“I’m sorry about your head,” I say again.
“Could’ve been worse.”
Maybe.
But really?
In a lot of ways, him being so nice to meisworse.
He seems like the kind of guy who’s done the work to deserve everything he wants in life.
I’m a private disaster who puts on a good show in public, and I live so much in secrets and lies that I don’t think I deserve any of the good that life’s thrown at me.
Including him.
But he’s here with me now, giving me hope that I can someday achieve what he has, so maybe, just maybe, for as long as I’m in Tickled Pink, I can temporarily be a bright spot for him too.
Chapter 11
Dylan
It appears Tavi’s taking me to the closed-up Methodist church.
I know I didn’t hit my head hard enough to hallucinatethis. If I were hallucinating, I’d be picturing her taking me into an elephant enclosure at the zoo, or maybe to Wrigley Field for a Cubs game, which is one more item on my bucket list that I never told Hannah about.
She’s a Brewers fan first, last, and forever. Talk of any other team is blasphemy.
“What—” I start.
Tavi shushes me as we stride from where she’s stashed my truck in an alleyway that almost no one uses to the basement entrance of the small building. “If anyone asks, we walked by and thought we heard gushing water, so we stopped to investigate.”
“I have a concussion, and the whole town except for my mom knows it.” I frown again, then glance at my phone. “I hope. She hasn’t called yet. Good sign.”
“See? This is your cover story so your mom doesn’t find out, and you can say it was your idea to come here.” She leads me down the concrete stairwell, then uses a key to open the door. “How’s your head?Is this too much exertion? There’s a seat just inside, and then I’ll pull up—gaaaaah!”
Pebbles barks, and a goat answers from inside the basement.
“How did you get in here?” Tavi shrieks.
The goat bleats back at her.
My head threatens to crack in two.
“Not the chocolate!”
I’m hallucinating.
I have to be hallucinating, except my head is aching—it’s been a remarkably headache-filled week—and nothing about this feels unusual.
Helped chase a deer out of Imani’s house once. Was responsible for a squirrel in the high school another time. Domesticated goats in a church basement are tame after that.
Tavi shoves her purse with the dog at me, then darts into the room, flipping on more lights and illuminating a white goat gnawing on a refrigerator door handle. There are scattered spices and chocolate bars all over the floor, along with kitchen utensils and cookware and towels. Cabinets are open. Drawers too. The goat’s wearing an apron on one horn, and there’s a trail of chocolate footprints all over the floor.
At least, I hope that’s chocolate. She did say “not the chocolate,” didn’t she?
“What—” I start.
“This isn’t real! You hit your head too hard!” Tavi yanks on the goat’s horn. “Move, you furry beast. Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.”
