Page 9 of The Rebound
I take out my planner, one of dozens I’ve had over the years. Tyler used to make fun of me for being old-fashioned, but the expensive “time management” apps that he used just never did it for me. There’s something about recording my tasks in writing, with pen and paper and the occasional coffee stain, that helps cement things.
I got into the habit during my exams at school when my mother gave me an ordinary spiral notebook to start recording everything I needed to do each day. I carried on the habit through college and then at MacFarlane, where the intensity of the internship meant I switched from recording my work to reminding myself to go for a run or pick up my dry cleaning. In the early months, I even carved out time to “eat” and “shower.” It sounds ridiculous now but it was so easy to lose track of yourself with the hours we worked. And once something was in my planner, I tended to stick to it.
My current one falls open easily in my hands, already broken in. I’d recorded my flight yesterday, the booking reference, departure and arrival times carefully noted down. Today is blank. And so is tomorrow. Monday, I was supposed to get my hair cut, an appointment booked weeks ago, but I’ve already crossed that out.
For the first time in years, I have no plans. Nothing to factor in. Nothing to do. And the sight of the blank day freaks me out so much that I snap the thing closed again, tossing it into the suitcase.
I keep an ear out as I pull on my running clothes, knowing it’s the only thing that will clear my mind.
I can hear the radio on downstairs but no other noise in the house, no footsteps on the landing, no voices drifting up the stairs.
With a lot of financial help from me, my parents packed up and moved to Portugal just over four years ago, determined to spend their twilight years in a sunnier climate. If I knew then what was coming down the line, I maybe wouldn’t have been so generous with my savings, but I don’t regret it. It meant everything to me to do that for them and because of the move, they were able to hand this place to Louise and Tomasz, who have lived here ever since.
Louise didn’t hesitate to say yes when I asked if I could visit. She’d heard the news of MacFarlane like everyone else in the world and, though surprised by the request, seemed to accept my reasoning that it was a great excuse to spend some time with her. I didn’t tell her I had nowhere else to stay. I didn’t tell her that my fiancé had dumped me and I’d moved out of his apartment and lost another apartment and that because of the mass layoffs I couldn’t even get a rejection for a job, let alone an interview. Instead, we had a polite conversation on the phone, followed by an equally polite email confirming the details.
Even still, I stay as quiet as I can as I tiptoe down the stairs. I was so tired last night I barely spoke more than a few words to her. It was all I could do to shower and collapse into bed and the thought of bumping into her now while I’m still getting my story straight makes me wince. It’s not that I’m scared of my sister. It’s just that we—
“Are you seriously sneaking out?”
I whirl to see Louise standing in the kitchen doorway, dressed in black leggings and a pale pink sweatshirt. Her brown hair is pulled back into a bun, her arms crossed over her chest. Like me, her face is covered in freckles, but instead of my dull hazel eyes, hers are a brilliant blue that now stare at me accusingly.
I try not to look as guilty as I feel. “I’d use the back if I were sneaking out.”
She clicks her tongue off the roof of her mouth, an action that reminds me disconcertingly of our mother. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really,” I say, edging toward the door. “I’m going for a run.”
“You can’t run on an empty stomach.”
“I do it all the time.”
“You’ll faint.”
“I’ve never fainted in my life.”
“She made you breakfast,” Tomasz yells from the kitchen.
I stop in surprise. Louise scowls.
“I didn’t makeyoubreakfast,” she says. “I simplymadebreakfast.”
“You made me breakfast?”
“I just said—”
“Can we eat the pancakes now?” Tomasz calls. “Please?”
Avoiding my eye, Louise spins back into the room, looking like she’s going to kill him.
“Well?” she says, a warning in her voice, and with a sigh, I follow.
The kitchen is exactly how I remember it, but with a few upgrades since my parents moved out. A new coffee machine sits on the countertop and our childhood drawings on the fridge have been replaced by an impressively detailed schedule of work shifts and bill reminders, her system unnervingly similar to mine.
Tomasz smiles tiredly at me from the table. “She said we weren’t allowed to eat until you woke up.”
Originally from Poland, Tomasz met Louise during a, by all accounts, very messy night in Dublin celebrating the end of her college exams. It was drunken love at first sight. Other than a few family video calls, I haven’t seen him since their wedding in Gdansk, but I’ve always liked him.
“She thought you were dead,” he says as I take a seat.
