Page 13 of Not on the Same Page

Trina lies on her side, facing me. Her features are relaxed, sated. She’ll leave in a few minutes, but for now, she’s here. I indulge myself, tracing the lines of her face with my gaze, lingering on a little freckle underneath her ear. “You’re beautiful.”

She scoffs and avoids looking at me, but she blushes. “Don’t say stuff like that. We agreed this was just a physical thing.”

I shrug. “It’s not emotional. It’s a statement of fact.” It’s true, but not the whole truth. I think she and I both know that, but she sighs lightly as she pushes herself to sitting. Time’s up for today.

Our arrangement was perfect while it lasted. No feelings. Nothing permanent. Just good, old-fashioned fun. The longer it went on, though, the harder it was for me to ignore the feelings that lingered after she left. And even a year after we ended it, I can’t quite seem to get her out of my mind. Ever since Scarlett brought her up at dinner a few weeks ago, I’ve been thinking about her more and more.

But if her absence from my life is any indication, she doesn’t want anything to do with me. It’s just as well. With this new job and my obligations to my family, I won’t have time to sleep around, let alone date. And even if I did, I definitely shouldn’t be doing it with a literary agent who I hope to work with again in the future.

My dad claps me on the shoulder, breaking me out of my reverie. “Proud of you, son,” he says, his grip tightening before he releases me.

He’s a man of few words, but these make my heart swell. I may not be able to find love or, as Mom would put it, give him grandbabies any time soon, but I’m doing well all the same. It’ll have to be enough for now.

5

TRINA

“Why is she always chewing on her fingers?” My cousin, Evelyn, sounds so judgy. She’s only six months older than me, but you’d think she knows everything.

“Evie,” Aunt Donna says. “We talked about this.”

“No we didn’t,” Evelyn frowns petulantly. I bet she doesn’t even know what petulant means. She never reads anything, even though our sixth-grade English teacher assigns us twenty minutes of reading every night. She just stares at the pages and flips them every so often, and Aunt Donna falls for it every time.

“We discussed your tone when you talk about Catrina,” Aunt Donna corrects.

Yes, when she talks about me. Because most of the time, I might as well not even be here. I’ve lived with them for a whole year now, but I quickly learned it was best to keep my mouth shut when Evelyn starts like this. I lower my gaze and clasp my hands in my lap so she won’t see me chewing on them anymore.

Evelyn rolls her eyes. “I’m just asking a question. Her hands look all torn up.”

My cheeks start burning, and my eyes follow. I won’t cry in front of them again. They don’t seem to like that either.

Aunt Donna brings two plates over from the stove and places one in front of each of us. The smell of grilled chicken and green beans turns my stomach, but I also know better than to refuse dinner. If I do, there will be more concerned looks and therapist appointments and whispers about what to do with me and where I’m going to go.

“We’re working on it, right Catrina?” Aunt Donna tilts her head as she looks at me, the slightest pinch between her brows. It’s not a frown of concern. It’s one of warning. Shape up or ship out, it seems to say. And I know the response that’s good for me.

I nod, quickly scooping up some green beans and shoving them in my mouth. My stomach sours, but I force myself to swallow.

Apparently happy with that response, Aunt Donna turns back to the stove to make up more plates. Evelyn looks me up and down with open disgust painted all over her small face, her nose wrinkled and lips twisted. But she shrugs and starts cutting her chicken, discarding me.

Bile rises in my throat, and my mouth starts producing way too much saliva. I’m going to puke. I run to the bathroom as fast as I can.

“Again?” Evelyn scoffs. “What’s wrong with her?”

Gasping, my eyes shoot open, only I still can’t see anything. My heart is pounding in my chest, and my mouth tastes faintly of that dream-bile, as if it were real. Fuck, I hate it when this happens. I haven’t had dreams like this in so long, but every night since I had coffee with Isabella, I’ve been jolted awake by some long-forgotten memory from my childhood.

A therapist would probably tell me I’ve been triggered. Nervous about the plane ride to the conference later this morning, maybe. The first one I ever took was to my Aunt Donna’s house in Phoenix after my mom was arrested, so I guess that’s logical. Or it could be people I work closely with moving on with their lives, like Scarlett. My aunt calling me a few times over the past two weeks, despite me ignoring her, might also top the list. Of course she hasn’t followed up with a text, so I don’t even know what she wants. No, she wants me to hear her tone of voice when she tells me about whatever has her calling so many times. She never thought I took her seriously unless she was talking directly to me.

Seeing Casey at the coffee shop? No. That wouldn’t dysregulate me like this. It’s not like I’ve never randomly run into an ex-lover somewhere.

Overheated and sweating, I throw the comforter off me. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and almost immediately, I start shivering in the air conditioning. But it’s enough to knock my nervous system back into gear. My heart rate slows, and my breathing becomes more even.

I roll my neck out a few times, trying to release the tension in my shoulders. A glance at the clock on my nightstand tells me it’s two thirty in the morning, and I groan loudly. I can never get back to sleep after these nightmares, and my flight is at nine. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep on the plane either. I’m going to be exhausted for this welcome dinner tonight.

I shouldn’t assume it can’t get any worse, because it absolutely can. But I’m having trouble thinking of how because this is already unbearable.

Might as well get this party started, then. Lying here and praying for sleep is only going to make me more anxious, so I roll out of bed and drag myself to the shower. The airplane smell is going to be bad enough, I don’t also have to wear eau de trauma under it.

I don’t care what anyone says, Midway is the superior airport. It only takes about thirty minutes for my rideshare driver to get me there. Security is a breeze, there are plenty of options for breakfast and coffee, and when I pass the Garrett Popcorn stand, the smell alone is enough to bolster my mood.