The house is empty when I get home, which makes me wonder if I’m avoiding Sabrina or she’s avoiding me. Either way, I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. Upstairs, I shower again—a cold shower because heat makes my stump swell and then the prosthetic doesn’t fit as well. That was a hard lesson I learned early on.

When I get out, I see a message alert. Is my heart pumping a little faster because it’s from Natalie? Nah, it’s because I just got done running, I tell myself.

Her: I’m feeling anxious now that Oliver’s contacted you. I want to feel safe in my own home.

Me: Who doesn’t? I have a shit ton of security in my home. Biometric sensors. Cameras. Pressure pads.

Her: Pressure pads?

Me: Those are weight-sensitive sensors. Anything over a certain weight triggers an alarm. We could put those on your balcony. Or radio-frequency sensors that determine the size of objects based on the interference of radio waves.

Her: Have you already made the trip to LA? Because all of that sounds very Hollywood.

Me: Where do you think Hollywood gets its ideas? ;)

I stare at my phone. Fuck. A winky face, asshole?

To regain my manhood after sending that message, I go downstairs and yell at a few employees.

CHAPTER FOUR

NATALIE

“Oliver’s security guy sent me a text.” I show Daphne the message and grin.

“Is that a winky face?” She arches an elegant eyebrow and scoffs, “Only a hipster on Molly would send that. One who wears flannel ironically because he’s never seen the woods and would never be caught dead in a cabin unless it’s in Vail and has a full-service butler on call. He probably thinks John Cusack is the epitome of manhood and aspires to have as many vinyl records as possible.” She wipes the sauce from her mouth.

She’s here for lunch and lunch only, she told me when she arrived with bags of food from ’wichcraft. I try not to pout because I like having Daphne here all day whenever I can. It’s almost like going out. Almost.

“I think John Cusack is the epitome of manhood. Like, if that was in Jake’s Tinder profile, I’d totally swipe right.” I push my food aside because all I want to do is talk about this Jake Tanner guy. And privately I disagree with her. Only a guy with a lot of confidence sends a winky face.

“That’s all you need to swipe right?” Daphne says in amazement. “I’d need at least one pic of his face, none of this ‘nose and lower’ shit.”

“I’m not picky.” I shrug and pick up the phone to reread the messages. His replies are instantaneous, as if he just can’t wait to interact with me. When’s the last time that has happened? Even before I was housebound, I never had that kind of interest from males. The last guy I’d dated was more of a convenience. I’m not even sure you could call it dating, because we were working seventeen-hour days getting ready for the game launch. And then after? We had sex because he was a boy and I was a girl and we had been in close proximity with each other for two years. There wasn’t even a flame to burn out when it was over. “I’d swipe right if the guy was the Son of Sam at this point.”

“That’s not saying much about either your taste or his appeal.”

“True.” I stop at the message “Then you try to go to sleep and wake up to face the next day.” And the next, “until fear is the thing that keeps you sharp instead of the thing that makes you bleed.”

He’s been where I am now because that is the only way he can write sentences like those, full of understanding and compassion. I want to keep texting him, sending nonstop messages all day to see what he’ll send me next. I don’t, though, because even someone as socially awkward as I am knows that kind of behavior would drive anyone off, even the sensitive hipster types. Plus, I need to work on my book, not write to Jake, because I’m perilously late. So late I’m concerned Daphne might develop her own anxiety disorder.

But maybe I can sneak in a few messages before I lock myself in my office. I guess it is best that Daphne leaves after lunch.

“I’m done,” I announce. “I just had an idea for the next chapter.” Jumping off the counter stool, I gather up the lunch items and stuff them in the trash. Daphne gives me a strange look, but doesn’t object, because no one wants this book finished more than she does. Not even me.

She wipes her mouth once more and crumples her half-eaten sandwich up in the wrapper. I throw it away and then wipe down the counter as she’s gathering her purse. “Maybe I’ll see some pages later tonight?”

“Sure,” I promise. I actually have a few I’ve been working on that I can send to her even if I get distracted by something . . . or someone. “I’ll send you something tonight or early in the morning.”

“I take that to mean you’ll be staying inside and not trying to take field trips down the hall?”

“Scout’s honor. I will be in my office until I produce something printable.” I hold up two fingers in what may be a Scout’s salute. I wouldn’t know, having never been a Scout.

Once she’s gone, I do go to my office and I do settle in front of my computer and I do open my manuscript. But I also text Jake.

Me: You were right. Today’s a better day.

Him: I’m always right.

Me: Really? You’re going with that?

My image of Jake as a flannel-shirted, skinny-jeans-attired male with a trendy beard is reshuffled. A sensitive hipster does not say he’s always right. My first instinct, that he was confident and maybe even arrogant, appears to be correct.

Him: What’s the better response? Because I’ve got “I know” and “Yes” saved in my autotext.

I lift a hand to stifle a giggle even though no one is around to hear me.

Me: Are you now or have you ever worn flannel?