a picture. I didn’t even respond.”
“That’s your big comeback? That you didn’t respond?”
“I didn’t realize I needed a ‘big comeback.’”
“Of course you do!”
“Ellie,” and there was that tone again. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him over the head until he got it. My mind was telling me to just go. Get in my car and drive away before I could do any more damage, but my irrational side wanted more. She wanted to make an impression. Leave her mark. Prove just how livid she was.
She wanted to throw something.
I peered around my feet, my gaze landing on the only thing within reach. An adorable garden gnome stood unassumingly among the flowers that lined the walkway. He was the least likely of weapons, with his long white beard, red pointy hat, and permanently cheerful expression, but he was all I had.
I scooped him up and hurled him at Tristan’s head.
He ducked but it didn’t matter. The gnome was about a foot off target. My irrational side had terrible aim. The gnome hit the pavement of the walkway and smashed to pieces.
“What the…?” Tristan yelled. The condescension was long gone, leaving nothing behind but disbelief.
Well, at least I had made an impression.
I turned around and ran to my car. I collapsed into the front seat, my hands shaking, my thoughts vibrating like they’d been injected with caffeine.
What did you do? I asked myself over and over again. What did you do?
When I got home, I sat in my car in the garage and switched on my phone. I prayed for correspondence. Text, voice, Instagram comment, I didn’t care. As long as it was from him. As long as there was some indication that everything was okay. That I hadn’t ruined the best thing to ever happen to me.
The phone connected to the network and I held my breath.
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
I exhaled.
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
Bloop-dee-dee-bloop-bloop-bing!
The phone wouldn’t stop beeping. The texts were coming in faster than I could read them. Grinning, I swiped open the message app.
Until I saw who they were from.
Owen: Assumed Guilty is starting in seven minutes. Where are you?
Owen: Two minutes and counting! Are we doing this or not?
Owen: Ellie! It’s the season premiere! This is not the time to go MIA on me!
Owen: Okay, I just watched the first five minutes. This episode is killer. Why aren’t you texting me back???
I let out a whimper and tossed my phone aside. There were about twenty more messages from Owen, but I couldn’t bring myself to read them.
The ceiling of the car felt like it was crushing down on me.
I had completely forgotten about our Sunday ritual.
In one night, I had managed to disappoint the two most important people in my life. What was happening to me? Who was this person I had become? She was a stranger. A jealous, short-tempered, unreliable, gnome-throwing stranger.
My fingers itched to text Owen back, my heart panged to call Tristan and apologize, but I couldn’t bring myself to do either of those things.
I was afraid this new, scary version of myself would only make things worse.
So I did the only other thing I could think of. I dropped my head in my hands and cried.
THE SEVENTH MONDAY
Take a Sad Song and Make It Better
6:30 a.m.
I put the finishing touches on my omelet, garnish the plates with parsley, and top off the tray with a single red rose in a vase. I’ve been up since 5:30. I was too excited to sleep. Too eager to start my day.
I can hear footsteps upstairs. My dad must be awake. I send him a quick text message, telling him to meet me downstairs.
He arrives a moment later, still in his pajamas, hair rumpled.
His sleepy eyes widen when he sees what I’ve done. “What is this for?”
I beam. “Your anniversary.” I hand him the tray containing two omelets, fresh-baked muffins, and orange juice. “Tell Mom that you did it.”
I watch his reaction go from disbelief to recognition to gratitude. “Oh my God. I would have totally forgotten.”
“I know.”
“You saved me big-time, Ells.”
I laugh. “I know.” I kick my foot in his direction. “Now, go.”
Careful not to spill the tray, he leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I owe you one. Good luck at softball tryouts today.”
“Actually, Dad.”
He stops halfway out the kitchen. “Hmm?”
“I don’t think I’m going to try out this year.”
He sets the tray down on the counter. “What? Why?”
I shrug. “Softball has never really been my thing. I think it’s always