Trust people’s actions, not their words.
Don’t love anyone who isn’t ready to love you back.
Let go of the people who don’t hold on to you.
Don’t wait on people who don’t hurry for you.
Instantly, I feel so tired. Exhausted. As badly as I don’t want to go home, there’s nowhere else for me to go.
I’ve just started back toward the apartment when my phone rings again.
My heart soars in anticipation. He’ll have an explanation, something that makes sense of all of this.
Except it’s not him calling. It’s an unknown number.
I answer, just in case, trying to sound cool, calm, collected, and overall diametrically opposite how I actually feel. “Hello?”
“Hi!” a chipper, feminine voice says. “Is this Daphne Vincent?”
“Um.” I sniff, modulate my voice. “Who’s this?”
“My name’s Anika. I’m calling from the Ocean City Public Library.”
It takes three full seconds for me to make sense of what she’s saying.
“We were really impressed by your résumé,” she goes on, “and we’d love to set up a virtual interview.”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. The world keeps spinning.
This is what I’ve been waiting for, hoping for.
“Hello?” she says.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Would you be available for an interview sometime in the next two weeks?” she says. “Assuming you’re still interested.”
It feels like I’m swallowing a rock.
“Of course I am,” I force out.
I’m not even sure which part I’m agreeing with—whether I’m available, whether I’m interested.
But it’s the only answer that could possibly make sense, right?
The escape hatch I’ve been waiting for, right when the whole house of cards is falling down, and I should feel happy, or at least relieved, but all I can feel is this whole-chest ache, yet another loss of someone, something, I didn’t even have to begin with.
“Fantastic!” she says. “Could you just send us your availability and we’ll set something up?”
I clear my throat. “I’ll check my calendar as soon as I get home.”
Home. I ignore the ping in my heart at that word.
It’s just an apartment. It’s never been mine.
OceanofPDF.com
31
TUESDAY, AUGUST 6TH
11 DAYS
Miles doesn’t come home that night.
I know because I don’t sleep.
I’m not waiting for him, though. I’m thinking about Ashleigh. Mentally drafting and revising apologies. Wondering how I managed to do to her the exact thing I hate most. I always identified with my mom, but in this situation, I know who I’ve acted like, and it’s not Holly Vincent.
I want to hide at home, skip work Tuesday, but there’s too much going on, and I can’t leave Ashleigh or Harvey in the lurch.
So I arrive a full twenty minutes before my shift starts, having ordered full-blown espresso from Fika, which has me moving at warp speed.
“You buy me a three-piece suit?” Harvey asks as he moseys through the fog to meet me at the locked front doors. He tips his head toward the oversize paper box in my arms.
“Pastéis de nata,” I explain. “Portuguese custard tarts. For Ashleigh’s birthday.”
The idea came to me around two a.m. By four, I’d found a bakery that had them, forty minutes south of here. At five, I was on my way.
Harvey stares at me, concerned. “You do know Ashleigh’s Persian, not Portuguese, right?”
“What? I know,” I say. “She just told me she fantasized about moving to Portugal, so . . .”
He rears back. “What’s in Portugal?”
“Pastéis de nata,” I say. “And beautiful beaches, I think.”
He shrugs to himself and unlocks the doors. “Well, I’m glad you remembered, because I forgot her doughnuts at home yesterday, and the grandkids ate them.”
Inside, I set the box on her side of the desk, then busy myself updating displays so I can miss her arrival.
All day, we manage to dodge each other, the box of pastries gradually emptying as she, Harvey, and a couple of her favorite regulars pick over them.
When I come back from lunch, she’s sitting at her computer, and flicks a glance my way. “Hi,” I say tentatively.
“Hello,” she replies.
I take my seat and try to focus, despite the noxious cloud of awkwardness. Eventually I settle into a rhythm, and then Landon arrives to relieve Ashleigh for the evening shift.
“Sweet! Goodies!” he says, one earbud already in, the other blasting from around his neck as he slips behind the desk.
“Daphne brought them,” Ashleigh says, gathering her things, “for my birthday.”
“A couple people went in on them,” I automatically say.
“Still can’t lie for shit,” she says, without averting her gaze from her computer.
“Can I have one?” Landon asks her.
“Of course,” she says. “I’m leaving them for the night crowd to finish off. Otherwise Mulder will eat all of them and turn into the Mask by bedtime.”
Landon leans over to pluck a pastel de nata from the center. “The Mask?”
“Young people.” Ashleigh grabs her green pleather bag and eyes me. “Thanks. For . . . whatever those things are.”
“Pastéis de nata,” I tell her. “Portugal’s famous breakfast treat.”
I can’t tell if she’s caught off guard in a good way, or just confused. Maybe she doesn’t even remember our conversation about Portugal.
“And it’s my pleasure,” I add.
She nods, an acknowledgment with no visible emotion attached to it, then jogs her bag higher and leaves.
An empty apartment greets me, again.
All my life, this moment, this feeling has been a constant: doing homework at a kitchen table while Mom was at night class, planning programs on the rug while Peter took a client out for drinks, sitting on the bleachers at school while every other kid’s parent showed up to take them home, Dad already halfway to a sound bath that a Trader Joe’s cashier invited him to.
Maybe it’s time to just make peace with it. Maybe certain people are destined to be solitary creatures. Maybe no matter how hard I try, I’ll end up back here.
I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and shuffle into the dining room. The apartment has been thoroughly cleaned since this morning.
The breakfast table is cleared of junk mail and water glasses and bags from the pharmacy. Now there’s just a small white box wrapped in gold twine, and beside it, a scrap of paper. In extraordinarily messy handwriting: Sorry I missed you.
A wave of déjà vu rocks me.
It was easy to toss Dad’s note in the trash. I knew exactly what to expect. With this, I can’t help hoping for something more.
I slide the twine off, pop the box open, and start to laugh.
Fudge.
A box of fudge. So underwhelming as to border on absurd: Sorry I missed you, here’s some chocolate and condensed milk.
But the funniest part is, I did the exact same thing to Ashleigh.
The hysteric laughter is about to tumble into outright crying, when, miracle of all ill-timed miracles, my phone rings with a call from Dad.
“Is this a joke?” I demand of the universe and/or empty apartment.
