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She won’t be home for a while, and despite all the stress I’m under, I’m still hungry. May as well make dinner and try to get my mind off everything.
As I cook the food, all I can think about is what could be going on with people seeing me around town. I really doubt anyone borrowed my shirt, so the only alternative is that someone in town looks like me. Not that a newbie explains how my tank top got into the hamper. Unless Peter accidentally knocked it off the hanger? But then why wouldn’t he put it back? Why put it in the hamper?
I’m making myself crazy with all these ideas. Aside from Sylvia telling a coffee shop full of people that I’m bulimic, a couple mistaken sightings of me really isn’t a big deal. Is it? For all I know, Chelsea and Sylvia are in cahoots. Why they would be trying to convince me I’m losing my mind is beyond me, but it isn’t outside the realm of possibility. It’s strange, sure, but nothing else fits.
I know I can trust my memory. Not only can I recall everywhere I’ve been this week, but I have multiple calendars to prove it. The one in the kitchen for the family’s schedule has everything, and my calendar app on my phone has even more granular notes.
Even if I didn’t have all of that, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would never step foot into Trixie’s nail salon and would definitely remember downing half a dozen cupcakes on my own. I’d also remember the doozy of stomachache that would’ve followed because I’m sensitive to sweets.
By the time dinner’s ready, I feel much better. I don’t have any answers, but at least I’m sure of my sanity. There have to be reasonable explanations for all of it. I’m not even sure I care what those are. Part of me wants to just put all of this behind me and not think about it again. There are plenty more important things for me to think about.
Somehow I doubt it will be that simple.
Still, I decide to wash the tank top, put it back with all the other summer clothes, and focus on what’s important. I don’t care what Sylvia or Chelsea think of me.
Now to figure out where my family is, and if they want dinner. I’m hungry enough to eat by myself—I bet Sylvia would love that—but if everyone is almost here, I’ll wait for them to arrive.
I text Peter and Nadia. She gets back to me first, saying she’s eating chili at her friend’s house while they study. I hold back the urge to ask her about my shirt. It doesn’t matter. Sylvia is mean, or at the very least, wackadoodle. I don’t care which, and I don’t want any part of her antics. I’ve wasted enough time on her already. I’m done.
Peter hasn’t answered, so I send him a second text. My stomach rumbles while I stare at the chicken, rice, and asparagus.
After a minute of waiting that feels like an hour, I eat alone. Though the house is quiet, I feel like it’s full given how loud my mind is. Despite deciding to stop thinking about the shirt and doppelgänger sightings, my thoughts are rolling over all the scenarios again and again.
I pull out my phone and find a video to watch. I’m so behind on all my podcasts and easily find one to listen to. Instead of choosing true crime, I pick an episode that’s all about good news in the world. That’s what I need to focus on.
It helps get my mind off everything. I smile at a story of two baby deer rescued from a ditch by a trucker who saw the mom acting strange on the side of the road.
By the time I’ve eaten my food, Peter still hasn’t gotten back to me.
Annoyance runs through me, but on the other hand, if he’s busy with the kids at the park I’d rather him focus on them than his phone. I put my plate in the dishwasher and set all the burners to the warm setting in case they want food when they get back.
Of all the evenings to be alone with my thoughts, it had to be tonight. But there are plenty of other things I can focus on. Like laundry. Once I get my purple tank top hung up, I won’t have to think about it again until next summer. Although, after all of this, I can’t say I’ll ever want to wear it again.
I hurry upstairs and gather some dark clothes from all the bedroom hampers and make my way down to the laundry room. Just as I pass the kitchen, my phone beeps with a text.
My heart skips a beat. I drop the clothes and run to my phone, eager to hear from Peter. He’ll be able to help me figure out what’s going on.
The screen shows a message from Megan. She’s sending her love and asking how I’m doing.
I’m glad she didn’t call, because I’ve never been more disappointed to hear from my best friend. I tap out a quick note letting her know I’m hanging in there. If I try to make it sound like I’m doing better than I am, she’ll see right through me. Even in a text thread.
I really should talk with her about my conversation with Sylvia and the mystery of my tank top, but I’m going to wait until I confirm Nadia didn’t borrow it.
But if she did, she’d have thrown it inherhamper. Not mine.
This is driving me insane! I’m probably giving Sylvia and Chelsea exactly what they want by obsessing over this. It’s ashirt.I didn’t gorge on cupcakes or get my nails done. My chipped polish is proof of that much.
I shove clothes into the washing machine, barely paying attention as I check pockets. Just the typical stuff—candy wrappers, some coins, a plastic dinosaur, and scrap of paper. I toss them onto a shelf and start the load. Then I gather the mix of treasures and trash to put everything in the bucket by the door. I have a rule that if people leave things in their pockets, they need to find it themselves. Pockets are supposed to be emptied before going into the hamper.
The paper unfolds as it lands on top of the dinosaur.
It has a phone number scrawled in loopy handwriting. Underneath the number is the name Jane.
I stare at it in disbelief.
Did that come from Peter’s pocket?
ChapterEleven
