Page 22 of Trust Again

“You never told me about that,” Allie said softly.

“It was just a stupid dream,” I said, after clearing my throat. “We always talked about the future. My plan was to continue writing while Nate worked his way up in his father’s company. We imagined where we’d live. This guy—Ernest Maynard—had lived in the house for decades. He never married, never had any kids, and it seemed like everyone was just waiting for him to croak so they could snatch up that house.”

“That sounds kind of morbid,” Allie said, crinkling her nose.

“It was,” I nodded. “But in our defense, Ernest looked like he was 200 years old.”

“A very respectable age.”

Again I nodded and the blanket rustled against my hair. “He was probably only 163 or so. Everyone we knew was always talking about the house, so one time Nate and I decided to go take a look. Unfortunately, Ernest found us trying to peek inside, and he threatened to call the cops.”

“Oh no!”

“The next day, Nate and I brought over some cookies and apologized. He let us in, and we had tea together.”

Allie grinned. “So you got inside.”

“It was a dream. Seriously, Allie. It was the most beautiful house I’d ever seen. Even better than a fairytale. It was done in a romantic country style, just perfect. Ernest told us how he and his father had built it, and he got all sentimental. He said he knew how everyone was just waiting for him to kick the bucket,” I had to clear my throat, because my voice had gotten hoarse.

“Nate told him that we still had a while before we were even old enough to bid on a house, so he should stop being so morbid. We were 16.”

“You were already dreaming of living there?”

I shrugged. “It was just a joke before, but after we met Ernest, something changed. It felt so real.”

“So what happened to Ernest?”

I took a shaky breath. “He died six months ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. He had no living relatives and no will, so the house was turned over the state and sold.”

Allie frowned. “To Nate.”

I nodded.

“Ugh.”

“Look at it this way: that asshole will be the next one to bite the dust in that house,” Sawyer chimed in next to us.

I pushed the blanket aside. My roommate had pulled her folding chair up to my bed and was painting her toenails on my bedside table.

“That’s tacky, Sawyer,” Allie scolded.

“Tacky, but true. Besides, we’re on her side,” Sawyer said, nodding toward me.

Allie sat up and looked confusedly between Sawyer and me.

“I think we’re friends now,” I shrugged.

We spent the rest of Friday evening finishing off an entire bag of mini Reese’s. Allie went out of her way to distract me from thinking about Nate, and Sawyer even painted my toenails. It felt nice to be spoiled like this.

Later, after Sawyer had returned to her side of the room, Allie made a call.

“I don’t think we’re going out tonight. I’m pretty sure Dawn would rather stay in.”

“Dawn does not want to stay in. Dawn wants to go out and forget that this day happened,” I called out.

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