Read Online While You Were Gone: A Thought I Knew You Novella by Kate Moretti - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate Moretti
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generic hope you’re doing well email. I ignore both.
Pete visits twice, bringing milk, coffee, and knock-knock jokes—typical Pete with his uncanny sense of what’s just enough to get him off the hook. He keeps telling me he’ll bring the kids by. I genuinely miss my nieces and nephews, but then I picture Mindy here—she’s never been—standing in the middle of the room, eyeing the furniture warily, noting the lack of personality. She thinks there’s something wrong with me. She told Pete years ago. I was too driven. I was too cold. I was too mechanical. When Pete told me that and I asked him what he said back to her, he just shrugged. “What could I say, Kar? You aren’t nice to her, either.” Either way, my apartment would confirm it.
I don’t hear from Paula at all. Despite my irritation, I ask Pete to check in on her.
“Why? She’s fine.” Pete has his long legs stretched out in front of him, and he’s folded into the sofa, encroaching on my space. He flicks through my DVR. “What have you been watching? Home improvement shows? The Real Housewives ?”
“A girl’s DVR should be allowed to be private.” I shoot him a look and yank the remote out of his hand. “Check on Mom, okay? She doesn’t avoid me like this. Who knows if she’s face down in a gutter somewhere?”
“Karen, she is not that bad. You’re so dramatic. You should have gone into theater instead of music.” Pete just laughs. “So what will you do now? Are you okay, money wise?” He pulls off his baseball hat, smoothes his hair, and replaces the cap.
“I’m fine. I have a little money saved. Eventually, I have to go see about disability. I know I’m eligible. I think.” The whole idea of going back, to the concert hall, to Nikolai, turns my stomach. When I first got home, the orchestra sent flowers. I don’t know who initiated it, but the arrangement sat, wilting, on the kitchen table, surrounded by a ring of curling, crispy leaves. Sprays of vibrant lilies shaped like fluted horns in a vase so big I couldn’t carry it myself. The water level hovered near the bottom, grayish-green.
My phone chirps, an incoming text, and I snatch it up and mumble, “Speak of the devil.” But I blink at the display. It’s not Paula. It’s from an unknown phone number.
How are you feeling?
I pause for a moment then type back, I’ve had better months, but okay. Who is this?
Within seconds: Oh, sorry. It’s Greg. I said I’d check up on you. :)
My heart picks up an irrational speed. Oh, then in that case, I’m out of Hobnobs, and I need raspberry pop. Come back?
Immediately, I’ll be back next week. Can you wait that long?
I’m in dire need of cookies.
What are Hobnobs anyway?
Pfffft Americans.
I wait, but he doesn’t text back. Pete’s engrossed in The Bachelor , and he taps me with his toe. “Who’s your friend?” He nods to the phone.
I shake my head with a small smile. “No one you know.”
It must be the boredom. The walls of my apartment are closing in on me. I can’t watch another television show or movie, and when I try to read a book, my mind wanders to Greg.
I’ve been alone for three whole days, hobbling around, eating jam sandwiches and ketchup potato chips. Paula doesn’t call. Pete texts once a day with the same text, How are you feeling? and I type back, Better today! but I’m not better today. I’m actually looking forward to my doctor appointment at the end of the week.
I attempt to play, the violin balanced feebly against my shoulder, my chin on the chinrest. But I can’t manage the finger positions with my cast. Frustrated, I set my violin back in the case. I dust off the television stand. Months-old rosin dust has settled on everything, and for once, I’ve spent enough time in the living room to notice. Dusting all flat surfaces takes me about fifteen minutes. There aren’t that many. In my bedroom, I wander around.
I should miss playing more than I do. I should be panicking at the
Pete visits twice, bringing milk, coffee, and knock-knock jokes—typical Pete with his uncanny sense of what’s just enough to get him off the hook. He keeps telling me he’ll bring the kids by. I genuinely miss my nieces and nephews, but then I picture Mindy here—she’s never been—standing in the middle of the room, eyeing the furniture warily, noting the lack of personality. She thinks there’s something wrong with me. She told Pete years ago. I was too driven. I was too cold. I was too mechanical. When Pete told me that and I asked him what he said back to her, he just shrugged. “What could I say, Kar? You aren’t nice to her, either.” Either way, my apartment would confirm it.
I don’t hear from Paula at all. Despite my irritation, I ask Pete to check in on her.
“Why? She’s fine.” Pete has his long legs stretched out in front of him, and he’s folded into the sofa, encroaching on my space. He flicks through my DVR. “What have you been watching? Home improvement shows? The Real Housewives ?”
“A girl’s DVR should be allowed to be private.” I shoot him a look and yank the remote out of his hand. “Check on Mom, okay? She doesn’t avoid me like this. Who knows if she’s face down in a gutter somewhere?”
“Karen, she is not that bad. You’re so dramatic. You should have gone into theater instead of music.” Pete just laughs. “So what will you do now? Are you okay, money wise?” He pulls off his baseball hat, smoothes his hair, and replaces the cap.
“I’m fine. I have a little money saved. Eventually, I have to go see about disability. I know I’m eligible. I think.” The whole idea of going back, to the concert hall, to Nikolai, turns my stomach. When I first got home, the orchestra sent flowers. I don’t know who initiated it, but the arrangement sat, wilting, on the kitchen table, surrounded by a ring of curling, crispy leaves. Sprays of vibrant lilies shaped like fluted horns in a vase so big I couldn’t carry it myself. The water level hovered near the bottom, grayish-green.
My phone chirps, an incoming text, and I snatch it up and mumble, “Speak of the devil.” But I blink at the display. It’s not Paula. It’s from an unknown phone number.
How are you feeling?
I pause for a moment then type back, I’ve had better months, but okay. Who is this?
Within seconds: Oh, sorry. It’s Greg. I said I’d check up on you. :)
My heart picks up an irrational speed. Oh, then in that case, I’m out of Hobnobs, and I need raspberry pop. Come back?
Immediately, I’ll be back next week. Can you wait that long?
I’m in dire need of cookies.
What are Hobnobs anyway?
Pfffft Americans.
I wait, but he doesn’t text back. Pete’s engrossed in The Bachelor , and he taps me with his toe. “Who’s your friend?” He nods to the phone.
I shake my head with a small smile. “No one you know.”
It must be the boredom. The walls of my apartment are closing in on me. I can’t watch another television show or movie, and when I try to read a book, my mind wanders to Greg.
I’ve been alone for three whole days, hobbling around, eating jam sandwiches and ketchup potato chips. Paula doesn’t call. Pete texts once a day with the same text, How are you feeling? and I type back, Better today! but I’m not better today. I’m actually looking forward to my doctor appointment at the end of the week.
I attempt to play, the violin balanced feebly against my shoulder, my chin on the chinrest. But I can’t manage the finger positions with my cast. Frustrated, I set my violin back in the case. I dust off the television stand. Months-old rosin dust has settled on everything, and for once, I’ve spent enough time in the living room to notice. Dusting all flat surfaces takes me about fifteen minutes. There aren’t that many. In my bedroom, I wander around.
I should miss playing more than I do. I should be panicking at the
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