Page 34

Seventeen

My only consolation this week is that Grammy went to visit Mom. She isn’t here, she didn’t spend an hour holding that precious little angel baby, so she isn’t sick.

While I, on the other hand, feel like crud. My head won’t stop pounding. I’m leaking mucus from everywhere possible on my face, and my body feels like someone used it for a trampoline.

I lie in bed, tissues surrounding me, stupid game shows on in the background because my head hurts too much to read, and I’m not sure I have the mental capacity to understand anything an audiobook is saying.

“Ugh,” I groan. And then I do it again. “Ugh.” This time louder, and a little more like a grown child.

Fran’s coming to visit later, but she’s working. Some famous YouTuber is getting married in Tesoro, and they’ve hired Fran to be their wedding planner. She meets with them today.

My Fran is all grown up and planning weddings. I mean, it makes sense. The girl is in love with love. But in my head, she’s still that college student waiting tables at STACKS.

I don’t want to bother Mom during her week with Grammy. And Grammy’s already bugging me with suggestions. Her number one—text the redhead. Not happening. Still, for something to do, I pick up my phone and scroll through my few contacts… until I get to that very last contact.

Zevulun Hayes.

Yes, I added the man to my contacts and then never texted him.

What am I supposed to say?

Making friends when you are twenty-six years old feels hard and weird, and I don’t wanna.

Except that a small part of me might want to. I like Zev. And he brought me a book. A book I haven’t read yet because my head hurts. But still—he’s sweet. And a friend.

I lick my dry lips and cough into my shoulder before landing my eyes back on Zev’s name. Staring at my phone screen is starting to hurt my eyes more.

“Ugh. Dumb cold.”

“Hey Siri,” I say aloud and nasally, but somehow Siri still knows it’s me. “Text Zevulun Hayes.”

“What do you want to say to Zevulun?” Siri’s overly sweet voice hurts my ears, but I press on. That’s how bored I am.

“What’s up, Mr. Hayes?” I say, knowing I have zero intention of actually sending this message. But I need something to do, so I am thoroughly distracting myself.

“Your text says: ‘What’s up, Mr. Hayes?’ Send it?”

Ick. So perky and annoying. “Send it, Siri?” I mock. “I don’t think so.”

“Sent!” Honey-sweet Siri says.

“Wait!” I yell, my voice hoarse. My phone becomes a hot potato in my hand, and I juggle it along with my tissue box. “Unsend! Unsend! Siri, unsend!” My phone and my tissue box land somewhere at the foot of my bed.

But Siri chooses now to decide she isn’t speaking to me anymore. Ugh.

That wasn’t a real text. It wasn’t planned. It was a sick girl, high as a kite on pain meds with her grammy’s voice in her head, trying to find something to do. In my Advil Cold & Flu brain, I followed Grammy’s advice. I channeled Fran and the regency era, and I called redheaded, broad-shouldered, book-loving Zev Mr. Hayes. Mister. Who says that?

I reach for my phone, but it’s too far from my feet. I know there is an unsend option. I know it. Sitting up, my head spins, but still I find my phone amidst blankets, pillows, and crumpled tissues. I collapse onto my back and the three-pillow tower I built to prop me up, phone in hand.

“Hey Siri,” I croak. “How do you unsend a text message?”

But Siri is taking too long. I open the message, certain I am an educated, intelligent, twenty-six-year-old woman who can figure this out on her own—at least that’s what people keep telling me—when I see four little letters that make my stomach turn.

R-E-A-D.

Zev has read my text. No taking it back now. I swallow—ouch, my throat hurts, too.

Warm tears gather in my eyes, but not because I need to cry, more because I’m so darn mad at myself. Dr. Case would tell me to let it out, to cry; if my body wants to, it probably needs to. But crying will solve nothing, and it’ll make my head hurt even worse. So, I ignore my very nice, very expensive therapist and force those tears to stay in my head.