Page 60 of Go Back to December

You going to tell me what’s going on?

There’s nothing to tell. Except I miss you.

I miss you too.

Next year, we’ll be together.

Are you thinking of enlisting? Wait, I think you’re too old.

Et tu, bro?

Next year you’ll be in Paris.

It’s such cocky optimism. He must understand what a long shot the Lightman is. I can’t bear to tell him the situation at B&S means it may evaporate entirely.

Then you’re meeting me there. I’ve put it out into the universe; it’s going to happen.

Sure Mom.

That is not funny.

Okay, Paris, next year. It’s a date. Gotta head to pre-flight.

You going to be okay today, or do you want to talk later?

Over the years, Craig and I have hashed out most of our baggage about my father. We’re in a good place now, and I don’t want to rock the boat. It’s not that I want him to fly over here. I would never ask him to. But part of me wants him to want to drop everything for me, without having to ask him.

Mallow??

Shit.

I knew I should have asked for leave.

I’m fine.

Some dick clipped you with a knife.

And you’re cohabitating with someone you hate.

I don’t hate him.

I just want to throttle him. A lot.

I’ll call you tonight. It will be late.

No, it’s okay. We’ll talk on New Year’s Day, like we planned.

I’ll be fine. Plenty of things to keep me distracted.

I have one day left with Baz and the boots, and we need to finalize a plan to save the café. We’re running out of time. If I can’t keep it together today, I’m jeopardizing everything.

The labels on the luxury bedsheets deem them safe to wash in plebeian appliances, so I throw them in the washing machine, wishing there was a setting for expensive fabric I don’t want to destroy. I settle for the hand-wash mode.

After I shower and change, I realize that I’ve underestimated how cold the weather would turn. I wasn’t exactly clear-headed when I’d packed my overnight bag, and I’ll have to stop by Manny’s to pick up some additional clothes to get me through tomorrow.

Eventually, my phone buzzes with the call from Baz to free him from the boots. He’s antsy to move, and I resist the urge to torture him by dawdling. I’m already feeling the raw edge of my mood; I don’t want to stir shit with Baz before the day’s started.

“Morning,” I murmur.