Make Me Yours(71)

“You’re always so logical.” My nose makes a loud honk when I blow it. “It’s why you’re a better therapist than me.”

“I thought you said being a good therapist made me a doormat.” Her blue eyes narrow, and my stomach plunges like a rock.

“I was so wrong to say that. I take it back. You’re the best friend a person could ever have. I’m so lucky to have you.” I throw my arms around her shoulders, and when she hugs me back, I start to cry again.

“Okay, we’re getting out of the house now. Come on.” She grabs my arms and drags me to the side of the bed.

“I can’t go out looking like this.”

“Then let’s head to the showers.”

She’s holding my arm, and I let her drag me out of bed, past the longsuffering Gray. “I have beer in the fridge if you want one. I bought all the alcohol so I could get good and drunk last night.”

“Is this what you were drinking?” He holds up a mostly full bottle of red wine.

I frown, looking around my bedroom. “Is that all I drank?”

He starts to chuckle. “Take it easy, lightweight.”

Pushing off the door, he goes into the kitchen. I follow Drew into my bathroom.

The rental house is actually pretty cute. It’s a perfect square with the bedroom and dining area separated by a full bathroom. The living room is adjacent to my bedroom and the kitchen is attached to it. It has nice flow and an open floor plan.

It’s just so lonely.

“It’s so quiet here at night.” Drew’s in the bathroom with me, and I sit on the closed toilet watching as she turns on the shower, testing the temperature through the curtain. “I miss people. I’m not used to living alone.”

“You’ve been in this house less than twenty-four hours. How do you even know?”

“I should get a pet. A puppy… Lillie would love that! I’ll take her with me to get one tomorrow.”

Drew steps back and takes my hand. “Get up. The water’s ready. I’m going to send Gray home. Can you give me a ride?”

“Sure.” I nod, stepping into the warm spray.

I’m showered, lightly made up, and my hair’s brushed as we walk through the craft store.

“First, we can get started fixing up your little house. What color should we paint it?”

“You can’t paint anything. You’re pregnant.” I’m pushing a cart past stretched canvases and acrylics.

It sends my mind traveling back a month ago to something I read on the Internet. “Since I already have my master’s and my license, I only need a few classes to add Art Therapy to my list of services.”

Drew stops in the aisle. “Could you do it in a group setting?”

“I don’t see why not.” I pull two canvases off the rack and put them in my cart. Next I pick up a few different tubes of maroon paint, holding them together in the light.

I select the darker one, then I take a white, brown, and navy tube from the bin. “In the meantime, I want to start painting again. I have something in mind.”

“See?” Drew is right beside me, giving me a squeeze. “You just needed to get out of that bed and start moving around. You already know who you are and what you want. It’s just about doing it.”

Nodding, I steer the cart to the checkout area. I still feel like a heavy weight is sitting on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’ll see about getting registered for those courses tonight.”

Drew and I also swing by the grocery store, we check in with my mother, and it’s late when I’m alone again in my little house. I’m standing in front of the stove in my sweats and a cropped sweatshirt with my hair in a high ponytail.

I imagine I look like Barbie’s Asian best friend Midge, confused in front of the stove because she doesn’t know how to cook.

If only I had Barbie money.

And Barbie perks.

“Then I’d have a chef.” I hold my phone reading the recipe for Black Bean Breakfast Bowl.

It sounds simple enough. A can of black beans, scrambled eggs, avocado slices, and salsa. How hard can that be? Hell, even Eleanor might approve of this dinner.

Setting my phone down, I crack the first egg imitating Tessa’s voice. “Free range chicken eggs and organic black beans.” Picking up the can, I don’t see organic anywhere on the Bush’s label. “Oh, well, Jake. I guess we’ll have to hope for the best with these avocados.”

As I drain the beans, my mind drifts to those dinners, Remi sitting across the table in his blazer and tee. He was always so handsome, so refined. Lillie usually said something funny about the meal or had some silly story from preschool. Pain twists in my stomach as I think about how much I miss them.

My eyes are misty, and I’m cracking Egg 2 when a rapid knock on my door makes me squeal and toss it across the counter. It falls with a splat on the floor, and I spin, putting my back to the counter and scanning the kitchen quickly for anything I can use as a weapon.

I snatch a carving knife out of the drawer. Ma gave it to me because it needs sharpening, but that doesn’t stop it from looking scary.

Tiptoeing to the front door, my heart is beating out of my chest. Why am I so freaked out by someone knocking on my door at night? I’m in freakin’ Oakville. Nothing ever happens here. This is what happens when I watch serial killer documentaries on Netflix.