“So, I know it sucks that you can’t drink an entire bottle of wine and pass out in an alcohol-addled sleep because you’re cooking a baby in there, but take a bath, slap some of those stickers in that planner of yours, and then lay down. I have the feeling sleep will come sooner than you think.”
“You’ll call me if things get worse?”
“Worse than him making me watch that crappy reality TV show of yours for hours on end while he talks about how great you are?”
“I think that sounds like an awesome night,” I attempt to joke. “Because I am pretty great.”
“You’re awesome.” Smitty’s voice is still gentle. “And for the record, I wasn’t upset with him talking about you—it’s the show that’s torture.”
“Liar. Kailey told me you’re the one who asks her to watch it.”
“Well, that’s rude of her to divulge my secrets.”
And somehow…I giggle.
“Now that’s what I like to hear, Harp-tastic. You go get in the bath and call back if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Smitty.” A beat. “And I think you’re pretty awesome too.”
“Damn right, I am.”
We exchange our goodbyes and hang up.
Then I take the advice of a certain smart, awesome bearded hockey player.
I take a bath, pick the perfect spread of stickers.
And sleep does come sooner rather than later.
I glance at my phone and try to stifle the nerves that have been clawing at me all day.
I woke up early, feeling rested thanks to Smitty’s advice.
Then I texted Leo.
And he still hasn’t responded.
I keep telling myself that his lack of response has nothing to do with our argument, that we’ll figure it out, that we’ll be okay.
He probably slept late, considering that bottle of tequila.
Or he’s having a rough start, also considering the tequila.
Pretty soon he’ll shake off his hangover, and he’ll see the text and he’ll reply or call me or come over.
But he doesn’t show as I finish with the platter of mini sandwiches, nor the plates of pigs in a blanket (Kailey’s craving of choice at the moment). He doesn’t show as I prep and bake off the batches of mini quiches. Nor as I load my carrier with a mix of Funfetti and devil’s food and lemon cupcakes.
And he still doesn’t show even when I bake him his oatmeal raisin cookies.
“Maybe you weren’t right after all, Smitty,” I murmur, blinking back tears.
It doesn’t matter, though. I still need to get this food to Kailey’s party.
I pack everything up, lift one stack of the foil-wrapped trays.
“Whoa,” I mutter, and my head spinning, I promptly put it back down.
When was the last time I ate?
