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13
It was almost eight o’clock by the time Bronte got out of the hospital. Her dad had been in good spirits after the visit from his grandkids, plus the second cup of Jell-O the nurse allowed him for dessert. He’d still been pretty drugged up on painkillers, but he had insisted Bronte read to him, and since she happened to have the latest James Patterson on her e-reader, she’d read aloud until her father’s eyes sagged with sleep. Her mother had already passed out on the reclined chair with a blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders. Bronte had kissed both of them on their cheeks, given her thanks to the nurses, and headed home. Although as she made the left to her apartment complex, she changed her mind and turned around, driving toward her childhood home instead.
She unlocked the front door with her key and automatically flipped on the living room light switch. Evidence of trick-or-treating from the night before was still scattered around, and because she took after her mother, she immediately got to work, cleaning away her worry.
She put away the few toys, tossed the candy wrappers, and vacuumed, even though she didn’t really need to. Then she went after the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher and scrubbing at the stovetop. It was already spotless, but it felt good to mindlessly focus on something. Next, she refolded the dish towels.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. It was Chris. Is that your car I see parked outside?
Yes.
Picking something up? he asked.
No.
It was another one-word answer, but at the moment, it was difficult to give more. Bronte always had a lot of words in her head, and sometimes it took a while to find the ones she wanted.
What are you doing over there?
Organizing the holiday dish towels.
At his ???? response, she snapped a picture of the towels all folded up nice and neat, in chronological holiday order, starting with Thanksgiving. She left one of the turkey towels out to use.
He sent back the skull emoji.
What are you up to?she texted.
He sent chopsticks and pencil emojis. Then, Eating delivery and working.
Working? Thought you were taking a “break.”
He sent her the ghost with its tongue out.
You’re the only person in the history of texting who has ever used that.
He sent it again, this time ten times over.
She was typing, intent on telling him the reason she didn’t want to go home was because she didn’t want to be alone, when a message popped up.
Want to come over?
How was it possible that someone she’d known for only a few weeks—mere days, even—was able to read her like a book? She wanted to see him but was still uncomfortable with how things were left between them. She’d had the craziest twenty-four hours of her life and wasn’t ready to jump into anything else that might make it even crazier.
How about you come here? she offered.
Two minutes later, there was a knock at the front door. She hadn’t locked it, so she wasn’t surprised when the door opened.
“You know this isn’t some Leave It to Beaver town. You need to lock your doors. I tell your parents the same thing all the time.”
Chris stood in the entryway of the kitchen with Chinese food containers stacked in one hand and a bunch of DVDs in the other. She was momentarily caught off guard by how good he looked in a plain white T-shirt that clung to his chest. His hair was wet, and it curled a bit in the front, one piece hanging down by his dark eyes.
“Old habits die hard.”
He looked her up and down as if checking for bumps and bruises. “How’re you doing?”
“All right,” she said and meant it. After she’d seen her father was going to be okay and cleaned some of her panic away, she was doing all right.
He held up the movies. “I tried to explain to your dad that he needs to get a smart TV instead of living in the last century with a DVD player like some plebeian, but here we are.”
