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How could I be surprised? I couldn’t think of anyone who’d ever wanted me around unless money was trading hands. My parents had each made it clear that I was the last-ditch attempt to save their marriage, and I’d failed. They’d passed both me and Everett back and forth like hot potatoes before pawning us off on whatever Belgian boarding school would take us. The moment he’d sensed weakness, Everett couldn’t wait to be rid of me. We couldn’t have spoken face-to-face more than five times since then.
There was something wrong with me, something no amount of accomplishments and perfect work could ever compensate for. There had to be.
I’d told Cassie I wasn’t lonely, and that I was used to it—to being alone. I should’ve been; I’d had enough practice. But some things always found a new way to hurt.
I barely tasted the pastries, downing them one after another. When I hit the bottom of the bag, I looked back through the sliding glass doors to my living area, the sleek monochromatic kitchen waiting beyond.
Empty. Empty. Empty. I’d even left Phil at the office.
Just when I’d thought someone might actually care about me, I had to be reminded that never happened. I’d had enough people I couldn’t trust in my life; I didn’t need another.
But I missed Cassie. I’d thought she was different.
If there was any coming back from what she did, I’d definitely made sure she would never want to.
No wonder I was this alone.
It was probably a good thing Delivrd didn’t offer alcohol. I made another order from the bakery and sank down onto my balcony to stare up at the sky and wait.
Although my furniture and things had arrived by that night, even after I’d showered and ordered a proper dinner, everything still felt... wrong. Yes, the décor had been intended for a different space with different lighting, but it still worked all right, I thought. The apartment was larger, brighter, more central, and it had better views than my old place.
It still wasn’t home.
I was tired of feeling out of place, superfluous. That was why I’d come here, after all. This job was supposed to be my way to live with purpose, to contribute.
Without my job, did I have a purpose? A life?
By seven, I’d sent a text to Ellie, a flail as desperate as she’d been when she fell in the pond that summer when we were kids. But she’d responded withIn the City with Daddy for the weekend. You should come!
I barely remembered Hugh Goodman, just enough to know that sounded even lonelier than this.
After another hour of fruitless scrolling on every streaming service and social media platform I had access to, another text came through. Hope spiked in my heart as I reached for my phone—and I paused.
That hope had Cassie’s face attached to it, sunshine yellow hazmat suit and all.
No, I didn’t want to hear from Cassie.
Well, yes, I did. I wanted to take back everything she’d done this week—no, not everything. Just one text message.
She was trying to help.
But that was one kind of help I truly did not need.
It didn’t matter in the end, because the text was from Ellie.Jake says he’s having a party rn. You should go. She included the address on Arch Street, a few blocks away.
It wasn’t like I had anything better to do on a Thursday night.
Without knowing the dress code, it was hard to pick properly, but I chose a gray button-down with silver sheen and black slacks, which could go business to party fairly easy. Not that I felt up to either, still bruised on my soul if not my lungs.
I felt even less like sitting around my apartment, swimming in the vast silence, though.
It took all of five minutes before I was sure the party was not better. Jake was circulating throughout the guests in this noisy club, too crowded to dance. He pumped my hand, slapped my back and made a joke I couldn’t hear about my brother. From what I pieced together, it was something about drugs, but I had always stayed well away from that part of my brother’s life—or at least the tabloids about it. For all I knew, Everett fainted at the thought of breaking the law. Jake didn’t seem like a user either, so maybe I misheard or maybe it was all in jest.
My phone vibrated, and I checked the text: Everett. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d started a conversation with me.
The text was a link to a news article: “Anthrax Exposure at Philly Hospital.”This isn’t you, right?Everett asked.
Thankfully I wasn’t named in the article. Did Everett know I’d moved to Philly—more than that, did he care?
