The Fastest Way to Fall(25)

Kat and RJ exchanged a worried look before RJ let out a slow “Ohhhkay.”

“What? I promised to cook for him.” I thought I did a decent job of keeping my voice and mannerisms cool. Even though Ben had been to my place tons of times with nothing happening, I still hoped that something might blossom between us. I’d wanted that for so long, it was almost a habit. But I’d been thinking about him less since I signed up for coaching and began talking to Wes more.

My friends nodded, saying nothing.

“What?” I bit my lip and examined RJ’s face as she looked ever the skeptic. “I’m not getting my hopes up, don’t worry.”

RJ laughed as the waiter approached. “You’ll have to tell us how it goes.”

My phone buzzed on the table, a photo of his fridge open and fully stocked appearing under Wes’s name. Since our first chat conversation, I’d been teasing him about his lack of real food.


Wes: Tit for tat. Thought you’d like to see I was keeping up with my homework.





18





I TRUDGED UP the crumbling concrete stairs and knocked even though I had a key. The paint on the front door was chipped and scuffed.

When I was a kid, we’d moved from crappy apartment to dubious basement until we’d get evicted, pick up our stuff, and start over again somewhere new. I’d tell Libby it was an adventure and make up a story about why we had to leave. She stopped believing the stories in second grade, but I kept telling them for years after that.

Turning the knob, I cursed under my breath that the door was unlocked.

Light from behind me spilled into the dim room. “Mom?” I called, but the house was still. I peeked into her cluttered bedroom and around the corner into the galley kitchen.

I’d told her I was coming over this afternoon to take her to dinner for her birthday. It had been almost a month since I’d been in the cramped house. I paid her rent and utilities, and I’d offered to get her a nicer place, but she refused.

When I dialed her number, a stack of papers and empties on the counter vibrated, her phone lighting up under them. “Perfect,” I muttered, tossing the bottles in the trash, sorting through the papers, and throwing out junk. I was about to crumple a receipt from the gas station when I saw my mom’s loopy handwriting on the back.

    Ran out. Back soon.



I tossed the note aside and cleaned off the counter before turning to the sink. I paid someone to clean the place every few weeks, but the garbage multiplied exponentially between visits, so the place remained in perpetual chaos. Cord made fun of me in college because I was adamant about our room being clean—he’d never seen my mom’s place. The sink was full of dishes, plus a cookie sheet covered in burned remnants of something. She baked?

My phone buzzed. Chat App had been acting up one night, and we’d switched to text messaging but hadn’t gone back.


B: Need your help. This is a grocery emergency, and since you finally stocked your fridge, I figured you were the man for the job. Do you have a few minutes?



Leaning against the counter, I tapped out a reply and tried to imagine B standing in a produce aisle, panicking.


Wes: How can I a-peas you?

B: LOL, I’m desperate.

Wes: Hit me.

B: That Thai chicken recipe you told me about, can you walk me through the tweaks you said you made?

Wes: Sure. Emergency, though? Does someone have a gun to your head demanding dinner?

B: No, I’m cooking for someone tonight.

     Wes: Ooh, hot date?

B: Kind of.



My thumbs paused, and the muscles across my chest tightened as I worked through why what she said bothered me.


Wes: Kind of?

B: It’s not exactly a date. That’s why I need the recipe . . . to wow him.



I rolled my shoulders back to ease the tense muscles. What? Am I planning to fight this guy?


Wes: Wes to the rescue.

B: My hero. Thank you. I’ll be quick.

Wes: I’ve got a little time. Here’s the link to the original recipe, and I’ll send you the changes.

B: You are the best!

B: Do you have your own hot date?



In my mom’s cluttered kitchen that smelled like sour milk and a cheap scented candle, I couldn’t fathom a date. Would B care if I was going out with someone? “She’s a client,” I muttered.


Wes: Family thing.

B: Have fun! I won’t bug you anymore.

Wes: It’s okay.



Before I could stop myself, I added a second message, knowing damn well I shouldn’t.


Wes: You’re never bugging me, and I like talking to you. So, message if you have other questions . . . or emergencies.



A siren sounded down the street, and I stared at the screen, but there was no reply. I wandered into the living room and sat on the couch. The small space was making me itchy, and I wanted to get out of there. I checked my last message to Libby, more out of habit than expecting a response. Then I kept toggling back to the conversation with B, looking for a response. Mason might be right. I need to get laid, because this is pathetic.

Still, a growing anxiety filled my gut as minutes passed with no Mom and no reply from B.