Page 14 of Forever & Always You

The throbbing headache I wake up with is deserved. Only an idiot drinks with a concussion, and now I’ve likely delayed my healing and will be left with permanent brain damage.

As I’m raiding the kitchen cabinets for some Tylenol, I sense Mom’s presence.

“It’s pain meds, isn’t it?” she asks shakily. “You’re addicted to prescription pain meds.”

“Yes, Mom. I’m a Tylenol addict,” I say, closing the cabinet door to reveal her behind it. I sarcastically wave the small container of Tylenol in the air. “I mean, seriously? You don’t even have prescription pain meds in here.”

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t searching for some,” she says stubbornly, so convinced of her delusional assumptions.

“Okay, I’m not having this conversation again .” I walk straight past her and fill a glass of water at the faucet, tossing back two pills and praying they’ll subdue this killer headache. “You’ll be glad to know I’m about to head home.”

“Your apartment is fixed?”

“Yes,” I lie, and before she can launch into further investigation on my plans career-wise, I add, “Thanks so much for letting me stay here. I’ll come back again for Thanksgiving.”

Mom chews her lip thoughtfully. “But Thanksgiving is four months away.”

“I know!” I pass her the Tylenol container with a sardonically sweet smile and hug her with the least amount of physical contact possible. “Bye, Mom.”

I dash upstairs to my room, exchange friendly hellos with the maid I bump into in the hall, and throw together the last of my stuff.

I didn’t bring much in the first place, so I’m on my way back down the stairs with my cute little suitcase in two minutes flat.

Zach has already cleared out for the day bright and early, presumably to head back to his own house to see if Claire will let him through the door yet, but I’ll text him later to say my goodbye.

He always comes home for Thanksgiving, too.

“Drive safe!” Mom calls just as I’m sneaking out the front door.

It’s a beautiful Saturday, as the days so often are on the coast in the summertime, so I hop into my car, throw on some sunglasses and hook up a podcast for the two-hour drive home to Durham.

Thankfully, I still have half a tank of gas, and all my tires are inflated and unclamped.

The journey should be smooth sailing with no hiccups, so I settle into my podcast and back out of the drive.

Instead of my usual gossipy, mind-numbing podcasts that I like to indulge in, I’ve chosen something more appropriate—a podcast detailing the specifics on how to manifest your perfect life.

Now, I’m not really a believer in the whole “if you channel manifestations into the world with positive energy, the universe will listen” thing, because quite frankly, that has to be bullshit.

But a lot can be said for changing your way of thinking.

A positive mind creates positive actions, and I could really do with my concussed, sad little brain being more hopeful going forward.

The second I get back to Durham, I’m going to be more demanding with my property manager, and maybe I’ll even look into breaking my lease and finding some place a little nicer.

Though in order to do that , I need more money.

So I need a job. Maybe I’ll look into being a barista in a coffee shop, because that’s slightly more upscale than working in a dive bar, but essentially the same skills, right?

And I do really need to speak with the returns office at Duke .

.?. But I have no idea how soon I’ll be able to resume classes, so I may have a few more dire months ahead of me until things start to look up.

I know Austin was drunk last night when he offered, but crashing at his place would seriously help me out.

It’s too late now, though, because I’m already on the road and I don’t even have his number.

Which also makes me wonder how we’re supposed to try this friends thing when we’re going to be two hours apart, and he’s running a successful business while I’m fighting with my property manager and learning how to make latte art.

As I’m approaching a set of lights at some crossroads, I squint through my sunglasses and hunch forward over my wheel to try and get a better look, because surely not. I whip off my sunglasses— no fucking way .

“Damn, Universe,” I say out loud. “You work fast.”

I pull up to the line, lights red above me, and stare over at the dark green Porsche 911 holding its intimidating stance in the lane next to me. The windows are tinted, but after a moment of me gaping over in disbelief, the passenger window lowers.

Austin lifts his sunglasses and smirks.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, rolling down my own window.

“You trying to race?” he teases, gesturing to the road ahead.

“Oh, absolutely.” I pump my gas pedal a few times, revving my engine, only for some concerning black smoke to fire out of my exhaust pipe. “Actually, rain check?”

Austin laughs, stealing a glance at the lights. Still red. “You heading home?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Plumbing fixed yet?”

