in who left me a big tip for a thirty-minute prenatal massage. Her belly was full and she seemed so tired. I almost asked her if she was okay, but I didn’t want to be rude so I kept my mouth shut.

I walked by Elodie’s room again. The door was closed, and for a second I even imagined that her soldier friend might be in the room with her. My imagination sure was out of control. Before the end of my shift, I helped Mali restock the back room and the towel warmers, and I folded the laundry. I wasn’t in a rush to leave, especially on so-called family dinner night.

When I finally left for the day, I took Mali’s delicious leftovers home with me. That whole thing about pregnant women eating for two might be an old wives’ tale, but Elodie was walking proof of its truth. I carried the food in one hand and tried to call my brother with the other. Voicemail after two rings. Asshole.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m calling to check on you. I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Call me back. I’m going to Dad’s for Tuesday dinner, as always. You suck for not being here, as always.”

I hung up and put my phone in my front pocket. Around me, the sky looked like the sun couldn’t decide to set or not, staying an orange color that made everything look a little nicer, a little softer. The parking spots in the alley were all taken. Bradley’s white truck was there—parked sideways across two spots—and the truck bed was so full of mattresses it reminded me of that fairy tale about the princess and the pea. He walked out the back door and tossed a pillow into the pile.

“Water’s back!” he shouted, waving his hand.

“Yeah . . .” I said, smiling. “Thanks for being on the water company!” I added.

Okay, that was awkward. I could feel it. Bradley didn’t seem to notice or overthink my words the way I did—he simply told me to have a good night, locked the door to his shop, and climbed inside his truck. I knew I would mull over my awkwardness all through the evening. My brain usually worked that way.

Doors slammed, tires crunched over branches, and voices filled the rest of my short walk home. I thought about dinner at my dad’s tonight and what forced conversation we would have during at least three courses. Half of it would be about my brother, of that I was sure.

I had to be at dinner by seven, which meant getting ready to leave my house by six forty. I needed to shower and put civilian clothes on, even if I was giving my appearance minimal effort. My dad had stopped commenting on my looks once I’d lost enough “extra pounds” to please him. Small mercies, I guess.

I really wanted to stay home and eat leftovers with Elodie. Sure, dinner once a week was better than living there—by far. But I hated the task of it. Every week since moving out I’d told myself the same thing: that I’d get used to the routine. I hated that my entire week revolved around Tuesday at seven. When I did my laundry, when I washed my hair, when I brushed my teeth, when I worked—it all had to fit around this dinner. I guess I wasn’t as much of a grown-up as I thought.





CHAPTER TEN




I was starting to hate Facebook. Every single time I opened the app, there was a newborn baby, a proposal, or a death. If it wasn’t that, it was politics, with everyone shouting so loudly they couldn’t hear what everyone else was saying. The whole thing was exhausting and I had barely posted in months. I never felt like I did anything important enough to share with people I hardly knew. And unlike Sarah Chessman, who had moved away my senior year at Spencer High, I didn’t feel like every Crockpot meal or selfie was social-media-worthy.

But out of slightly bitchy curiosity, and a tiny bit of envy I’d never admit to, and because I had another few minutes to waste on my walk home, I went to Sarah Chessman’s page to scroll through her boring life. Maybe it was the fact that I was walking home through the back alley and my feet hurt like hell, or that I’d be knocking on my dad’s door in an hour, but Sarah’s life actually looked legitimately eventful. She had a husband—a newly minted soldier stationed in Texas—and she was pregnant. I watched a ten-second video of her opening a box full of pink balloons, revealing the gender of her soon-to-arrive baby. Gender-reveal parties were starting to piss me off. What was the point? Why did people spend money on them? If I ever had one, who would even come?