Free 2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) by Heather Muzik Page A

huffed.
    Elizabeth leveled a look of bemusement at that
admonition.
    “Compared to you, the Pope has dated a lot,” Catherine
countered before her mother could say anything.
    “Catherine Marie Hemmings!” Elizabeth scolded,
reaching for the glass Uncle Dick was actively drinking from and causing iced
tea to dribble onto the tablecloth. She stormed out of the room with the
glasses and within moments was back again, yanking the stained tablecloth out
from under the last of the table settings—bread basket, salt and pepper
shakers, elbows, and all. Like a magician, she did it with a flick of the wrist
that left nothing upset.
    Catherine slumped in her seat like a punished child. This
can’t be all there is for me.
    As her mother came back with a stack of dessert
plates, she got up abruptly and headed for the bathroom, ignoring the worried
questions from behind her. She probably looked sick. She certainly felt sick.
Lovesick.
    She locked the door and turned on the light, her heart
pounding dangerously in her chest. I can’t do this for the rest of my life.
I can’t do this the rest of the decade! She peered closely at her
reflection. You love Fynn. You know he loves you. You can’t throw it all
away because of distance. You had something good. It was working. The only
thing wrong about it was you being a mental misfit.
    Grabbing her phone out of her pocket, she tried to
steady herself before she did something rash all over again. Twice in two days.
She looked at the screen, hoping to find that she had missed a call—his call. But
if anyone had a move to make it was her— unless he’s relieved to be done with
me.
    She highlighted his name, pressing it before her
irrational and high-strung and stubborn self could stop her. The phone rang on
the other end, but it was digitized Fynn who cut in on the line, telling her he
would return her call when he got around to it— which would probably be never .
She had been remotely prepared to have this conversation (as prepared as
possible in sixty seconds’ time), but by no stretch of the imagination had she
considered what to say if she had to leave a message. What could she say to his
voice mail? How far could she go in explaining herself… or begging— should I
be begging?
    “Shit!” she gasped, hitting the end button with force,
cutting off the open line. Oh my God, please tell me I didn’t just do that! This
was exactly the way her whole “calling boys” act had started back in middle
school. Of course back then she’d had a corded phone that she would slam down
into the cradle whenever someone’s mother answered, and sometimes even when the
boy himself answered. And back then she didn’t usually swear before hanging up… did I really do that?
    She looked at her mirror-self who was white as a
sheet. She hadn’t meant to prank him. In fact she was trying to be mature and
honest and absolutely clear with him. She was going to fall on her sword for
him, taking the point right in her gut. Now he’s going to think I am even more
insane, cell-stalking him.
    “Are you okay in there?” her mother called from the
other side of the door.
    “I’m fine,” she choked out.
    “Uncle Dick needs to use the bathroom, so you might
want to light a match when you’re done. They’re in the vanity drawer, way in
back,” Elizabeth offered helpfully.
    “I wasn’t—” But Catherine stopped herself. She didn’t
want her mother to know what she’d actually been doing in here. “Okay,” she
said shakily.
     

 
    Sunday, January 2 nd
     

-10-
     
     
    Catherine woke up disoriented, a pink chalky taste
left on her tongue from the Pepto-Bismol her mother had forced on her—Elizabeth
Hemmings’ cure for anything that ailed you, even if it was all in your head.
She blearily took in her surroundings, vaguely remembering coming in the
apartment and throwing herself down on the couch. She’d only had the strength
to get that far after two hours in the car torturing herself