A Week of Mondays (38 page)

When the hero narrowly managed to escape an intense, high-octane chase through the streets of Rome, I glanced up at Tristan to share in a moment of relief, only to find that he wasn't even watching the movie.

He was focused back on his phone.

And this time, I got a glimpse at the screen.

It wasn't a message. It was a photo. Of a girl. She was posing provocatively, the phone held high above her to capture the perfect angle down the front of her shirt.

Enraged, I launched from the couch and stomped toward the front door. I yanked it open and charged onto the lawn.

Tristan was behind me in an instant. “Ellie? Where are you going?”

“Home!” I shouted.

“Why?” I was devastated to hear annoyance rather than concern in his tone.

“Why are random girls sending you selfies?”

He sighed. “Because that's what they do. I don't ask them to send those. They just do it. I can't control what people send me. I'm a musician. It comes with the territory.”

“Why don't you just shut off your phone?”

“I can't. What if someone calls about a gig?”

“Someone incapable of leaving a voice mail?” I roared back.

“Ellie,” Tristan said, his voice aggravatingly condescending. “You're overreacting. It was just a picture. I didn't even respond.”

“That's your big comeback? That you didn't respond?”

“I didn't realize I needed a ‘big comeback.'”

“Of course you do!”

“Ellie,” and there was that tone again. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him over the head until he got it. My mind was telling me to just go. Get in my car and drive away before I could do any more damage, but my irrational side wanted more. She wanted to make an impression. Leave her mark. Prove just how livid she was.

She wanted to
throw
something.

I peered around my feet, my gaze landing on the only thing within reach. An adorable garden gnome stood unassumingly among the flowers that lined the walkway. He was the least likely of weapons, with his long white beard, red pointy hat, and permanently cheerful expression, but he was all I had.

I scooped him up and hurled him at Tristan's head.

He ducked but it didn't matter. The gnome was about a foot off target. My irrational side had terrible aim. The gnome hit the pavement of the walkway and smashed to pieces.

“What the…?” Tristan yelled. The condescension was long gone, leaving nothing behind but disbelief.

Well, at least I had made an impression.

I turned around and ran to my car. I collapsed into the front seat, my hands shaking, my thoughts vibrating like they'd been injected with caffeine.

What did you do?
I asked myself over and over again.
What did you do?

When I got home, I sat in my car in the garage and switched on my phone. I prayed for correspondence. Text, voice, Instagram comment, I didn't care. As long as it was from him. As long as there was some indication that everything was okay. That I hadn't ruined the best thing to ever happen to me.

The phone connected to the network and I held my breath.

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

I exhaled.

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

The phone wouldn't stop beeping. The texts were coming in faster than I could read them. Grinning, I swiped open the message app.

Until I saw who they were from.

Owen: Assumed Guilty is starting in seven minutes. Where are you?

Owen: Two minutes and counting! Are we doing this or not?

Owen: Ellie! It's the season premiere! This is not the time to go MIA on me!

Owen: Okay, I just watched the first five minutes. This episode is killer. Why aren't you texting me back???

I let out a whimper and tossed my phone aside. There were about twenty more messages from Owen, but I couldn't bring myself to read them.

The ceiling of the car felt like it was crushing down on me.

I had completely forgotten about our Sunday ritual.

In one night, I had managed to disappoint the two most important people in my life. What was happening to me? Who was this person I had become? She was a stranger. A jealous, short-tempered, unreliable, gnome-throwing stranger.

My fingers itched to text Owen back, my heart panged to call Tristan and apologize, but I couldn't bring myself to do either of those things.

I was afraid this new, scary version of myself would only make things worse.

So I did the only other thing I could think of. I dropped my head in my hands and cried.

 

THE SEVENTH MONDAY

 

Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

6:30 a.m.

I put the finishing touches on my omelet, garnish the plates with parsley, and top off the tray with a single red rose in a vase. I've been up since 5:30. I was too excited to sleep. Too eager to start my day.

I can hear footsteps upstairs. My dad must be awake. I send him a quick text message, telling him to meet me downstairs.

He arrives a moment later, still in his pajamas, hair rumpled.

His sleepy eyes widen when he sees what I've done. “What is this for?”

I beam. “Your anniversary.” I hand him the tray containing two omelets, fresh-baked muffins, and orange juice. “Tell Mom that you did it.”

I watch his reaction go from disbelief to recognition to gratitude. “Oh my God. I would have totally forgotten.”

“I know.”

“You saved me big-time, Ells.”

I laugh. “I know.” I kick my foot in his direction. “Now, go.”

Careful not to spill the tray, he leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I owe you one. Good luck at softball tryouts today.”

“Actually, Dad.”

He stops halfway out the kitchen. “Hmm?”

“I don't think I'm going to try out this year.”

He sets the tray down on the counter. “What? Why?”

I shrug. “Softball has never really been my thing. I think it's always been
your
thing. I started playing because it seemed to make you happy.”

He presses his lips together contemplatively. “Are you sure you're not just scared you won't make varsity?”

“I know I could make varsity.” My dad laughs. “I'm just not sure I want to.”

I watch disappointment weigh on my father's features as he picks the tray back up.

“I'm sorry if I let you down,” I offer.

He gives me a sad smile. “Ells Bells, I want you to do what makes you happy.”

I smile at the childhood nickname. “I want that, too.”

7:04 a.m.

Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

The first text message comes through right as I'm getting out of the shower.

Tristan: I can't stop thinking about last night.

