Page 3 of The Love Bus

“No, Boston General.” My sister sighed. “The doctor here says she hasn’t rebroken anything. But she did damage some ligaments, which will set back her recovery. Bex and I just got here.”

“Where are the twins?” I asked, immediately.

“Susan and Bob came right over,” Ashley said. Beckett’s parents lived less than a mile away. Of course, they’d help in an emergency. They always did. “Thank God, because I didn’t want to have to bring them here this late.”

Her voice tightened at the end, and I could hear the night’s stress catching up to her.

My sister and her husband had bought a house in the same neighborhood where we’d grown up, and where mom still lived, in the small town of Walpole, just south of Boston.

She had married her high-school sweetheart and never really left.

It meant family dinners were easy, holidays predictable. But now it meant that whenever something went wrong, it was Ashley who got the midnight calls, who rushed over, who handled everything.

It wasn’t fair. I knew it wasn’t fair.

Because I’d left.

“I’m on my way,” I said, pulling on my leather sandals. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“No, Loon, wait.” Ashley’s voice stopped me mid-step. “You don’t need to come tonight. By the time you get here, Mom will be asleep. They’ve given her pain meds, and she’s not going anywhere for a few days.”

I dropped onto the bed again, experiencing that same feeling I’d had when I’d gone to the station to clear out my office.

Like I didn’t belong.

Maybe Mom wouldn’t want me there.

I hesitated. “Ash… You shouldn’t have to handle everything. And I don’t want Mom to think I don’t care…”

“She won’t. Honestly. Bex and I have things under control.” But then the tone of her voice changed. “The thing is…about the trip… I just wish… I need you to?—”

Not this again? “There has to be someone else who can go,” I said. “Heck, Mom has more friends than I do. Can’t one of them take her place on the tour?”

“Not last minute like this. And Mom keeps mentioning it. It’s really bothering her; I think it’s part of what’s making her so restless. I mean, you know how she is.”

Holy souffle! Ashley was really laying it on thick, but yeah, I did, in fact, know how Mom was.

We both fell silent. But whereas Ashley’s silence was weighted with expectation, mine was filled with resistance.

And more guilt, damn it.

“I can’t, Ash.” I glanced around the room. “I…I need to find an apartment.”

“Not right away, though, right? And the trip is only twelve days. It’s a free vacation. Honestly, you should be jumping at this.”

So I should be grateful?

“One of us is going to have to go, and one of us going to have to stay with Mom. If I go, then you’ll have to come up and take care of her,” Ashley said.

She was bluffing. She was bluffing. It was too bad about the tickets, but nobody actually had to go.

This whole thing was so stupid and unnecessary. And now, Ashley was practically accusing me of being the reason Mom hurt herself again!

I mean, sure, I could picture Mom getting herself all worked up about it, and I could maybe see how that might have contributed to some poor decision-making on her part. It was how she’d always been; the less control she felt she had in her life, the more she tried to exert it in other areas.

Like walking to the bathroom by herself against her doctor’s advice.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, my head was pounding.

My laptop—open on Leo’s side of the bed—was still playing sitcom reruns, the faint theme music looping endlessly. A quick glance at my bedside table reminded me that, at some point, I’d finished off the bottle of wine.

I groaned and rolled over, burying my face in the pillow.

Every morning since The Incident , I’d woken up with the same heavy realization: I had nowhere to go. No show to plan. Not one of my coworkers had called or even texted, so I had no reason to even get out of bed—let alone shower and get dressed.

Today, though, there was an added layer to this purgatory.

Guilt. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

Here I was, wallowing in self-pity while my sister—practical, dependable Ashley—was stuck being the adult in the family.

I forced myself to sit up. My body felt heavy, like I was wading through quicksand.

The room wasn’t just a mess, it was a health hazard. The air smelled like dirty laundry and…ugh, cheap wine. Wrinkling my nose, I lifted the hem of my T-shirt for a sniff.

Oh. It wasn’t the room.

It was me.

I was the dirty laundry.

I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the mess around me.

The old me—the me from before The Incident —would have bundled all my dirty clothes into the washer, scrubbed the counters clean, and marched into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

That version of me never would have let things get this far in the first place.

She would have been sending out resumes. Checking out dating aps.

Before Leo, I’d been fearless in an oblivious kind of way. I moved out the day after graduation, took the first restaurant job I could get, and figured things out as I went.

Spiders in the bathroom? I handled them. Leaky window? I bought caulk.

When my parents visited, Dad had been proud. Mom...not so much.

