A Week of Mondays Page 29

“I didn’t realize I needed a ‘big comeback.’”

  “Of course you do!”

  “Ellie,” and there was that tone again. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him over the head until he got it. My mind was telling me to just go. Get in my car and drive away before I could do any more damage, but my irrational side wanted more. She wanted to make an impression. Leave her mark. Prove just how livid she was.

  She wanted to throw something.

  I peered around my feet, my gaze landing on the only thing within reach. An adorable garden gnome stood unassumingly among the flowers that lined the walkway. He was the least likely of weapons, with his long white beard, red pointy hat, and permanently cheerful expression, but he was all I had.

  I scooped him up and hurled him at Tristan’s head.

  He ducked but it didn’t matter. The gnome was about a foot off target. My irrational side had terrible aim. The gnome hit the pavement of the walkway and smashed to pieces.

  “What the…?” Tristan yelled. The condescension was long gone, leaving nothing behind but disbelief.

  Well, at least I had made an impression.

  I turned around and ran to my car. I collapsed into the front seat, my hands shaking, my thoughts vibrating like they’d been injected with caffeine.

  What did you do? I asked myself over and over again. What did you do?

  When I got home, I sat in my car in the garage and switched on my phone. I prayed for correspondence. Text, voice, Instagram comment, I didn’t care. As long as it was from him. As long as there was some indication that everything was okay. That I hadn’t ruined the best thing to ever happen to me.

  The phone connected to the network and I held my breath.

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  I exhaled.

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  The phone wouldn’t stop beeping. The texts were coming in faster than I could read them. Grinning, I swiped open the message app.

  Until I saw who they were from.

  Owen: Assumed Guilty is starting in seven minutes. Where are you?

  Owen: Two minutes and counting! Are we doing this or not?

  Owen: Ellie! It’s the season premiere! This is not the time to go MIA on me!

  Owen: Okay, I just watched the first five minutes. This episode is killer. Why aren’t you texting me back???

  I let out a whimper and tossed my phone aside. There were about twenty more messages from Owen, but I couldn’t bring myself to read them.

  The ceiling of the car felt like it was crushing down on me.

  I had completely forgotten about our Sunday ritual.

  In one night, I had managed to disappoint the two most important people in my life. What was happening to me? Who was this person I had become? She was a stranger. A jealous, short-tempered, unreliable, gnome-throwing stranger.

  My fingers itched to text Owen back, my heart panged to call Tristan and apologize, but I couldn’t bring myself to do either of those things.

  I was afraid this new, scary version of myself would only make things worse.

  So I did the only other thing I could think of. I dropped my head in my hands and cried.

  THE SEVENTH MONDAY

  Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

  6:30 a.m.

  I put the finishing touches on my omelet, garnish the plates with parsley, and top off the tray with a single red rose in a vase. I’ve been up since 5:30. I was too excited to sleep. Too eager to start my day.

  I can hear footsteps upstairs. My dad must be awake. I send him a quick text message, telling him to meet me downstairs.

  He arrives a moment later, still in his pajamas, hair rumpled.

  His sleepy eyes widen when he sees what I’ve done. “What is this for?”

  I beam. “Your anniversary.” I hand him the tray containing two omelets, fresh-baked muffins, and orange juice. “Tell Mom that you did it.”

  I watch his reaction go from disbelief to recognition to gratitude. “Oh my God. I would have totally forgotten.”

  “I know.”

  “You saved me big-time, Ells.”

  I laugh. “I know.” I kick my foot in his direction. “Now, go.”

  Careful not to spill the tray, he leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I owe you one. Good luck at softball tryouts today.”

  “Actually, Dad.”

  He stops halfway out the kitchen. “Hmm?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to try out this year.”

  He sets the tray down on the counter. “What? Why?”

  I shrug. “Softball has never really been my thing. I think it’s always been your thing. I started playing because it seemed to make you happy.”

  He presses his lips together contemplatively. “Are you sure you’re not just scared you won’t make varsity?”

  “I know I could make varsity.” My dad laughs. “I’m just not sure I want to.”

  I watch disappointment weigh on my father’s features as he picks the tray back up.

  “I’m sorry if I let you down,” I offer.

  He gives me a sad smile. “Ells Bells, I want you to do what makes you happy.”

  I smile at the childhood nickname. “I want that, too.”

  7:04 a.m.

  Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!

  The first text message comes through right as I’m getting out of the shower.

  Tristan: I can’t stop thinking about last night.

  I pick up my phone and watch the screen, counting the seconds—thirty-two—until the next one arrives.

  Tristan: Let’s talk today.

  Then I carefully type out my response.

  Me: Me neither. Meet me in front of my locker before Spanish so we can talk.

  I set the phone down on the counter and start getting ready. The dress I pull out of my closet is a short-sleeved navy wrap dress with white polka dots. I’ve only worn it once—two summers ago at a camp dance—but as soon as I put it on, I wonder why I don’t wear it more often.

  I scrunch my wet hair, opting to let it air-dry, apply a subtle layer of makeup, and complete the whole look with a navy blue headband that I borrow from Hadley.

