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My thoughts exactly.
CHAPTERFOUR
NATALIE
My father calls right as I pull into the parking lot of theDaily Grind. It’s my favorite coffee shop, and it’s in Fayetteville, so I rarely see anyone I know.
I sigh before answering, leaning my head back and closing my eyes as I do.
“Hi, Dad.”
“I’ve called you three times, Natalie.”
“I was driving.”
“People talk on the phone while driving.”
“Well…I thought this family had racked up enough traffic tickets. You wouldn’t want me to get into an accident while driving just so you could berate me, right?”
He sighs. “Honestly, this is the last thing I need, Natalie. Why do you have to be so difficult?”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “Why are you calling, Dad?”
“Your mother isn’t answering her phone.”
“I’m not her secretary. If you can’t reach her, don’t call me.”
“You’re the one living with her, Natalie. I’m relying on you.”
“My attempts at supervising her ended with a DUI. I’m done, Dad. You don’t listen to anything I have to say when it comes to Mom. If you want to admit she needs help, maybe you should come home and do something about it.”
I hang up and exhale, popping the door open and climbing out one-handed. My bag is heavy, filled with all the art supplies I thought I’d possibly need today.
I head inside and order a coffee before settling at a small table in the corner. It’s early afternoon, so the place is mostly empty. The morning rush is long over. There’s a white-haired man doing a crossword a few tables over and a knitting group huddled on the couches by the pastry case.
For a little while, I just sit and sip coffee. Then I pull out my phone and connect my headphones. Start my favorite playlist and open my sketchbook.
I never draw what I’m looking at. I love how art allows you to create a unique depiction of something you’ve seen a thousand times before—or something you’ve never seen in person. Trying to imitate what’s in sight isn’t appealing to me.
My first sketch is a happy dog with a lolling tongue and a tennis ball. I’ve always wanted a pet, but never had one of my own.
My next is a dark, craggy cliff with ominous waves crashing against its sharp edges. I shadow in each ridge, shocked when I glance at the time and realize I’ve been sitting here for two hours.
I pack up all my belongings and then get in line before a middle-aged woman to get a second coffee. The woman in front of me takes a long time deliberating between types of tea, asking about the list of caffeinated and then decaffeinated. Then the options for iced versus hot. I feel like reminding her the outside temperature is currently hovering in the high eighties, as she deliberates. In this weather, it will take an hour for a hot beverage to cool enough to drink.
She finally decides, and then it’s my turn. I order an iced latte and wander down to the end of the counter, watching the barista brew the espresso and pour it over ice before adding milk.
I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. It could be my dad, but I’m guessing it’s Madeline. We’re supposed to meet up at the lake.
My drink gets set out on the counter. I stuff a few bills into the tip jar, grab it, and walk outside.
I turn the corner and collide straight into a firm chest. My freshly made drink goes flying, coating the sidewalk with coffee, milk, and ice.
Shit.
“Shit,” a male voice says, echoing my thought.
I glance up, freezing when I realize I know exactly who I just ran into.
