Just Like Fate. Cat Patrick

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      Mom’s eyes snap to attention.

      “You understand that you’re moving back home now that Gram is gone, right?” she asks. “There’s no way I’d let you live there without parental supervision. And regardless, selling the house is on my list too.”

      “You’re going to sell the house?” I ask so quietly it’s almost a whisper. Then, a little louder, “How can you even think about that right now?”

      Mom crosses her arms; I know I’ve hurt her feelings. “Believe me, I don’t want to,” she says. “But those were her final wishes, Caroline. She wanted Teddy to tell me.”

      Mom looks away, and I imagine that she’s thinking about the fact that she didn’t get to say good-bye to her own mother. That, in a way, Gram chose her grandchildren over her daughters.

      “Don’t stay over there too long,” she says in a faraway voice before turning away.

      “I won’t,” I say after her, but she doesn’t hear. The door to the kitchen is already swinging back into the hallway.

      I jog up the steps to Gram’s house and try the door—she always left it unlocked—before realizing what I’m doing. I sigh heavily and walk around to get the key from the magnetic thing under the drainpipe on the side of the house. I go in, lean my back against the door, and take in the house that, for the past five years, has been my home. I look at the brightly painted walls, the dark wood floors. The eclectic furniture. Her handpicked art collection. It’s like I can feel the space missing her. I miss her in it.

      The sound of my phone makes me jump.

      “Hello?” I say quickly, heart pounding.

      “Hi,” Simone says, and I can tell right off the bat she’s using her sympathetic voice today. “How are you doing, Linus? Is everything okay? I mean, no, of course it’s not okay. But, like, how are you?”

      “I’m fine,” I say before she continues vomiting words. “Or at least I will be.” I hear her sigh on the other end of the line, relieved.

      “Sorry for being such a freak,” she says. “I just don’t really know what to say . . .”

      “There’s no right thing,” I say. “Honestly, I wish people would just not talk about it right now. I realize that sounds awful, but it’s not like I’m not already thinking about her. I only just woke up and it’s already too much. I mean last night when we got home, it was just . . . ugh. I wish someone would talk about something else.”

      “Like what?” Simone asks tentatively.

      “Like anything!” I say, finally walking through the entryway and into the house. I weave through the living room and find myself in the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water like . . . usual. “Tell me about the party last night,” I say before drinking half the glass in one gulp.

      “For real?” Simone asks, unsure.

      “Yes!”

      There’s a pause when I picture my best friend’s internal debate over whether it’s selfish or helpful for her to divulge all the juicy details she’s dying to share. In the end, her inner gossip wins out. She takes a deep breath, and then, like she’s never spoken before and it’s some great release to do so, she says everything at once.

      “Felicity met some guy in a sweater-vest and he actually danced with her despite the fact that she was wearing those suspenders again—I mean, what is she thinking ?—and it was geek love by the end of the night. Gwen left early after some girl called her a hooker, which was totally uncalled for, but between you and me, those four-inch heels aren’t doing her reputation any favors.”

      Simone takes a quick breath—only enough so she doesn’t pass out but not long enough for me to react—before she dives in again.

      “I met a guy named Ed who seemed really great and I know what you’re going to say but I’ll tell you anyway: I made out with him a little.” I can’t help it—I laugh.

      “You’re a professional kisser,” I say, thrilled by the normalcy of the conversation. “You kiss guys the second you meet them.”

      “I do not!” Simone protests, but she laughs, busted.

      “You do too,” I say. “It’s like your version of a handshake. It’s a tongue-shake.”

      “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little,” she says. “You’re disgusting.”

      “I speak the truth,” I tease.

      “Well, you know what they say . . . you have to kiss a lot of frogs to meet your prince,” she says good-naturedly. Simone’s always known who she is; I love her for that. “And besides, it stops at kissing,” she says. “It’s not like I’m letting them cop a C-cup on the first date or anything.”

      “Simone!” I squeal, equally embarrassed by and in love with her forwardness. “You’re so bad,” I say, shaking my head. “So, how did it end with Mr. Wonderful Not Wonderful?”

      “You really want to know?” she asks in a way that makes me nervous.

      “I don’t know—do I?”

      “Where are you right now?”

      “I’m home . . . at Gram’s,” I say. I can practically hear Simone hesitate—like I just threw a pail of water on her fire— so I quickly add, “Why? Where are you?”

      “My house,” she says, “but I have an errand to run. I’ll pick you up and you can go with me—I’ll buy you hot chocolate afterward. Salted caramel hot chocolate.”

      “That’s unfair,” I say, drooling like one of those dogs in the science experiment. “Why do I feel like this isn’t going to end well?”

      “It’ll be fine, Linus,” she says. “I’m just messing around. The guy gave me his sweatshirt and then texted me this morning, wanting it back. Classic ploy to get to bathe in my awesomeness a little longer,” she says, laughing at her own joke. “Anyway, I’m going to drop it off, then we can go hang out. I’m not into the guy—I just want to rip off the Band-Aid and it’ll be done. But then I get to see you and give you a big hug and we can talk about . . . whatever.”

      “You don’t want to go alone, do you?”

      “Nope.”

      “Fine. I’ll be your breakup buffer. Just so long as you promise not to mention death,” I say. “Or funerals. You have to promise not to talk about anything serious whatsoever.”

      “Done.”

      “I need like an hour. I have to go find the cat and walk him.”

      “You know that’s completely deranged, don’t you?” she asks. Simone walked Junior with me once and we made it one block in fifteen minutes—Junior was crouched low to the cement, terrified the whole time. Eventually I had to pick him up and carry him back like a baby. Or, I guess, like a cat.

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