Now, my life was a wreck. And this time, Dad wasn’t here to tell me everything was gonna be okay.

I’d never felt more alone.

I was…afraid.

My gaze drifted to the French doors leading out to the balcony.

Sunlight would’ve streamed in if I’d bothered to open the drapes. But then I’d have to look at the wilting pots of herbs and flowers I used to care for religiously. My little sanctuary—forgotten. Just like everything else lately.

Gran would be horrified.

But then a familiar shadow caught my eye, about two feet tall, black, with four legs. And then…

Yup. Whistling.

“Winston! Where you hiding, old boy?”

That’d be Mr. Calloway. One of our neighbors.

No longer ours . Mine. I guess. For now .

But if Mr. Calloway was outside, it meant Winston has slipped his leash again. And did I mention that Mr. Calloway was half blind?

Not bothering with shoes, I rushed to the door, stepping outside in nothing more than my T-shirt and sleep shorts.

Mr. Calloway was standing near the curb, poking his cane into a bush, probably thinking Winston would come out of it.

He wore his usual uniform: a tucked-in button-up shirt, well-worn suspenders, and faded slacks that hit a little too high above his ankles.

His wispy gray hair was combed straight back, and thick glasses perched low on his nose as if perpetually judging the world beneath them.

“Did he run off again?” I called as I crossed to him.

“Darn fool dog,” he muttered. “Too fast for my legs, too smart for his own good.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the half-poodle, half-English sheep dog, sniffing around the door across the street.

“I’ll get him.”

Before I could start to cross, though, Mr. Calloway reached out and grabbed my arm.

“That Leo, he isn’t coming back, is he? Not good form to air your dirty laundry like that, Luna girl.”

Good gravy! I didn’t think Mr. Calloway even knew about the cooking show!

“Right? Maybe not my finest moment. But.. I’m fine. It’s fine.” When I tried pulling away, he gripped my arm a little tighter.

Then he sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “If you sweetened up a little, you could probably land yourself another fella.”

I forced a polite smile. “Yeah. Maybe. Now, just let me get Winston for you.” I managed to extract my arm, stepping away.

Anxious to save the dog and retreat back into my house—where I could continue wallowing in private—I jogged across the street, climbed another neighbor’s porch, and grabbed the scruffy escapee before he could bolt again.

I would have normally just scooped him up, but Winston had been pawing at a flower box on the porch, flinging soil and something definitely not-so-soil onto the steps.

“Winston!”

Manure. It had to be. The sharp, unmistakable smell was even stronger than me.

“Seriously?” I muttered, one hand gripping his scruff while the I tried scooping clumps of…this black mess into the box with my other.

And of course, the screen door creaked behind me.

“Oh!” a woman’s voice said, startled. “What are you doing?”

I turned. It was the woman who lived there—Cheryl or Sharon or maybe Charlotte—slim, fully dressed in linen capris and sandals, holding a steaming mug of something hot. I couldn’t tell if it was coffee or tea at this point, as my olfactory senses were already overwhelmed.

“Just helping out Mr. Calloway,” I said, attempting a smile and hoping my cleanup efforts sufficed.

“Right.”

“Yeah, this isn’t the first time.”

“Nice of you,” She said, eyeing Winston suspiciously. “He’s…lively.”

But then she was looking at me again. “I noticed they replaced you.” She didn’t add, “on the show.”

I gave a tight nod.

“The new hostess is very…striking. Great hair. Not sure she knows much about cooking, but maybe that’s not the point anymore.”

I stood there, manure on my hand, Winston tugging to get away.

“I should get him back,” I said quickly, not trusting myself to speak any further.

“Oh, of course. You’re busy,” she said, already turning back toward her door. “You know, I always thought you were the one who made that show interesting.”

I couldn’t tell if that was meant to be kind or just another little dig, but either way, it barely registered.

Back across the lawn, I handed Winston over to Mr. Calloway, who didn’t say thank you. And also, who, although he’d noticed my stench, didn’t seem to notice the manure.

I did, though. God, I did.

By the time I got back inside, I wasn’t even embarrassed—I was just…blank. Hollowed out. Like there was a giant hole in the place where I used to have dignity.

Ashley’s words from the day before echoed in my head. “ You’re miserable. Getting out of town…it could actually help .”

Cheese on a biscuit. I hated when she was right!

If I sucked it up and took this trip, it would make things easier on my sister. One less thing for Mom to complain about. And for a few days, at least, I wouldn’t feel like such a burden.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, and after a long breath, tapped on Ashley’s name.

She answered on the first ring. “Looney?”

“When do I have to leave?”