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I hadn’t seen Rhomi in ages, but we kept up through random messages and commenting on photos or status updates.
A pang of feeling left out hit me.
I’d left more than just friends in London. I’d left Muhammad, or Mads, as he preferred.
We hadn’t been dating for long when I decided to return to the States. It had only been a few months, but he was already focused on a new job that had a promising future. One that wasn’t centered around his personal life or me.
I opened up the text thread that he and I had sparsely used since I left. The last message from him was dated last week. “I miss you.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
I missed his smile. I missed the way he made me laugh. I missed the way he made me feel. But I couldn’t admit that I missedhim. Not after the fight we’d had that solidified my choice to leave.
So instead, I scrolled up to a photo he’d sent me last month. It was finally warm in London and he had been at coffee with a few of our friends. The photo of the four of them holding up their takeaway cups came after a selfie of him enjoying the sunshine. The warm glow of his skin and the dark curls over his brow sent me retreating into myself.
I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders a little tighter, pretending that I wasn’t utterly alone. Pretending that I could be out if I wanted. That I could be at a nightclub flirting with all manner of men in this city.
But the shallow lie proved nothing except that I wasn’t.
Rebecca sent through another text, and not a moment later, she called.
I finally answered.
Maybe it was to stop her incessant calls, or maybe to allow a voice other than mine into the room for a brief moment.
“What’s up, Becky?” I greeted her with a name I knew she hated.
She sighed but pushed on. “Your father wants you to come to lunch tomorrow to go over the agenda. Are you free around one?”
“I have to work,” I reminded her.
“You still need to eat. Come up to the house. I’m making egg salad.”
I cringed. I was sure it was by my father’s request that she was making one of the foulest foods I could think of.
“Fine. I’ll be there.” I didn’t wait for her to respond before I hung up.
Impulse rushed through me, and I shot off two texts.
The first was to my father.
Me:
Next time you want me to come over, invite me yourself.
Typing bubbles popped up on his end, but I swiped out of that conversation and into my social media feed.
I clicked on Rhomi’s photo and typed a message.
Me:
Hey, girl! Want to grab coffee tomorrow?
I took a deep breath and set the phone down on my thigh. I didn’t expect her to respond right away, but I fully expected my father’s response to be immediate, condescending, and cold. But thepingthat followed wasn’t from my texts. It was from Rhomi.
Rhomi:
Yes, babe!!! I’d love that! Alfreds in Westwood Village around 10 a.m.?
