Page 49 of Neat
Thoughts that werenowhereto be found last night.
I couldn’t grasp onto one worry before another bounced in, like a set of ping pong balls let loose inside a rotating box. I thought about my mom, my brothers, about the fact that Mallory had been off-limits to me my entire life due to the last name she bore. My job was the next thought in my mind — the title I had, the one I wanted, the years of effort I’d put in to be the best at what I did.
I thought about the laptop, the hard drive, the password I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to decode to see if there was anything my father left behind. I’d been so fixated on that yesterday, and maybe that’s why I’d had the lapse in judgment.
I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.
But perhaps the biggest worry of all was that the number-one thought in my headwasn’tthat it was wrong, that I had fucked everything up by giving in, that I’d finally had Mallory Scooter in the way I’d always desired.
It was that I still wanted her, evenmoreso now, and she was nowhere to be found.
Anxiety was still rippling through me as I let out a sigh, trying to calm my breathing and looking around the room as if it would have some sort of answer for me. When I looked past the pillow Mallory had slept on last night, I saw a sketch pad near her phone charger. It was propped open to a page somewhere in the middle, with chicken-scratch scrawling across it.
I reached over, pulling the pad into my lap, and when I saw the doodle next to the words, I smirked.
It was us — her mid-slingshot with her paint brush, sending paint flying across the page at me. And I had a brush in my hand, though my arms were crossed, shielding my face. We were both laughing, our features large and cartoonish.
And my awe for Mallory grew even more at the fact that she could bring that image to life, that she could bringanymemory back with just a pencil, a sheet of paper, and those magic hands of hers.
Had to leave early for church — you know, princess of Stratford, and all. ;) Help yourself to some coffee. - M
I was still smiling, but my stomach dipped and flattened at her words. Other than the half-hearted joke and a winking face scrawled after it, there was no indication of how she was feeling, of what she was thinking about what had transpired between us the night before.
Then again, I couldn’t exactly blame her — since I had no fucking idea what to think about it all, either.
Another sigh left my chest as I crawled out of bed, tugging on my sweat pants before I tore out the note and the doodle, folding it into a square and tucking it in my pocket. I pulled on my t-shirt next, and then I padded my way over to the still-hot coffee pot, pouring what was left into a mug I’d plucked from the clean dish rack.
I sipped carefully on the hot liquid, leaning against her kitchen cabinet and looking around at the mess again. I couldn’t de-tangle any of my thoughts, so I decided to put them to rest for now. I needed to talk to her — that much was fairly clear — and I couldn’t talk to her right now. Until I could, I needed to calm down, to not let anxiety convince me I needed to break through the doors of that church and demand answers in front of God and the whole town.
Ididneed to get through those church doors, though — not to interrogate Mallory Scooter, but to show face and make Momma happy. I’d already missed the first service, but I could make it to the second one, and knowing Momma, she’d wait to make sure I showed up since I hadn’t made it for the early one.
And though I was able to putmostof my worries to bed, at least for the moment, I wasn’t able to leave that apartment in the disarray it was in.
So, I finished my coffee, coaxing Dalí out from under the couch and loving on him while I made a plan. Then, I did the best thing I could do for my anxiety.
I cleaned.
And left a note of my own before slipping out the back door.
Mallory
It felt like someone else sitting at the country club brunch with my parents.
It must have been someone else’s hand reaching for that mimosa, someone else’s mouth moving, answering my parents’ questions. It absolutely had to be someone else’s legs crossing in the sun dress under the table.
Because in my mind, I was still in bed with Logan Becker.
I was across town, at the opposite end of Main Street, stretched out under the sheets in the morning sun with my bare chest pressed against his ribs. My arms were wrapped around him, his around me, my head on his chest, his breath on my ear.
Or maybe I was still stuck in a memory of last night. I could still feel his hands running gently over my spine, could hear the tender way he moaned my name in the middle of the night, could feel his lips pressing to the back of my neck before his hands slipped between my legs…
I bit my lip against a blush and a smile, sipping the delicious mixture of champagne and orange juice from the flute in my hand.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” Mom asked.
I blinked, blotting my lips with the linen napkin in my lap. “Hmm?”
She chuckled. “You’re so cheery today, but I swear, you’re a million miles away,” she commented. “I asked if you’d started unpacking at the shop yet, if things were coming together?”
