Count Your Lucky Stars •CHAENNIE•

Chapter 7

Incoming call: Mark

A pit formed in Rosie's stomach, somehow hollow and heavy at the same time.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. It would be so easy to swipe the call away, send Mark to voicemail. But knowing Mark, he'd just keep calling, even though it was after ten p.m.

Almost a year after their divorce had been finalized, and Mark still called her when he'd had too much to drink, and other times when he couldn't remember the name of the electrician they used or which company to call to service the heater. These were all things he should've known or been able to find out on his own, but he came to her instead, acting as if they were merely on a break, one more off patch in the history of their on-again, off-again relationship.

She took a deep, bracing breath and lifted the phone to her ear. "Mark."

For a second, there was nothing but heavy breathing and then, "Chaeng? Hey."

She cringed at his co-opting of Dad's nickname for her. "What are you calling for, Mark?"

More heavy breathing. "I miss you."

Six months ago, Rosie might have felt a pang of . . . something. Bitter sweetness. Nostalgia for what they'd had, a remembrance of early days, when Mark had still acted like he cared and she had believed they would grow old and gray together.

Now she was just annoyed. Not as annoyed as Mark would be when he woke up, hungover, but still pretty damn annoyed.

Mark wasn't happy when he'd had her, and now he wanted what he couldn't have.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Not that much, Chaeng," he slurred.

She rubbed her eyes. "You can't keep calling me like this. Drink some water and go to bed."

"I miss you, though. I just-I need someone to talk to. You're the only one I can talk to."

A spike of irritation ratcheted her pulse. She should just block Mark. Block his number and spare herself this frustration. But she couldn't. Not when there was always the chance that Mark would be calling because something had happened to Dad. Because Mark was a lot of things, selfish and arrogant and moody and not the person for her, but he'd always liked Dad, always gotten along with him. And he'd promised. Promised to let her know if anything happened. Rosie was obviously Dad's emergency contact, but he was so tight-lipped, so reluctant to make her worry. He'd driven himself to the damn hospital when he'd started having chest pains at work, and she'd only found out when she had because a nurse had called her.

Despite thinking Mark was a piece of work for what he'd put her through at the end of their marriage, Dad was still friendly with Mark's parents, was still polite when he ran into Mark around town. If something happened . . . Dad might not come right out and tell Mark, but maybe he'd let it slip. Or maybe Mark would hear something through the grapevine. He was Rosie's best connection-last and only connection, save for Dad-to the town.

"You've got to find someone else you can talk to, Mark. Call your mom or something. I'm sure she'd love a call from you."

"I don't wanna," Mark groaned petulantly.

The knob on the front door jiggled, and Rosie saw an out, an escape from this cluster of a conversation, a reason to end the call that wouldn't weigh on her conscience. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Drink some water and go to bed."

Rosie ended the call as the door swung open. Jennie pitched her keys into the bowl on the entry table and shut the door, slumping against it, eyes closed.