Page 100 of All The Ways to Miss You

I pause in mid-step. Crap. I mentioned something we hadn’t discussed. It’s the second time today. “Linden.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Everything?” The word comes out more as a question. It’s the only way I can cover myself, unless I mention something they never discussed in their interview process. “We’re tight like that.”

“I couldn’t tell by the fighting.”

She heard that? But how much?

“He thinks he can fix my life. I beg to differ.” That about covers everything. Mostly.

“Family is like that. I’m told it means they care, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying.”

“Tell me about it.” Linden may be an asshole at times, but her parents’ photos are posted on Wikipedia’s asshole page.

When I remove the final boxes, she shuts the back door of the truck. I carry them upstairs and settle them on the floor. She gets us some water with some paper cups left by the prior tenant.

After taking a sip, she shivers and moves to close the front window. On the floor, she finds a backpack and digs out a black T-shirt and pulls it over her tank. I almost pass out when I see what it says.

It’s the same shirt I bought her the first time I took her to see The Cure.

forty-seven

“Which song is your favorite?” I point to Cait’s shirt.

“Don’t know. Never listened to them.”

This information cuts me like a serrated knife. Instead of letting it show in my expression, I say, “Mint Car.”

“Mint what?” she asks before taking another sip of her water.

“It’s my favorite of their songs.” I’m hoping for a reaction because they played it live in concert the first time we kissed. But still, it’s clear from her expression the name means nothing.

“You should check them out.”

“I’ve been meaning to.” She pauses, appearing uncomfortable. “So, pizza . . . I want to pay you back, but will you take a rain check for another day? I have a lot of work to do here.”

“You want help unpacking? I don’t want to brag, but I’m the master of organizing kitchens.” I wave my hand over the boxes.

“I couldn’t possibly. I feel guilty about today as it is.”

“I did want to help. I do,” I say quickly, correcting myself. “Promise. Neighbor.” I smile, hoping one last time I can get her to smile back.

“Neighbor,” she repeats, but the word doesn’t fit. We’ve been so much more. “So?”

I’m trying to remember where this conversation started. It dawns on me. She wants me to leave. “Right. Another time. No problem.”

I stop at the door, needing to see her again to believe I spent the morning with her, and it was everything I never wanted. Nothing about today was what I hoped it would be. It was wrong, uncomfortable, and most of all, disappointing.

“Cait?” The truth is on the tip of my tongue again. But now that we’ve spent some time together, I know the truth will scare her away. So I hold back, if only to get to see her again. It’s greedy, but I never thought I’d have this chance.

“Yeah?”

I dig into my pocket. “Your keys.” I lift them. A diamond-shaped Rush Street Apartments key chain hangs from the ring.

“Thanks. And thanks for your help.” She accepts them.

“Call me if you need anything. Number’s on the key chain.”