After You (Because of You 2)

I shrug my shoulders. “Whatever will be, will be. If I’m taken out by a flower, at least you’ll have a funny story to tell at parties.”

“It’s not even a flower,” she mutters, taking her seat. “It’s a weed.”

“You see a weed. I see a flower.”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure only one of us is seeing that broken, moldy thing clearly, and it’s not you.”

I ignore her and continue my work. Evening melts into nighttime. Nadia’s work day ends and she reminds me to eat before she’ll leave for the night. To mollify her, I pour myself a bowl of dry cereal and munch on it while I work.

It’s all I’ve eaten today. I should look into scheduling food delivery ahead of time so I remember to eat at least once a day. Henry used to do it for me, but hell, ordering food isn’t a special talent. If I scheduled it ahead of time, the hard part would be out of the way—pulling myself away from my work long enough to take care of my own needs.

I Google it, and holy shit—there’s an app for that! I grab my phone to download it, but the sight of my phone triggers thoughts of the person I’ve been trying to keep my mind off since I left that damned cook-out.

Derek.

He has not sent me one single text since I left the party. Not one.

I know I told him I didn’t want him to fight me for this time—and I meant it, because it is a losing battle—but it stings a little that he listened.

I’ll get over it. I know it’s for the best. Shaking off the moment of melancholy, I go to the app store to find the app that will change my nutritional life. While it’s downloading, I set my phone aside, grab a pen and my notebook, and add, “Schedule meal deliveries for the week” to my to-do list.

“I’m killing it,” I tell no one.

Predictably, no one answers me. I am killing it though. A whole week without Derek interrupting me even once has resulted in an intensely productive stretch. I had downtime twice this week, and that was even with editing.

Maybe I should pick up one more client. Now that Derek and Henry are both out of the picture, I don’t have a single soul to give even my limited free time to. I was doing some independent study before Derek rocked my world again, but I am not yet in a place where I can afford to have pockets of silence. Once I get my head right, then I can have tiny pockets of free time to fill, but until then, I need to be going going going until my head hits the pillow, and going going going as soon as the sun is up and I’m sipping that first cup of coffee.

Whoever said running from your problems is a bad idea clearly hasn’t looked at my bank account recently, because working all the time is a great idea. Fuck the dissenters and the people who have full lives to live.

After this book releases, I’m gonna buy myself a new roof.

I should look into that, actually. I grab my notebook and add “How much does a new roof cost?” to the list. I probably have to pick out a color or something, too. I don’t fucking know.

As I’m thinking about shingles for my new roof, I am startled out of my skin as someone pounds on my door. It’s not a knock—that is a closed fist, the meaty side of a hand beating aggressively against my front door.

My eyes widen and I jump out of my chair, checking the clock on my wall. It’s nearly midnight on a Friday night. From the aggression I’m reading into the door-pounding, it feels like I’m going to greet a neighbor, angry about the noise levels coming from my house—only my house is silent, so it certainly isn’t that.

Maybe it’s a murderer.

Eh,

if I get murdered, at least my book is already on its way out into the world. I really need to talk to a lawyer about how to leave my royalties to someone else if I die. I’ll probably die young, either from forgetting to eat or stress. Maybe dandelion mold. Either way, someone should get the financial benefits of all my hard work. Maybe I’ll will everything to Bethany. Not Alex, just in case he fucks her over someday. Bethany can use my royalties to buy herself a little hovel in Belize where she’ll live until the prince of Belize—does Belize have a prince?—sweeps her off her feet.

I’m so busy thinking about what Bethany is going to do with her inheritance, I almost forget to open the door for the murderer. If it really is a murderer, I’m going to ask him to hang on a minute so I can write up an informal will.

I’m smiling faintly at my own thoughts as I open the door.

The smile melts, because it’s not a murderer—it’s Derek.

I think I would prefer the murderer.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head and going to shut the door in his face.

His hand shoots out and lands solidly against the wood door, stopping me. He shakes his head wordlessly, shoves the door open, and invites himself inside.

I back up, but I keep shaking my head. “You have to leave. I’m not doing this, Derek. We’re over. Done. We talked about this. You stopped texting me, I thought you—”

His hand covers my mouth. “Shut up.”