Ill.
Very ill.
“Fess up,” she says. “You had a hot date last night, didn’t you?”
“Nope.”
“Dylan.”
“Just hung out with friends.”
“Likefamousfriends?”
“No.” I pause. “I mean, yeah, Tavi Lightly was there, but she wasn’t the reason I was hanging out.”
“Dylan.You should totally go for it with Tavi Lightly! How often do you get the chance to say you dated one of the world’s most famous ... people.”
People.
And not justpeoplebutpause pause people.
Right.
Social media influencerisn’t exactly the kind of job people around here consider arealjob, andheiressdoesn’t give her much credit either.
And I’m suddenly annoyed.
Ill over Hannah’s news and annoyed on Tavi Lightly’s behalf. She’s nice enough, considering she comes from a highly dysfunctional family and has never had to learn to work for anything in her life.
Not her fault, and I’m the last person to judge anyone for what they choose to do with their life. God knows I was never perfect either. Won’t ever be, much as I try.
Tavi gets points for putting her heart into everything she does around town since her grandmother made the family move here a couple of months back, though. And saving that damn duck. Humoring the local teenagers by occasionally getting mani-pedis with them on Patrice’s back porch, which is where all the ladies in town go since Patrice had to sell her spa, which is now sitting vacant just off the square since the new owners—corporate types from Oshkosh—couldn’t flip it. Getting involved like she has says something about a person’s character, no matter how silly she might seem otherwise.
“She’s not my type,” I tell Hannah.
“No one’s your type these days. You’re working too much. It’s killing your libido.”
Work is definitely not the problem. “It’s not killing my libido.”
She frowns. “Are you in one of thoseI don’t deserve to be happyslumps? Do I need to make some phone calls?”
I roll my eyes at her as I shove a piece of bacon into my mouth and try to pretend it tastes good and not like a chewy piece of three-day-old gum.
I love bacon, but it tastes like shit in the company of Hannah’s news.
She’ll know something’s wrong and keep pressing if I don’t keep eating, though. It’s a rule. “When are you going to tell your mom?” I ask.
“Changing the subject? Totally unoriginal.”
“So in about a year, then.Hey, Mom, want to come over and meet your six-month-old grandchild?”
She laughs again. “Four-month-old in a year. Also, you’re terrible.”
“Terribly right.” And terribly disappointed.
Hannah was the one thing I got right when I didn’t know I had it right.
No. That’s not true.