  “You look pretty,” she says, standing in the doorway as I put the finishing touches on my look.

  “Thanks.” I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and notice the slight downward curve of her mouth as she watches me.

  “Today is going to be a good day,” I tell her.

  She nods but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

  “We’re going to make it right today.”

  Her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

  “Hey,” I say, changing the subject. “Since I’m borrowing something of yours, why don’t you pick out something from my closet?”

  Her entire face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Really?”

  I walk past her toward the hallway. “Yup. Anything you want.” I pause, reconsidering. “Just stay away from the fishnets.”

  It’s Gonna Work Out Fine

  7:54 a.m.

  The rain streams down my windshield as I drive to Owen’s singing along to “Son of a Preacher Man” by Dusty Springfield.

  I pull into Owen’s driveway and he casually saunters to the car, getting drenched in the process. “Wow. It’s really chucking it down out there,” he says, dropping into the passenger seat.

  “Isn’t it, mate?”

  He gives me a funny look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Mate?”

  “You’re not the only one who can steal words from the Brits.”

  “Okay.” He dives for the radio and turns up the volume. “Ooh! Good song. ‘Top of the World’ playlist?”

  I beam. “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion. I just know you like this one.”
/>
  He gives me another strange look. “Someone’s in a good mood today.”

  “That I am, old chap. That I am.”

  I put the car into Reverse and back out of the driveway. Owen is unusually quiet as we drive. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me suspiciously.

  “Are you kissing up to me?” he finally asks. “Is this your lame way of trying to make up for last night?”

  I come to a complete stop at the corner and turn toward him. “Owen.” My tone is so serious he looks worried.

  “Do not tell me you’re dying. I’m not emotionally equipped to deal with that.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not dying.”

  “Then what?”

  I place my hand over his. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. For blowing you off last night.”

  He glances down at our hands. “It’s okay,” he says stiffly.

  “No, it’s not. And I’m sorry I blew you off this summer, too. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “Did you join a twelve-step program or something?”

  I laugh. “Or something.” I return my hand to the steering wheel and step on the gas. “How good was that episode though?”

  Owen goes into full-on rehash mode. “Right? I mean that whole closing argument that Olivia gave at the end?”

  “Chills!”

  “Total chills!”

  “The best kind of chills!”

  “I can’t believe they didn’t tell us who won though.”

  “I don’t think that was the point of the episode,” I argue.

  “I know, I know. It was all about the viewer forming an opinion about who is the real Simone Hudson, but still!”

  “Obviously it was the woman who sued first.”

  Owen makes a funny noise with his throat that sounds like a bullfrog being suffocated. “Objection! Obviously it was the woman who countersued.”

  “That woman was just trying to cover herself. It was a total ploy.”

  “Are you kidding?” he screeches. “The writers just wanted you to think that. And you fell for it.”

  A huge grin spreads across my face.

  “What?” Owen demands.

  “Nothing. I’ve just missed this.”

  “Missed what?”

  “Us. Being us.”

  He’s profoundly confused. “Were we not us yesterday?”

  I bite my lip, fighting the urge to tell him the truth. I’ve done it countless times now. I know I can make him believe. I can make him an accomplice in this craziness once again.

  But I hold it in.

  All of it.

  This isn’t his burden to bear. Not today. Today, it’s mine and mine alone. I can’t keep dragging him into something that I clearly have to figure out on my own.

  “Hey,” I say, nodding toward his bag on the floor. “Have you forgotten something?”

  He gives me a blank look before the realization hits. “Oh! Right!” He unzips the front pocket and pulls out the two crescent-shaped cookies. “Choose your tasty fortune!”

  “You pick first this time,” I tell him.

  He frowns. “But you always pick first. My fortune is always the result of your choices. That’s like the whole basis of our friendship.”

  I know he’s kidding, but there’s something in his joke that rings so true, it unnerves me a bit. “I guess it’s time to do things differently.”

  Owen shrugs, selects a cookie, and hands me the other one. I hold it in my lap while he breaks his open. I keep my eyes on the road, waiting for him to read the mysterious message inside.

  “Huh,” he says after a moment.

  I glance over at him. “What?”

  “It’s empty.”

  Empty?

  I pull to a stop at the next red light and instantly dive for my own cookie, scrambling to get it open and completely disregarding the crumbs that fall everywhere in the process.

  Owen leans in to read over my shoulder.

  But there’s nothing to read.

  Mine is empty, too.

  “That’s so weird!” he exclaims.

  “Yeah,” I murmur softly.

  “Green light.” Owen points at the stoplight and I look up. It’s only now that I notice where we are. At the intersection of Providence Boulevard and Avenue de Liberation. The very spot where I’m supposed to get the ticket.

  Goose bumps prickle my skin.

  “What do you think this means?” Owen asks. “I once heard that it’s bad luck to have empty fortunes. Do you think it means something horrible is going to happen?”

  “No,” I say, stepping on the gas. “I think it means exactly the opposite.”

