Page 17 of Married As Puck
“You pick up the phone next time and say, ‘Mother, dearest, I am busy living my fabulous life. Please leave your judgment after the beep.’ Then you hang up dramatically. Works like a charm.”
Julia almost laughs.
“It’s effective.”
“Sometimes I wish you could just… talk to her for me,” Julia says suddenly.
“Oh, honey, she wouldn’t survive five minutes with me.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
We both laugh, and it feels good to hear her laugh again.
Then Julia goes quiet again, and I know the weight hasn’t vanished. But at least it’s shared now. At least it isn’t crushing her alone.
“You’ll figure it out,” I say softly. “You always do.”
Julia exhales. “I hope so.”
“You will,” I insist, firm this time. “And until then you’ve got me. Which, let’s be honest, is like a full-time circus subscription.”
Her laugh comes easier this time, and I smile into the phone, ignoring the ache in my back, ignoring the exhaustion. Because hearing her laugh, is worth more than I want to admit.
“I should let you go now, you need to focus on meeting that deadline.” Julia says, and I sigh dramatically at the reminder.
“Why can’t my job be just talking to you?” I whine.
“I’m definitely not going to be paying you for this talk, besides you like your job, you just don’t like the people.”
“You’re right. The work culture is not healthy. Okay, I’ll hang up now. Do take care of yourself, and of course, pray that Mr. Scowler does not be the end of me.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Now it’s just me and my laptop. I shut my eyes for a second and can already feel myself getting tired, but I quickly shake it off.
Focus Brie. Focus.
8
The key turns in the lock with a sharp click, louder than it should be. My jaw is already tight, my molars grinding together as if they’re the only thing keeping me from unraveling. The bowling alley didn’t help. The overpriced chicken wings didn’t help. They tasted horrible. Not even Keith’s terrible jokes helped. And now I’m walking into the one place that’s supposed to be mine—quiet, clean, empty—and the first thing that hits me isn’t peace.
It’s her. My unofficial house mate and pain in the ass.
That faint, lingering sweetness in the air. Vanilla? Something floral layered over it. A woman’s scent, soft and light. It drifts through the hallway, seeps into my lungs before I can hold my breath. My stomach knots. My temple throbs. This place was supposed to clear my head, not bury it under more noise.
I shove the door closed harder than I need to and scan the living room.
Laptop abandoned on the couch. My couch. Her hoodie—oversized, faded—slung carelessly across the armrest. A half-empty glass on the coffee table, water rings staining the wood I’ve taken care of for weeks. My chest tightens at the sight, and the heat crawling up my neck only feeds my anger.
Who hell uses mugs without coasters?
I rub a hand over my face. Christ. What the hell am I doing letting some stranger camp out here? Hasn’t she contacted the landlord and sorted this out yet?
The sound of something sizzling draws my attention.
“Hey roomie,” her voice carries, warm, casual.
I freeze. My blood spikes hot, then cold. It takes every ounce of control not to turn right back around and slam the door behind me. Instead, I force my legs forward. My fists curl at my sides as I step into the kitchen doorway.
