Settling the Score

Chapter Eight

Mae had eighty-hour work weeks as a second-year resident at Chesterfield's hospital. Her schedule varied week by week, however, she got one day out of seven free from all clinical and educational responsibilities. We were lucky those twenty-four-hours landed on a Sunday this week when Nick and I weren't stuck at school all day.

It wasn't often that the three of us could spend true quality time together all at once, so we didn't let the rare opportunity go to waste. We started our morning by heading inside a grocery store in our most comfortable sweatpants. Mae led us toward the best buys section. Igloo-style cat beds, non-stick frying pans and essential oils wax melts and a bunch of other crap you wouldn't otherwise buy if they weren't so cheap adorned the shelves.

We got a kick out of picking at least one odd thing to bring home with us. It was usually something we'd never need in a million years, like frog candles, snow globes or piggy banks. It'd started when my aunt visited me as a kid. She'd take me to the store and my parents had no say in the wacky things we'd purchased. It'd been the one tradition that'd stayed the same in the last four years since she'd become my guardian when my parents died.

Nick's squeaky shoes and an older couple bickering about the best brand of cookies to buy broke through the quietness inside the building and kept me awake.

The arts and crafts section distracted Nick ahead of us. I went to join him, but my aunt held out her arm and stopped me in my tracks.

"Hold on a second. I want to talk to you. It's nothing serious," she said, monitoring her son and examining a cheap cake decorating kit at the same time. "You've been quiet this morning, well, this week really. You can tell me anything, you know that, right?"

"I know?" I said, playing dumb.

"So, is there something on your mind?"

"You want to have a heart to heart in the middle of a grocery store?" I asked.

She checked the back of the cake kit box and waited.

This is how we communicated. We spoke during car drives to school, through texts and phone calls, and behind the bathroom door while we got ready in the mornings. We had no choice. Our schedules forced us to get creative.

And it worked. However, admitting my boyfriend cheated on me next to a bunch of crappy baking equipment wasn't something I wanted to do. I hadn't processed what he'd done yet. Was it really the best idea to admit to my aunt that her niece had gotten cheated on when she stood next to a bunch of sharp kitchen knives? Probably not.

There was one other thing that I could whine about.

"Dad's hoodie has been gone for a week and the girl who stole it hates my guts, so it'll probably come back smelling like bleach," I complained.

"Anything else I should know about?" she asked, somehow knowing that wasn't what troubled me, although Dad's stolen hoodie annoyed me.

She'd have to find out at some time. "I broke up with Carter."