Page 81 of Not Home Alone

She leans in to say directly into my ear, “This is still privileged information as of today. His dad wants to move The Moody Group headquarters to New York. The board voted on it like a week and a half ago. So Grant will still be based there. Robert’s moving there too.”

And just like that—even though my face is still pressed up against Joy’s, even though I’m in a room full of people, even though I’m still happy I’ll be moving home with my sweet dad—I feel completely forgotten and alone again.

TWENTY-SIX

GRANT

I’m in the kitchen, trying out the waffle maker I had delivered so I could surprise Merrily with fancy waffles for dinner, to soften the blow when I tell her about New York. But it has not been going well. I made the batter from scratch. It only required seven ingredients, which I mixed together like a boss. And cooking spray for the waffle maker, which I used plenty of. And I preheated the fucker like you’re supposed to. But the waffles aren’t cooking evenly, or else they stick to the grill, or whatever it’s called. Or they burn, even though I definitely didn’t forget them for more than a minute or two.

I hate this waffle maker.

I don’t even like waffles.

I just like how happy Merrily looks when she eats them.

I hear the front door open, which is unexpected, because I didn’t get a text from Merrily telling me she was coming home. It smells like someone burned waffles in here.

“Hey, is that you?” I call out. “I’ll be right out—don’t come into the kitchen. I have a surprise for you. It definitely isn’t burned waffles.”

I unplug the waffle maker, turn the stove fan on and wipe my hands on a dish towel that has the words “Merry Christmas, Bitches!” embroidered on it.

There’s no reply, which is concerning.

When I walk out to the dining room, I see Merrily leaning back against the inside of the front door, still in her coat, scarf, and boots, staring at the floor. She doesn’t look happy. She looks mad. At me. She looks up at me without lifting her chin and says, “You’re leaving?”

“No. I don’t have to be anywhere tonight. I was making dinner for you.”

“After Christmas? Joy told me about New York. You’re going back anyway? For good?”

Shit.

Fuck.

“I can explain.”

She shakes her head as I approach her slowly, like I’m trying to pick up a feral kitten that might bolt. “Were you going to leave without telling me? Just pretend none of this was real? Again?”

“No. Not at all.”

“You knew this whole time, didn’t you? The whole time we were together, you knew you’d be living in New York, anyway?”

“Not the entire time. Not exactly.” I reach for her face, to wipe the tear that’s fallen onto her cheek, but she jerks her head away. “I tried to tell you last night, but we kept getting interrupted, and you were so happy…”

“Yeah.” She laughs through her tears. “I was.” She reaches for the doorknob.

“Where are you going?”

She opens the door. “Back to the stage.”

“Didn’t you just come from there?”

“I need to make sure everything’s ready so I don’t have to get there early tomorrow.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Please don’t,” she says, as she walks out the door.

“Just wait, I’ll drive you.”