“Sounds wonderful.” She heads to the door. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Thanks, Francine.”
I exhale, sitting back in my chair and letting my mind replay our conversation. I never dreamed that I’d be in contention forthe prime slot until Francine mentioned it, but now that the excitement has simmered down, I don’t want to get my hopes up. The odds still aren’t in my favor, and even if they were, I don’t want to be disappointed … although I’m already imagining the office conversion I have planned for one of the bedrooms in Goal House.
“I have to say, I didn’t see this coming between the two of you, but it’s great. It makes sense.”
This line bounces around my brain like a Ping-Pong ball. I must admit that I had more fun with him on Saturday than I’ve had in a long time. And it really felt like a date, which was nice. There was intention and forethought, and it really felt like he curated the night for me.Who knew those things could be so sexy?
“You gotta stop thinking about him,” I groan, grabbing my phone. I haven’t spoken with Audrey since Saturday, when I updated her and Astrid about my date.
Me: Auddddiiiieeeeeeee.
Audrey: Hiiiiiiiiiii.
I smile. That’s a good sign.
Me: Whatcha doing?
Audrey: I just got out of a yoga class. I thought it would help me get out of this funk.
Me: Did it work?
Audrey: Meh. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Me: I’m making sourdough tonight. It should be entertaining at the least if you want to come over and watch me try to be domestic. I’ll even buy you dinner.
Audrey: Thank you. That’s very sweet. My mom asked me to meet her for sushi tonight. They’re leaving for Vegas on Thursday.
Me: Is Andrew fighting?
Audrey: No. They’re just going for the fun of it.
Me: Well, if you change your mind, come hang out with me. Or come over after dinner, and we can have some fresh-baked bread for dessert. Bring your jammies, and we can have a midweek slumber party like irresponsible adults. I know you’ve never tried that before, but maybe that’ll bring you out of your funk.
Audrey: We’ll see.
Me: Don’t “we’ll see” me. It sounds like my mother, and it makes me want to sneak out and go on the hunt for a delinquent.
Audrey:
Me: Call me if you need me. Love you, Auddie.
Audrey: Love you, Gianna.
She didn’t cartwheel emoji me once. That’s concerning.
I read through our conversation, analyzing each of Audrey’s responses. She’s going out and doing things to try to feel better.That’s progress. And she knows it’s just a funk. That’s good, too. Hopefully, Mrs. Van will be able to lift her spirits at dinner.
If not, I’ll just bring her to my house and force her to paint. It always helps me.
I start to close my phone and move on with my day when my gaze lands on my second-to-last response.
Don’t “we’ll see” me. It sounds like my mother, and it makes me want to sneak out and go on the hunt for a delinquent.
I haven’t thought of this in years. So many nights I’d sneak through my bedroom window and dart into the night, telling myself that I needed freedom. In retrospect, I probably needed the opposite. I probably needed attention. But doing something over the top was the only way to get more than a half-assed conversation at dinner, and I’d stopped trying to impress my parents years before. They made it clear that I would never live up to their expectations, and I chose to believe that.
Eventually, pissing off my parents became a badge of courage—a war patch. Dating men on motorcycles covered in tattoos, much too old to be with a sixteen-year-old girl, was where my power was harnessed. The more my parents tried to strip me bare of who I was as a person—no art, no rap music, no colored streaks in my hair—the more I pushed back with all my might. I craved some form of control over my existence. I wanted someone to love me for who I was and not what they wanted me to be, even if it was a liar named Dale waiting for me on a bike at the end of the darkened street.
