Reed is sprawled on the couch, hunched over his phone as his thumbs swipe across the screen, texting. His face is lit up with this rare, soft grin.
So naturally, I make it my mission to ruin his life.
I flop down beside him. “Who are you texting, lover boy?”
His shoulders stiffen. “No one.”
I lunge for the phone. “Bullshit, gimmeeeeee.”
Reed shoves it in his pocket so fast he nearly stabs himself. “Let it go, Mav.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re no fun, who is ittt.” I whine.
He blinks once, his regular quiet expression coming back.
I gasp, clutching at my chest. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”
“I’m gonna kill you,” he mutters.
Catalina smirks over the rim of her glass, sipping her iced matcha, as usual. “He’s softer than you are, and you literally cried watching Toy Story, Maverick.”
“That movie is art, and I will not be shamed.” I raise my beer to no one in particular and pound half of it in a single chug.
Hours pass, and I’m sprawled on Carter’s living room floor, halfway under his coffee table, talking to myself.
“I fucking hate this career,” I slur, voice muffled against the rug, “I should just retire now, and bring myself peace.”
The truth tumbles out of me, something I haven’t said out loud, not even to my brothers.
Catalina leans over the armrest, her eyes glazing with softness. “Why don’t you quit if you’re unhappy, Mav?”
I scream into the rug, the sound muffled.
Carter groans from his recliner, running a hand down his face. “Baby, call Amelia. This fool’s not driving anywhere.”
Catalina grins, pulling her phone out from between the couch cushions. “Okay, baby.”
I lift my head. “Don’t call her. She’ll kill me. She’llhateme. She’ll?—”
She taps her screen and puts the call on speaker. “Maverick, you’re wasted and emotional.”
See, every time I open up, drunk or not, it’s dismissed.
The line rings once before Amelia picks up.
“What?” Her voice crackles through the speaker, dry and short-tempered like always.
“Heyyyy, bestie,” Catalina grins, dragging the syllables out. “Maverick is emotional and drunk. Can you come pick him up?”
I smirk, ready to make some smartass comment, until I hear Amelia’s voice again.
“I don’t have a car, and even if I did, I can’t.”
It’s barely above a whisper. Shaky. Off. Nother.
Everyone stills.
“I can’t leave the house even if I wanted to,” she adds, her tone brittle. “There’s a lot of paparazzi outside. I don’t even know how they got the address. They’re yelling stuff, trying to get pictures of me through the gate. I-I don’t know what to do.”
