Page 27 of Something like Desire

Haven’t seen you as much lately.

That seems like an exaggeration to me. With the recent exception of the night at the resort, I’ve seen Jayden almost every day since we met.

Spending time with him is enjoyable but it’s also kind of like a habit now. And habits are hard to break. Mom used to ask me if I was sure I wasn’t moving a little too quickly with Jayden, but I just thought she was saying it in case it didn’t work out. I assumed she didn’t want it to be harder than necessary to get over him.

Now I see that maybe she wanted me to hold onto the parts of myself I actually liked, the stuff that made me feel like me. Because now I genuinely don’t know what I enjoy. What do I like to do? What would I try eating if I didn’t eat Nova’s linguine all the time? What hobbies would I pick up if I had endless time and zero shame? Stamp collecting? Competitive jigsaw puzzling?

Would I still choose these apartment colors if I moved in today? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Things just become the way they are, and after a while, it’s hard to tell if you genuinely like them or if you’re just too lazy to change the shower curtain.

If this place wasn’t mine, and this was the first time I ever stepped into the apartment, what would I think of the person who lives here? I would think she likes to read, and she likes blue and loves the ocean and should maybe fill the fridge more and put a comfortable cover on her white couch so she can actually enjoy the place without being scared she’s going to make a mess. Is that still the person I am? Is blue even still my favorite color? Oh god, I’m really spiraling now.

I grab my phone to Google “How long do identity crises last?”Yikes. Hopefully this is a short-term one.

THIRTEEN

Today, life in HR consisted of answering twenty-five emails, running three mediation meetings, and having a long phone consultation during which I listened attentively to Sam in sales complaining that the second-floor supply closet is haunted. I made sure to calmly assure him that I’d ask management about performing a cleansing of the space and he seemed satisfied with that response, insisting that I make it a critical priority.

After that interesting experience, I took a break to check my Via Match profile. Mom hasn’t responded yet, but my message to her is marked read. Unlike Nicholas, she didn’t feel compelled to write a message about dating someone else, thus shutting down my advances. Nope. She’s as open as a jar of pickles at a barbecue. Hope is alive.

I open Facebook and check her profile for updates. Fifteen minutes ago, she posted a selfie, wearing a pale pink leotard and a flouncy black skirt, with a caption below it that read:Outfit, check. Dance shoes, check. Do I still have two left feet? To be determined.Typical Mom humor. It’s 4:00 p.m. and only serious day drinkers are dancing at the bars right now, so maybe she’s taking lessons somewhere. And unfortunately, I can guess who her partner is.

There are only two places in town that offer dance classes. One of them is geared toward children, with tap dancing lessons and Mommy and Me ballet. But the other one, Reverence and Grace, posted a summer special for seniors a few weeks ago. No one loves a good deal as much as my mother does. That’s got to be the one.

As soon as five o’clock hits, I shout a quick goodbye to Andy, who’s still laughing about what I told him about the supply closet ghost call—he even wants to bring in aGhostbusterscostume tomorrow and pretend management asked him to perform the banishment—and rush out the door and to my car.

When I get to the studio, a long single-story building with painted black brick and a gold sign, I park several yards away from the row of windows that deliver glimpses of the various rooms inside. There are a few people in the middle one, based on what I can make out from here.

I knew another opportunity for sabotage was bound to present itself eventually and I’m ready for it. I take my disguise out of the backpack I keep in my backseat. I gather my hair into a low ponytail and put on the platinum blonde wig and sunglasses I packed. I slip on the baggy beige cardigan that everyday Lexi would never choose.

I don’t have a plan yet but I’m still going to focus on what Maren said about their astrological signs not liking drama. I’ll head into the studio, fully disguised and ready to stir up as much of a disaster as possible.

In my peripheral vision, I notice a car pulling into the spot on my right. I turn slightly and see Zach, seemingly oblivious to the fact he parked next to me. He tucks his hair under an old-fashioned-looking messenger cap and slips on aviator sunglasses that are way too big for his face. He must feel me staring because he looks at me, then quickly looks away, then looks back again. He bristles slightly but holds my gaze, grins at me, and mouths my name, leaving me wondering if it ever looked so good on anyone’s lips before.

Stop it, Lexi, I order myself.You are not your mother.

My pulse races, loud in my eardrums, and as I open the car door, the buzz of anticipation is so palpable, it feels like I could reach out and literally squeeze it. Zach comes around beside me, now wearing a trench coat, and slowly surveys me from head to toe.

I beat him to the comment. “Nice disguise.” I gesture at his coat choice. “You look like a serial killer.”

Zach smirks back at me. “Yeah? Well, you look like a serial killer trying to look like a librarian.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly. An overwhelming part of me wants to playfully punch his arm, take off his hat, and ruffle his waves.What the hell is wrong with me?

Zach studies my wig thoughtfully. “You look nice as a blonde.” One corner of his mouth creeps upward in a smile and the air between us sizzles. “I have to say, though, you’re still much prettier as a brunette. Brings out those amazing blue eyes.”

Whoa. Zach thinks I’m pretty?A wave of adrenaline sweeps over me. I try to keep the banter going so he doesn’t notice me reacting to that. “Thanks. The hat is very circa 1920s, if that’s the look you were aiming for.”

Zach nudges me playfully, which sends flutters coursing through my stomach. “How’d you find out they were coming here?”

“Facebook. You?”

Zach tilts his head. “Same. So, what’s our plan?”

“I was thinking of joining them in their dance class and acting really annoying so neither of them enjoys it.”

Zach rubs his beard and regards me thoughtfully. “Sounds so simple but it might work.”

“Oh, and I also have some news. My mom checked the Via Match message. She didn’t write back, but she also didn’t reject me.”