Page 63 of Never Your Valentine

We hold each other gently this time. No groping or clawing. Just contentment.

She lets go of me and pats my arm. “Sorry to say, I might have to raise your rent. We’ve had another noise complaint from the tenant upstairs.”

“Was it Lizzo and swearing? Or was it the loud sex noises?”

“Can’t imagine where those came from.” She’s gripping my arm now, and her expression has turned serious. “Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“If this is all you’re able to give me, it’s enough. Thank you for letting me use the rage room. Thank you for orgasms, plural. A long time ago, we told each other we’d be adults, and I still think we can.” She stands on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Good night.”

“Remember, I’m right across the hall.”

“I know where you live.”

“Just…if you need anything, I’m here.”

Chapter 25

Annabelle

Grant: I mailed the card. You can’t take it back

Annabelle: I don’t want it back

Grant: Sleep okay?

Annabelle: I woke up in sex-smelling sheets

Grant: Yikes or Hooray? Not sure

Annabelle: Hooray and also I’m doing laundry

I’m not worried about the card. If Magnus and Jacqueline are petty enough to invite me to their wedding, they’ve earned a petty response. My only regret is that I didn’t take a picture of it to show Kat.

She’s the one who told me about the pregnancy. She said she almost stabbed Jacqueline with her scissors when she found out Magnus was the father. Kat and I went around and around, asking each other what we knew and when. How could we both be fooled like that?

But that’s not the real question. The question is, why don’t I care anymore?

Part of it is Grant. But only a small part. Maybe I threw away my heartbreak when I threw those plates against the rage room wall. Maybe sleeping with Grant stitched my heart back together.

But mostly it’s me.

At the bakery, Dove always pretends to guess which cupcake I’m going to order, even though it’s always carrot cake. The ROMEOs are filling me in on Echo Creek history, and it’s some of the best gossip I’ve ever heard. The other day, I stumbled on story time at the library, and sat spellbound while a librarian spun tales of ice caves and lost lumberjacks. On the way home, the Saint Nick Sledder, whose real name is Nicholas Goudreau, waved a red-mittened hand and offered me a ride. I said no, because some kids got there first, trying to pet the huskies and climbing aboard. But I could have had a dogsled ride from a man who looks like Santa Claus.

Tonight, Sophie and I are going to the fish fry at the VFW and then to a hockey game. Sophie’s little brother plays for a co-rec team. It’s super local, but we’ll cheer as if he’s playing for the Red Wings. I know how to dress in team colors, and I know to leave my coat in the car when we get our dinner, unless I want to smell like fryer oil all night. It’s not a story I’d tell someone back home because it sounds like nothing. But add it all up and it says I live here now.

I’m remaking my bed with clean sheets when I get a FaceTime call from Kat. She starts talking the moment I answer. “Before you ask, no, you’re not being dramatic, yes, it’s still extremely bad, and no, she has not stopped saying our when she means herself and your ex.”

“Hi, Kat.”

“Sorry. I just didn’t want to waste time pretending we weren’t going to talk about Jacqueline.”

“Aren’t you at work right now?” I can see her station behind her.

“Yeah, but get this. Jacqueline’s moving to the Thirteen Shears salon over in Kerrytown.”

“Oh?” I’m not sure what that has to do with me.