Page 48 of Spicy or Sweet
And also thoroughly exhausts me.
It’s my fault, really. If I treaded shallower waters and stopped bringing things up that I know he won’t want to talk about, I probably wouldn’t leave feeling like I’ve spent hours repeatedly hitting my head against a brick wall every time I see him. But I miss the relationship we used to have. I miss having someone I could talk to about anything. I didn’t just lose Georgie in the accident.
Nico always offers me a spare room for the night if I want to stay, and I always decline. It’s too quiet on the mountain for me to sleep. The drive down isn’t nearly as bad as the drive up, but I’m dead on my feet as I drag myself up the stairs to my apartment. At least the rain has cleared up, though that hasn’t stopped Croissant from spending a whole day snoozing on his favorite blanket on my couch, it seems. I get changed into mycomfiest sleep tee, kiss his head, and join him with my own favorite blanket, because I know he doesn’t like to share.
I flick through the TV, but nothing catches my attention. The age of streaming has made it impossible to mindlessly watch TV. There are too many choices, and I get overwhelmed trying to choose. When I lived with Philippe, he always picked what we watched because I could never decide.
I miss having someone to talk to on quiet nights like this, but it’s not Philippe’s company I’m craving. Before I can overthink it, my phone is in my hand.
Hey. Are you awake?
It’s after ten, but three dots immediately pop up on my screen, and Noelle’s reply follows a second later:
Did you really just send me a “you up?” text?
I sent you a text to ask if you’re awake, if that’s what that is.
It’s not.
A “you up?” text usually implies a booty call.
Huh. I’m rethinking my reason for texting you now.
If this isn’t a booty call () then what’s up?
It’s amazing how much just talking to her lifts my mood. I’m still sitting alone in my apartment (not counting Croissant, who’s snoring and paying no attention to me), but I don’t feel so alone.
I was wondering if you had any TV show recommendations.
It sounds stupid the second I send it, and the message stays unanswered for long enough that I think Noelle is just going to ignore it. In reality, it’s only a minute, but it feels like an hour until my screen finally changes. Not with a text, but a call.
“That’s a loaded question,” Noelle says the second I answer, forgoing a greeting, “I have a lot of recommendations. How long do you have?”
Her voice does something funny and twisty to my insides.
“However long it takes,” I answer, and she laughs.
“Perfect. What kinds of things do you usually watch?”
I explain that I don’t watch a lot of TV, but rhyme off a few of the shows I liked watching with Philippe, and she hums.
“Have you started your annual fallGilmore Girlsrewatch yet?”
“My… what?” I’ve never heard that collection of words together in my life.
“You know, your yearlyGilmore Girlsmarathon?”
“I’ve never seen it,” I say, and you would think I’d confessed to murder for the scream she lets out.
“That has to change immediately. I’m coming over. Be there in ten.”
She hangs up, leaving me gaping at my phone. That was… so Noelle.
I glance around the apartment, making sure nothing looks too messy. It’s not like she hasn’t seen me surrounded by mess, but my apartment is generally tidier than my workspace. And it is tonight, thankfully. I consider changing, because a decade-old Dollywood T-shirt isn’t what I’d usually wear to receive guests,but I don’t have nice PJs, and I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.
There’s no time to change, anyway, because Noelle knocks on my door in exactly seven minutes, not ten.
I open the door, and she holds up two cups. “I brought coffee.”
