Booked

Chapter 18 | I Wanted to Impress You

I didn't expect good news, not from Crazy Marge, but I still gaped at her in disbelief.

"Well, if you aren't a ball of positivity..."

"I'm just being honest. I thought you wanted the truth," she said with a shrug. "I think part of you already knew that. Your nightmares have been more frequent."

Just like any other time Mom or Marge mentioned my nightmares, I felt every bone in my body stiffen. I knew where they came from, but my brain didn't want to do the hard work of awakening old memories that were probably buried for good reason.

"Are you just leaning against the wall every night? I can't possibly be that loud."

"I wish." She smiled, then her expression shifted, and her eyebrows pulled up in something that seemed close to wistfulness. "You remind me of my daughter. She also had nightmares. Maybe that's made my ears extra sensitive to screams now."

"Is she all right now?"

Strands of white hair fell in loose locks over her eyes, and she pushed them away in a clumsy move. "I don't know," she said, her fingers mindlessly toyed with the throw pillow. "She doesn't talk about it anymore. I guess I never listened when she used to."

"It's not too late. You can still mend your relationship. I'm sure she misses you too." The optimism in my tone sounded like a foreign language, and my weak words of advice tasted like a perfect mix of unnatural and awkward.

I was not fit to give advice this summer—I was the manifestation of hectic—but for some reason, I kept placing myself in situations where I had to.

The wrinkles around Marge's eyes deepened as she looked at me. "My offer still stands, Kelly. You can talk to me any time."

Marge didn't seem satisfied with a nod as a response as she continued to stare, waiting for something more that I didn't possess.

When Mom finally returned, I was only too happy to walk to my room, slow enough that no one would catch my impatience but fast enough that they wouldn't call me back.

The peace I had expected to come along with being alone didn't follow through. Instead, the silence of the room brought with it thoughts I had tried not to focus on all day.

Miles's reaction when he nearly bumped into Anna was the last thing I wanted to think about. But I was stuck on the rewind button. The memory of the sharp tug on my heart played over and over until I picked up my cleaning supplies.

The tiles already looked spotless, but I found myself scrubbing with more strength than I could spare, crushing every new invasive thought under the stiff bristles of the brush.

Though it had minimal impact on the state of the bathroom, by the time I was done and showered, my mind was clearer than it had been all week.

I had been writing for only a few minutes when my phone rang. A glance at the caller ID launched my heart into ridiculous cartwheels I couldn't stop.

Without allowing myself to debate it, I flipped the phone over so Miles's name would be out of sight. I continued to type, more furiously this time, my fingers whining as they made contact with the keys.

As I pushed through distractions to write, I felt a renewed sense of control. Marge had been wrong after all. My feet dangled from where I sat, on top of the world.

The sound of the front door opening crashed my daydreaming. It was probably not Marge leaving. Mom must have invited some other guests. I chased away the tiniest feeling of frustration and reminded myself that it didn't have to bother me.