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I scowl at my phone, picturing the man who lives next door to my childhood home, who’s been a source of misery for as long as I can remember.
I will not be going to my parents’ and risk bumping into Christopher Petruchio—long-standing nemesis, bane of my existence, asshole of epic magnitude—because the universe is a jerk and, whenever possible, I always have the misfortune of bumping into Christopher.
KITKAT:I’m good. Now get off the phone & go bang your boyfriend’s lights out.
BEEBEE:Done & doner.
BEEBEE:OH! I forgot. Cornelius needs his dinner. Would you mind feeding him? His meal is in a container in the minifridge, labeled for today.
I peer into Bea’s bedroom and spy her pet hedgehog waddling around his elaborate screened-in living structure. A smile tugs at my mouth as he perks up and his little nose wiggles, sniffing the air. I’m an animal lover, and while I’ve never looked after a hedgehog, I’m not worried about being able to handle it.
KITKAT:No problem.
BEEBEE:Thank you so much!!
KITKAT:You’re welcome. Now STOP TEXTING & GET BANGING.
BEEBEE:FINE! IF I MUST!
I shove my phone into my back pocket and slump against the hallway, scrubbing my face. I’m jet-lagged, my system heavy with exhaustion yet humming with energy. I can’t stand when I’m tired yet hyped, but such is life. Just because my body’s wiped doesn’t mean my brain gets the memo.
Moaning pathetically, I traipse through the living room, then flop onto the sofa just as my phone buzzes again. I reach inside my pocket and yank it out.
BEEBEE:Wait, just one more thing!
BEEBEE:In case you change your mind, a reminder that the Friendsgiving party I told you about is 4–8. There’ll be PUMPKIN PIE.
I roll my eyes as I swipe open the screen, then type my response. Yes, my weakness is pumpkin pie. But my hatred of Christopher, who will be there, is much stronger.
KITKAT:Not a chance in hell, BeeBee. But nice try.
—
Okay, so maybe my dependence on pumpkin pie is asmidgestronger than I care to admit.
Not so strong that I’ve decided to swing by the Friendsgiving party and risk seeing Christopher. Instead, there’s Nanette’s, a kick-ass bakery that I’m headed to, located a handful of blocks from the apartment. After some slight (read: thirty minutes of)social media scrolling, I discovered Nanette’s was having a flash sale this evening on pumpkin pies, buy one, get one half off.
I might have seven dollars and fifty-nine cents in my bank account, but I do have a credit card for extenuating circumstances that I am prepared to use. Thankfully, I don’t have to—I found an envelope on the kitchen counter with my name on it in Mom’s loopy cursive and five twenty-dollar bills inside it. Not even the prick to my pride, that my mother had both inferred and fussed over my rocky financial status, could stop me from snatching up two twenties and powering out the door.
Clearly, the universe intends me to have some pumpkin pie, after all.
Strolling down the sidewalk toward my destination, I bask in a bracing November wind that whisks dried autumn leaves along the concrete in tumbling, percussive swirls. My WALK IT OFF playlist blasts in my headphones and I feel a swell of joy. Fresh air. Two whole pumpkin pies, all to myself. No Friendsgiving required. No having to face—
Slam.
I collide with someone just as I round the corner of the block, my forehead knocking into what feels like a concrete ledge but is more likely the other person’s jaw, followed by their hard sternum jamming my sore shoulder. I hiss in pain as I stumble back.
A hand wraps around my other arm to steady me, and its warmth seeps through my jacket. I glance up, assessing if I’m under threat, but we’re caught in a shadowy patch of the sidewalk, late-evening darkness swallowing up our features.
Before I can panic, the strength of their grip eases as if they’ve sensed I stopped wobbling. As if whoever this is understands something about me that I don’t feel anyone ever has: that while I am fiercely independent, sometimes I want nothing more than acaring hand to catch me when I falter and just as freely let me go when I’m steady again.
The rumble of a voice dances across my skin, making every hair on my body stand on end. I yank off my headphones so I can hear them clearly.
“...so sorry,” is what I catch.
Two words. That’s all it takes. Even if they’re two words I’ve never heard him say before, they’re all I need to recognize a voice that I know as well as my own.
Fiery anger blazes through me. Not because my shoulder’s throbbing, though it is. Not because my head feels like a bell that’s been rung, though it does. But because the person I’ve been trying to outrun is the very person I just ran into:
