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“I’m sorry, ghosted? How do you even know what that means?”
“It’s what Daniel did to Polly. Anyway, Marissa is right to be angry at you if you ghosted her. How are you getting her to forgive you?”
“That, sweetheart, is the million-dollar question.”
Nora considers for a bit. “You should invite her to have breakfast with us. No one can resist pancakes.”
“I don’t think pancakes are going to cut it.”
Taking her plate, Nora skips to the sink. “It’s a start. Grandma always says that even the biggest tree started out as a tiny seed.”
I follow her to the sink with my plate and ruffle her bangs. “Ah, we can’t discard Grandma’s wisdom. Come here.” I pick her up. “Let’s go brush our teeth and get ready for bed.”
“Can I have three stories tonight?”
I widen my eyes. “Three?” Usually, even when she’s trying to upsell me, she asks for two. “Why do you deserve three stories?”
“One, per usual. Two, for my solid advice. And three, because I promise that if you take me to breakfast I’ll be extra cutesy and help you win over Marissa.”
She makes big eyes at me, and I can’t resist.
Despite the tough negotiations, she falls asleep halfway through the second story. I kiss her forehead and exit the room. In the corridor, instead of heading for the master bedroom, the room I still think of as my parents’ room, I go to my old one. I lie on the twin bed, cradling my phone in my hands, and stare at the dark window across the lawn.
What the heck. Nora is right. We have to start somewhere.
I unlock the screen and text Marissa.
28
MARISSA
I’m in bed, reading a pregnancy book. Since leaving Gabriel’s house this morning, I’ve purchased a stack of manuals on all things baby. Got myself on the waiting list for three of the most prestigious pre-Ks in the city—even if that’s still four years away. I’ve watched a gazillion tutorials on breastfeeding and researched the best organic meal plan services for when the baby will be weaned. I also signed up with an agency to begin interviewing potential nannies.
The planning feels good even if I’m still feeling a little disoriented. That’s when a text lands in my inbox like a hand grenade.
From John:
I know you said you needed space, but… have breakfast with me tomorrow?
My already confused head spins with even more confusing thoughts, just as a second message appears on the screen.
From John:
In public, no risk of me getting inappropriate again
Pancakes, my treat
Another notification pops up on my screen, a request from Danika. And since work sounds a million times more appealing than my messy life, I drop the phone on my nightstand and take my laptop out.
Danika is having problems sorting the restore-your-ex-in-your-camera-roll add-on. Whenever she tested the function, the restored pictures came out in poor quality, and we still haven’t figured out why.
I crack my knuckles and open the program, ready to tackle the hundreds of lines of code.
By the time I locate the glitch, my eyes have gone red from staring at the screen too long. The bug is a repeated command in the image encryption loop that’s causing the images to be compressed multiple times, as opposed to just once.
I don’t have the energy to fix the code myself. I send Danika what I found, adding a “Should I be worried you’re working on a weekend?” note at the end.
Her reply comes in two seconds later.
