I trip over the garden border and my bagel falls to the walkway, with a disappointingthwump.
“You okay?” Nolan asks, turning to look at me.
I thank my lucky stars that my breakfast was all that fell.
“Yeah.” I bend over to grab my bagel and try to dust off what’s left of my dignity.
He gives me a curious look, then nods and hops into his truck.
As I make the twelve-minute drive to campus, disappointment and relief tangle in my thoughts as Katie’s assurance that we’ll barely see Nolan plays through my thoughts.
I manage to make it to my marketing management class with two minutes to spare. My professor issues me a silent warning that tardiness isn’t tolerated with a hard stare. The class is full and held in a large lecture hall with seats in a stadium setting. I quickly make my way to the top and take one of the few remaining seats. When the professor instructs us to pull out our syllabus I do, but rather than listen to him, I open a separate window and enter Nolan Payne. Pictures and articles of him on the football field, helmet in hand answer the burning question about who he is. Katie told us her brother was an athlete, but she never mentioned he was a football player, only that they used to be close and haven’t been since he left for college.
I read about stats and figures, searching for quotes from him as though the few tidbits will help me better understand what to expect from my new roommate. Not one of the articles speaks to the antics Katie has complained about only his promising future with football. There’s nearly nothing personal, nothing that assures me that Nolan moving in will be a terrible or benign decision, which festers in my thoughts. I hate surprises and unknowns.
My three-hour class passes in a blur. I don’t know if I like my professor or what to expect from the course because I spent the first half of the class researching Nolan and the second half replying to work emails, caught in a debate between my mom and Lanie. Mom wants the new townhouses to have luxury amenities, including wine cellars and theater rooms, expansive decks, and kitchens and bathrooms filled with the latest and greatest, but Lanie’s reminding her about how over budget we already are on the project. Everything about the parcel of land has been troublesome and expensive. Lanie is ruthless and admittedly a little shortsighted about bottom lines, and Mom is a pit bull when it comes to lavish details that maintain our company’s reputation for detail.
My hair is greasy, and yesterday’s mascara is clumped in my lashes, making me regret missing showering this morning, which has my thoughts spiraling, regretting that I spent ninety minutes stalking Nolan—regretting not asking more questions when Katie proposed he moved in—that I agreed to him moving in.
My stomach growls, the finale of my pity party—or perhaps the beginning—as I debate where to go to get coffee and something to eat before chancing going back home in case Nolan is still there.
Normally, I’d head to my favorite coffee shop, Brews and News, get a maple scone and iced coffee, and lose the next hour reading the syllabus I just missed. But Brews and News is Ezra’s favorite coffee shop, which has had me avoiding it since last May when I woke up in the middle of the night and discovered Ezra and April in the living room with their hands down each other’s pants.
I turn to my phone, searching for the nearest coffee shop. The results lead me to a small red brick building with the words ‘Tea, Coffee, and Bakery’ printed in gold letters across the two large windows that face the busy street I crossed to get here. The metal sign above the door reads, “The Spiced Chai,” and a bell rings when I push the door open. The scents of freshly ground coffee and tea lure me to join the short line. The walls are exposed red brick that has been lightly whitewashed, and the floors are stained a light gray. Ahead of me, the counter stretches the entirety of the wall where customers are peering and pointing at bakery and menu items that are listed on chalkboards overhead. All around are little seating arrangements, some made of couches, others with upholstered chairs, and some with tables and wooden chairs across from each other. I love the eclectic vibe where nothing matches and yet somehow seems perfectly made for each other.
Ahead of me, more than half the line is comprised of students, the other half medical staff from the nearby hospital. An alert has my attention shifting back to my phone. More emails between Lanie and Mom, and a couple from Dad, trying to be the referee.
Foster Development and Construction has always been a part of my life. In some ways, the business feels like a family member. They started the company while pregnant with me. My parents continued working two jobs, their day jobs to provide guaranteed income and health insurance, and the new company, which was a money pit that claimed our dining room, weekends, and most of my parent’s free time.
I grew up coloring on old profit and loss sheets that were often in the red, going to build sites, visiting tracts of land, and listening to my parents’ marketing spiels as their first audience. Multiple times, my parents were ready to throw in the towel, promising more time, and more money, if Dad went back to school and Mom, spent her time working toward a promotion instead of the company, freeing up funds for vacations and upgrades on the house they were never been able to afford. I still don’t know if it was their love for the company or determination to not fail that kept them from quitting and eventually making their first profit a decade later. From there, I learned about public approval and financing before algebra and popular building trends rather than toy trends.
When my parents were able to afford to build their first office space, four years later, it became our second home—literally. Each of us has our own space. Already, Dad is planning the area that Lanie can turn into a nursery so her child can grow up with the business as we did.
I reply to two emails from my mom before it’s my turn to order. I face the glass case beneath the counter and my stomach instantly rejoices at the sight of food—not just sweet pastries, but sandwiches, both cold and hot, breakfast or lunch. I order a BLT and a cinnamon latte from a friendly girl about my age with curly auburn hair and a wide smile that is impossible not to reciprocate. As I wait for my coffee and sandwich, my phone vibrates with a message.
Katie: Are you near the house?
Me: I’m on campus. Why? Is everything okay?
Katie: Are you in a class? Nolan locked himself out and I’m in the middle of a lecture and Hannah’s not responding.
I stare at the text, trying to think of a response. If she had led with the problem, I might have pretended I didn’t see it. After all, I just spent the past hour and a half stalking him, and the most immediate minutes cursing him—or myself—for him moving in with us. The last thing I want to do is drive the nearly twenty minutes to let him back into my life—my house.
But it’s too late to ghost now, and I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to. Dependability is a trait I get from my dad, and my fear of disappointing others was inherited from my mom.
I catch the eye of the woman who took my order. “I’m sorry, would it be a problem to make my order to-go, please?” I ask already regretting my decision before texting Katie, confirming I can be at the house in twenty-ish minutes. The barista offers another warm smile and an assurance that it’s no problem before passing me my order.
I eat half my sandwich on my way to my car, and the other half as I navigate traffic, the lunch rush adding several minutes to my drive that feels like a taunt—a reminder that Nolan and everything surrounding him is bad news.
As I turn into our neighborhood, eyeing the line of trees still vibrantly green, reflecting summer, I recall Hannah’s laugh this morning amd the look in her eye that I didn’t recognize.
Does Hannah know Nolan? Has she met him? Is it purely infatuation because he looks and sounds and smells as he does?
I spot Nolan sitting on our front porch, knees wide as he types something into his phone as I park beside his truck, hating that my heart beats unevenly when his gaze lifts to mine.
It’s dread, I remind myself. Nerves because I don’t know him or how to navigate this situation—nothing more.
Chapter4