I pick up my phone and watch the screen, counting the seconds—thirty-two—until the next one arrives.

Tristan: Let's talk today.

Then I carefully type out my response.

Me: Me neither. Meet me in front of my locker before Spanish so we can talk.

I set the phone down on the counter and start getting ready. The dress I pull out of my closet is a short-sleeved navy wrap dress with white polka dots. I've only worn it once—two summers ago at a camp dance—but as soon as I put it on, I wonder why I don't wear it more often.

I scrunch my wet hair, opting to let it air-dry, apply a subtle layer of makeup, and complete the whole look with a navy blue headband that I borrow from Hadley.

“You look pretty,” she says, standing in the doorway as I put the finishing touches on my look.

“Thanks.” I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and notice the slight downward curve of her mouth as she watches me.

“Today is going to be a good day,” I tell her.

She nods but I can tell she doesn't believe me.

“We're going to make it right today.”

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“Hey,” I say, changing the subject. “Since I'm borrowing something of yours, why don't you pick out something from my closet?”

Her entire face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Really?”

I walk past her toward the hallway. “Yup. Anything you want.” I pause, reconsidering. “Just stay away from the fishnets.”

 

It's Gonna Work Out Fine

7:54 a.m.

The rain streams down my windshield as I drive to Owen's singing along to “Son of a Preacher Man” by Dusty Springfield.

I pull into Owen's driveway and he casually saunters to the car, getting drenched in the process. “Wow. It's really chucking it down out there,” he says, dropping into the passenger seat.

“Isn't it, mate?”

He gives me a funny look.

“What?” I ask.

“Mate?”

“You're not the only one who can steal words from the Brits.”

“Okay.” He dives for the radio and turns up the volume. “Ooh! Good song. ‘Top of the World' playlist?”

I beam. “Uh-huh.”

“What's the occasion?”

“No occasion. I just know you like this one.”

He gives me another strange look. “Someone's in a good mood today.”

“That I am, old chap. That I am.”

I put the car into Reverse and back out of the driveway. Owen is unusually quiet as we drive. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me suspiciously.

“Are you kissing up to me?” he finally asks. “Is this your lame way of trying to make up for last night?”

I come to a complete stop at the corner and turn toward him. “Owen.” My tone is so serious he looks worried.

“Do not tell me you're dying. I'm not emotionally equipped to deal with that.”

I shake my head. “I'm not dying.”

“Then what?”

I place my hand over his. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. For blowing you off last night.”

He glances down at our hands. “It's okay,” he says stiffly.

“No, it's not. And I'm sorry I blew you off this summer, too. It won't happen again, I promise.”

“Did you join a twelve-step program or something?”

I laugh. “Or something.” I return my hand to the steering wheel and step on the gas. “How good was that episode though?”

Owen goes into full-on rehash mode. “Right? I mean that whole closing argument that Olivia gave at the end?”

“Chills!”

“Total chills!”

“The best kind of chills!”

“I can't
believe
they didn't tell us who won though.”

“I don't think that was the point of the episode,” I argue.

“I know, I know. It was all about the viewer forming an opinion about who is the real Simone Hudson, but still!”

“Obviously it was the woman who sued first.”

Owen makes a funny noise with his throat that sounds like a bullfrog being suffocated. “Objection! Obviously it was the woman who countersued.”

“That woman was just trying to cover herself. It was a total ploy.”

“Are you kidding?” he screeches. “The writers just wanted you to
think
that. And you fell for it.”

A huge grin spreads across my face.

“What?” Owen demands.

“Nothing. I've just missed this.”

“Missed what?”

“Us. Being us.”

He's profoundly confused. “Were we not us yesterday?”

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to tell him the truth. I've done it countless times now. I know I can make him believe. I can make him an accomplice in this craziness once again.

But I hold it in.

All of it.

This isn't his burden to bear. Not today. Today, it's mine and mine alone. I can't keep dragging him into something that I clearly have to figure out on my own.

“Hey,” I say, nodding toward his bag on the floor. “Have you forgotten something?”

He gives me a blank look before the realization hits. “Oh! Right!” He unzips the front pocket and pulls out the two crescent-shaped cookies. “Choose your tasty fortune!”

“You pick first this time,” I tell him.

He frowns. “But you always pick first. My fortune is always the result of your choices. That's like the whole basis of our friendship.”

I know he's kidding, but there's something in his joke that rings so true, it unnerves me a bit. “I guess it's time to do things differently.”

Owen shrugs, selects a cookie, and hands me the other one. I hold it in my lap while he breaks his open. I keep my eyes on the road, waiting for him to read the mysterious message inside.

“Huh,” he says after a moment.

I glance over at him. “What?”

“It's empty.”

Empty?

I pull to a stop at the next red light and instantly dive for my own cookie, scrambling to get it open and completely disregarding the crumbs that fall everywhere in the process.

Owen leans in to read over my shoulder.

But there's nothing to read.

Mine is empty, too.

“That's
so
weird!” he exclaims.

“Yeah,” I murmur softly.

“Green light.” Owen points at the stoplight and I look up. It's only now that I notice where we are. At the intersection of Providence Boulevard and Avenue de Liberation. The very spot where I'm supposed to get the ticket.

Goose bumps prickle my skin.

“What do you think this means?” Owen asks. “I once heard that it's bad luck to have empty fortunes. Do you think it means something horrible is going to happen?”

“No,” I say, stepping on the gas. “I think it means exactly the opposite.”