With This Heart(4)

“ No, not yet, but I haven’t left the apartment much,” I lied.

“ Hmm, I’m sure you’ll meet some nice people soon,” my father promised as he slid the eggs and faux bacon onto a large serving plate and brought it over to my kitchen table/desk/collector of random items. Currently, a distressed owl candle holder and a pile of medical pamphlets served as a centerpiece for our breakfast.

My mother’s brown eyes caught mine as she took the seat opposite me and I wondered for the millionth time where the hell my features had come from. They both had brown hair and brown eyes. Yet, I had light strawberry blonde hair and sage green eyes. My mother always told me that my hair color skipped a generation; according to my mom, when my Nanna was young she had wild golden hair, too. I had to take her word for it since none of my grandparents were still alive.

We ate in silence for a few minutes until my parent’s nervous fretting made my skin crawl.

“ What are you guys planning to do for the rest of the day?” I asked, pleading with the gods that they had plans that took them far, far away.

“ We were going to stay here to help you finish unpacking,” my mother answered, offering me a smile.

Pick your battles, pick your battles, pick your battles. In a few days, I’d be gone, away from them, for two weeks. Happiness-coated-in-guilt settled in my stomach and I forced a nod. “Thanks. That’d be great.”

…



Privacy was obviously a rare occurrence in my life and I made sure to soak up as much of it as I could as I tromped around my apartment, picking up things and putting them in spots I deemed to be their new home. My parents had left a little over an hour ago, after they were sure that I was well fed, showered, and in my pajamas. Apparently, I was a toddler.

I had no plans, even though it was a Sunday night and I had nothing to do the next day except meander around my apartment. I’m sure Mom would stop by at some point, but that didn’t feel like enough anymore. For so long I had gotten away with watching TV and escaping into books because that’s all that I could physically handle, but now what?

I was given this heart and at every turn I felt that sharp pang of guilt that I wasn’t using it how other people, better people, would have.

Beck had flitted through my thoughts roughly one trillion times since the day before. The moment I’d closed my car door I had flipped his business card over. On one side it read: “Daniel Prescott, CEO Prescott Publishing” with a phone and fax number. On the back there was Beck’s name and number, scribbled in handwriting so messy that I’d have assumed it was written by an infant had I not witnessed it being done with my own eyes.

When he’d handed the card to me, I’d had no intentions of doing anything with it. But now, as I tried to decide if I wanted to watch reruns of the Real Housewives of Whatever City, or you know, throw myself out of my second story window, I decided there wasn’t much left to do other than see what sort of weirdness Beck could add to my life. And yes, to be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about how good-looking he was. There. Are you happy?

I pushed myself up off the kitchen chair and grabbed my phone from the counter. For one wild minute I considered calling him, but then I remembered that I hadn’t actually spoken with a guy on the phone before. Well, other than my dad, but he hardly counted. What if I sounded really strange on the phone? You know how when you hear yourself speak and you think Holy God, how do people even stand listening to my voice? So, I texted him instead.



Abby : Why do you want to go on my road trip?



My heart puttered wildly in my chest, and for one quick second I thought that it might decide right then to fail on me and stop beating. I smoothed the pad of my finger over the rough scar a few inches below my collar bone. Luckily for my heart, Beck texted me back quickly.



Beck : Abby?



I was excited to see his name flash across the screen, but then I thought, what kind of desperate person actually texts back right away ? I’d learned enough from Gossip Girl , and other accurate pop culture aids, that the cool thing to do was to act as if you were too busy to text back quickly. So instead of responding, I slid across my apartment’s old hardwood floors on my fuzzy socks a few times, pretending I was ice-skating. When enough time had passed, I hit send.



Abby : You answered my question with a question.

Beck : I don’t like cliffhangers.



He had texted back quickly again, and in that moment I decided that Gossip Girl wasn’t actually all that accurate considering they had cast thirty-year-olds to play high schoolers. So, instead of being cool, I responded.



Abby : You answered my question with a non sequitur. You’re getting worse.

Beck : No, trust me, it’s a sequitur. I don’t like cliffhangers. Enter-girl buying an urn. She clearly lies about what it’s for and then takes off into the sunset? I have to know how it ends. Murder suicide?

Abby : Don’t you have a life?

Beck : I’m living it right now.

Abby : I mean work or a family. Oh god, are you a dad?

Beck : Do I look that old?

Abby : Maybe.

Beck : I’ll take that as a compliment, and I’m not leaving anything behind that can’t be put on pause for two weeks.



I thought about how much that statement translated to my life as well. My stomach churned until I pushed the thought away so I could type out another text.