  Walkin’ Back to Happiness

  8:42 a.m.

  “Say ‘Two more years!’” the photographer trills.

  “Two more years!” I trill back. She snaps the photo and I climb off the stool to check the viewfinder. I’m surprised by what I find. The girl on the little screen is so calm and relaxed. Her shoulders aren’t hunched, her posture isn’t ramrod straight, her smile doesn’t look forced.

  She looks …

  “You look happy,” the photographer’s assistant comments.

  Yes. That’s it. I look happy.

  Why has she never made that comment before? Had I really looked that miserable in the countless other photos I’ve taken this week?

  9:50 a.m.

  The bell rings, ending first period, and I file into the hallway with my classmates. I’m supposed to meet Tristan at my locker right now, and I can’t help feeling nervous at the thought of seeing him.

  I know he won’t remember anything from the past six days. I know, for him, this day has been completely reset. But I remember. I know all the things he’s said, all the reasons he’s given me for wanting to break up, all the reactions I’ve had as a result.

  Reminiscing about it all at once—like a mental collage—is twisting my stomach into knots.

  He’s already at my locker when I arrive. He doesn’t see me yet so I have a few seconds to observe him. He leans against the locker banks, his guitar strapped to his back, peering down at his phone.

  He sees me approach and stands up a bit straighter, pocketing his phone.

  I smile and dial in the combination at my locker.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” he responds rigidly. He clears his throat. “So, that thing last night. I thought we should talk about it.”

  I grab a pen from the holder, stick it into my bag, and close the door. “Yes,” I say, and turn to face him. I draw in a courageous breath. It’s taken me a week to get here. Now it’s finally time to say all the things I haven’t been able to say in the last six days.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that, too. Look, I’m tired of acting like I don’t care. I’m tired of hiding my feelings from you. The reason I behaved the way I did last night is because I trapped those feelings and thoughts inside for so long that they just exploded. From the day we met, I’ve been pretending to be someone else. I’ve been pretending to be the girl I thought you wanted. But I’m not her. I get jealous when you flirt with other girls. I get angry when you Snapchat with them when you’re supposed to be watching a movie with me. That’s who I am. I’m sorry I misled you for so long. It wasn’t fair to you or to me.”

  Tristan stares at me for a long moment. I can tell this isn’t what he expected me to say, and to be honest, one week ago this isn’t what I’d expect me to say either.

  He blinks rapidly, trying to gather his thoughts.

  “We should get to class,” I say, walking past him, but he stops me, gently reaching out for my hand.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he says.

  Now it’s my turn to be stunned. “What?”

  “For last night. I should have put my phone away. I shouldn’t have made you feel ignored. That was really insensitive of me. I know I’d hate it if you were texting other guys when you were with me.”

  I’m so speechless, I can’t move. Tristan is apo
logizing to me?

  “Do you forgive me?” He bends down and gently touches his lips to mine. His kiss is so disarming, his apology is so heartfelt, all I can do is nod.

  The bell rings, snapping me out of my reverie. I glance at my phone.

  Crap!

  If I run, I might just make it. I take off at a sprint down the hallway.

  “Ellie?” Tristan calls after me.

  “We’re late!” I yell over my shoulder. “He’s not dying today! No one is dying today!”

  I hear footsteps behind me. “What are you talking about? Who’s dying?”

  Why didn’t I suggest we meet at Tristan’s locker? It’s right next to our Spanish classroom, while mine is on the other side of the school.

  The hallways are emptying as I race up the stairs, past the library, and into the foreign language corridor.

  “Why are we running?” Tristan pants from somewhere behind me.

  By the time I burst through the doors of the classroom a few minutes later, Señora Mendoza is already halfway through her future conjugation of the verb ver.

  “Nosotros veremos,” she declares to the class. She pauses when she sees me. “Señorita Sparks. It’s nice of you to join us today.”

  I ignore her and fly across the classroom, weaving around chairs and knocking textbooks off desks in the process.

  “Señorita Sparks,” she repeats, this time with a tinge of exasperation. “Will you please take your seat?”

  I reach the window, flip the lock, and thrust it open just in time. The massive black bird comes soaring into the classroom, right over my head. Some of the girls scream.

  “¡Dios mío!” Señora exclaims, clutching her chest. The bird makes a full lap around the room, forcing the teacher to duck to avoid getting dive-bombed. Then, just as suddenly as it entered, it flies back out the window. I slam it closed, flip the lock back into place, and saunter to my desk.

  Every pair of eyes in the classroom is trained on me. Tristan is still standing in the doorway, staring at me in astonishment.

  I slip into my chair and ask, “What?”

  “Señorita Sparks,” Señora says reprovingly.

  “Oh, sorry, I mean, ¿Qué?”

  Black Magic Woman

  11:25 a.m.

  My history test is a breeze. If I don’t know those questions backward and forward by now, then there’s absolutely no hope for me. Daphne Gray, once again, is extremely annoyed that she has to write “100%” at the top of my paper. And she’s even more annoyed when she notices Tristan waiting for me outside our classroom when fifth period ends.