“Still no.”

Austin sighs, dropping his sunglasses back over his eyes. “Then can I ask why the hell you’re going back to that apartment?”

A car horn blares aggressively behind us. The lights are green and we’re holding up traffic.

“Ah, shit,” I mumble, shooting Austin an apologetic frown as I step on the gas and jolt forward. Some nutcase rides my ass hard—two seconds late moving from the lights and suddenly you have enemies.

Austin is quick to pull alongside me, matching my speed.

“Pull over!” he yells.

“Okay!”

There’s a coffee shop on the side of the road up ahead, so I pull into the parking lot and wave my middle finger at the crazy dude who was kissing my bumper as he continues down the street. Austin follows me, parking in the spot next to me.

“Now that we’re here,” he says with a smile, “how about some coffee?”

“Hmm.”

“What’s with the skeptical look?”

“Because I agreed to go for drinks with you, only for you to take great pleasure in embarrassing me,” I explain, “so forgive me, Austin, for doubting your intentions.”

“We called a truce, didn’t we? Now c’mon. Get out of the car, Gabby.”

At least he’s not calling me Gabrielle anymore.

We roll the windows up and step out of our cars, awkwardly meeting between them.

After last night, I’m more confused than I was before.

Are we still fighting? Are we friends again?

Or do I have to admit that we’re stuck somewhere in the middle, muddling through a mixture of emotions with no clear definition on where we stand with each other?

Because maybe the fighting thing was easier.

“You look like a decaf Americano kind of man,” I tell him, looking him up and down with an air of dramatic judgment.

“Close,” Austin says. “Decaf espresso.”

“Gross.”

We head inside the store and join the line, but not without catching each other’s eye every half a second.

I can’t help it, and clearly neither can he.

We’re trying to suss the other out, but we keep getting caught out.

I’m trying to adapt to the sight of him not in a suit.

Today, he’s casual. His washed-out jeans fit perfectly around his hips and the short sleeves of his plain white T-shirt show off the definition in his arms. And Austin went to college on a track scholarship, so I guess he invested in those biceps when he wasn’t ticking off his four-hundred-meter intervals.

Looks to me like he definitely still goes to the gym.

And that makes me uncomfortable, because I definitely don’t.

“How often do you go to the gym? If it’s more than three times a week, then I’m not sure we can be friends,” I muse as we’re waiting in line. “You’ll want to start taking me along with you, and I’m sorry, but I don’t do cardio.”

Austin laughs. “Only when I have the time, so I make the cut. You really don’t work out?”

“Nope,” I say, popping my lips on the “p”. I won’t admit that I haven’t stepped foot in a gym since I flew off a treadmill in front of the packed campus gym five years ago. A humbling experience.

“Huh. You look too good for someone who doesn’t work out.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow. Was that a compliment? From Austin?

He gets a lucky escape from explaining himself, because the barista calls us forward to order our coffee. Decaf espresso for Austin, iced latte for me. I pay for them, since I did smash his office table yesterday and stick my drinks on his tab at the bar. Plus I want the reward points.

We grab an empty table outside on the terrace, one with a parasol that offers us shade from the sun. Honestly, I don’t even mind the deviation from my plan of heading home to Durham, because what’s the rush? As long as I’m out from under my mother’s roof, I’m good.

Austin sips from his little baby espresso cup, then shots it.

“Decaf lately,” he says, “because I developed a bit of a caffeine addiction at work until I could no longer function without it. Heart rate went through the roof, couldn’t sleep, jitters.

Getting the business off the ground was tough going. ”

I swirl my cup in a circle, shaking the ice cubes together. “Do people treat you differently now? Austin Pierce, the financial advisor. Or do you prefer wealth manager?”

“Wealth manager. And obviously people do,” he says, and I glance up at him in surprise.

“What? You expected my answer to be more complex than that? It’s really simple, Gabby.

When you’re successful, people respect you, and people who respect you are nice to you.

Life is easier now, but I also wouldn’t change my childhood, because it gives me perspective. ”

“And how was college for you?”

Austin narrows his eyes. “What is this, Interrogation 101?”

“I’m just curious—”

“College was a thousand times better than high school,” he cuts in. “No one knew my background. It was a fresh start. Why?”