Page 30 of The Best Worst Thing

Early August

The next ten days were quiet.

It took some time, but Nicole did settle into reality.

She developed a little routine. In the mornings, she’d walk Nero, read a book, and FaceTime Valerie.

In the afternoons, she’d find something to do around the house: alphabetize her spices, replace a water filter, throw Gabe’s shit in a box.

In the evenings, she’d go for a run—north, of course, and never on the Greenbelt—until the cerulean sky turned white.

After that, she’d take a screaming hot shower, crawl into her pajamas, and wander around the house until bedtime.

When Mari wasn’t traveling, she’d stop by after work for dinner.

While Nicole cooked, Mari would search for the fanciest bottle of white she could find in Gabe’s wine room and pour them each a glass.

They’d sit at Nicole’s island or breakfast nook or dining table—the house, hushed and dim and lonely—and make small talk.

From time to time, Mari would put down her fork and say, “What are you going to do, Nic?” and Nicole would push a tomato across her plate and say, “I don’t know. ”

Because, honestly, other than getting on that plane to Virginia midmonth, she didn’t know what she was supposed to do next.

And she didn’t know, either, why it hurt so bad to let Logan go.

Why, when she lay in bed at night, she’d still toss and turn, waiting for the familiar ding of her phone.

For him to text her some rambling, rapid-fire string of messages about bioluminescence or pet rocks or the morality of hedgehog cafés.

For him to pound on her door, drop his keys to the floor, and pull her into him.

For him to crawl into her bed and slide his hands up her legs and his nose down her spine.

For him to put his mouth on her lips, to inch off whatever was left on their bodies, to give her another chance, to just push himself into her until all she felt was him.

All she knew was none of that mattered anymore. Those had been fantasies.

The kind you could never act on once someone really knew you.