Page 13 of Counting On You

For example, by texting certain people, which I don’t mention just yet.

“I’m not sure we can roam freely, what with the renovations under way,” she says thoughtfully.

“Of course.” I nod my head. “But maybe they’ll make an exception to ensure we’re not bored to death.”

She lets out a loud, hearty laugh that has everyone turning their heads toward us, and I can’t help but realize I like her. Maybe we’ll be friends.

It wouldn’t be so bad to have an ally in a place like this, especially when my new friend is going to help bring Bruce and me together.

“I doubt that’s even possible. My job is already boring as shit,” Sylvie says. “I’m a business strategist. You?”

My stomach relaxes before tightening into knots again. “I’m a nurse…”

That’s how I met him, I want to tell her.

Bruce.

He was visiting his elderly gran after New Year’s Eve, and she introduced me to him. A few weeks later, I ran into him again at Starbucks, and he invited me for coffee.

God, I miss him.

I can’t wait for the whole thing to be over and get back to my old life.

“Look.” Sylvie moves her arm past me and points a long index finger to the window. “We’re here.”

I follow her line of vision. As I make out the shapes, my smile dies on my lips and my frown deepens.

Ahead of us is a white building. It’s expensive and big. And frigging ancient.

It must be at least two hundred years old. At least from the look of it.

Please let it not beit.

Please.

I shudder at the thought of sleeping in an old bed. It’s an irrational fear I have. Like the fear of never meeting someone who’ll love me and want to grow old together. Or ending up all alone with only a couple of cats as company. Nothing against cats. I love them, but let’s face it, they’re not always exciting company.

It’s the same fear?the fear of losing someone?that got me in trouble with the judge. In my humble opinion, it’s nothing that reading a self-help book couldn’t solve.

They didn’t have to send me to rehab.

There, I just said it.

It’s an ugly word.

Rehab.

I associate it with needle marks on arms, yellow-stained faces, and moody alcoholics. To be honest, I’m sure being branded a love addict isn’t worse. It’s not like I follow Bruce everywhere and have to know what he is doing everyminuteof the day.

It’s simply enough if I know what he’s doing every day.

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