I’m pacing around my apartment like a madwoman, tossing around piles of papers and clothes and everything else that’s in my way.
My keys. Oh God, where the hell are my keys?
My movements are getting more and more frantic with each passing second that I can’t find them.
I don’t understand. I just had them.
Where the fuck did they disappear to?
Ugh! Of all the fucking times for something like this to happen!
I run my hand through messy hair, disheveling it even further as I try to remember where I last put them.
I walked in, took of my shoes, came over to the kitchen for some water and then took my duffel bag out of the closet and then…
Dammit, I can’t remember!
I groan in absolute frustration, standing in the middle of my mess of an apartment and looking around at the even bigger mess that I’ve created with this unplanned and anything-but-fun treasure hunt.
I place my hands on my hips as I shift my weight onto my right leg, feeling like I’m about to just give up, when I feel a slight bulge on my right hip. I look down at it and see the bulge sticking out from within my pocket, and I want to kick myself in the head as both memory and realization set in. I reach into the pocket and pull out a slew of keys, and they jingle ceremoniously as they dangle and move against each other.
I can only shake my head and sigh again as I look at the bundle of keys in my hand.
I want to roll my eyes a million times at myself for being so spacey, and then at my stupid keys for conveniently hiding right under my nose even though I’m the one who put them there.
I breathe out a deep sigh of relief, leaning against the kitchen counter with my shoulders slumped forward as my manic heart proceeds to apply its brakes.
The week’s finally over, and I feel absolutely burnt out. I can barely remember most of it, but my mind is obviously still reeling. And it hasn’t let me forget about my visit to the surgical center and everything that went along with it. Especially Doctor Frost.
I literally have to shake my head at myself. I think it’s absolutely ridiculous that I actually have the time—or energy, for that matter—to keep thinking about how hot he is in spite of everything else going on in my life; including the very real possibility that I may be sick. Seriously sick.
Maybe it’s my subconscious’ way of trying to get me some comic relief so I don’t fall into some bottomless depression. Lord knows I could use quite a bit of humor at this point, however unconventional it may be.
I look at my watch, noting that it’s almost six, but you’d think it’s midnight with how dark it is outside already. God, I really hate winter, and I hate it even more in Wisconsin. If I leave now, I can get to La Crosse before yet another snowstorm hits the county tonight.
I head back into my room, quickly digging through my closet to find something appropriate to wear for the memorial.
I key in on a nude dress hanging way in the back. I run my hands down the length of it, loving how flowy and silky the fabric feels against my palm. It’s a simple dress, yet elegant, and its conservative cut is perfect for the occasion.
I can’t even remember where I got it.
I pull the dress off the hanger and fold it haphazardly, shoving the bundle of formal wear into my duffel bag. My toothbrush, some extra clothes and pajamas, and a few other essentials follow in after it. Ten minutes later and the bag is in the backseat of the car as I pull out of the apartment parking lot.
I figure if I don’t run into too much traffic, I should be at Gran’s before ten. She’s an early sleeper and I hate coming over late and waking her up. Especially on days like today.
I’m only on the road for fifteen minutes before Trixie’s calling my phone. I tap on the answer button and put the phone on speaker even as my eyes stay focused on the long stretch of snowy road ahead of me.
“Hey, you,” I say. “I was wondering when you’d finally call back.”
“Hey. Yeah, I just got back home so I could charge my damn phone,” she says.
My brows furrow at her statement. “What do you mean you just got back home? From where?”
“Jordan’s place,” she says in a casual, matter-of-fact tone.
My brows shoot up my forehead this time, my eyes widening at hearing Trixie mention Jordan’s name and the obvious implication attached to it.
“Get outta here, you’re lying,” I say, waving off her supposed, silent claim.
“I’m serious,” she counters.
And her tone tells me she really is. I go still for a second, trying to fully register what my best friend is telling me right now. A second later, my mind goes bonkers.