“Shut up, dumbass. She’s a grown-ass woman,” Porter mutters to him.
Crew rolls his eyes. “Tell Silas that.”
“I leave shit at home,” I tell Crew. “He can learn to do the same.”
Not holding my breath.
But I’m here to be a damn team player. And I’m in the exact right spot to prove it.
They’ll see.
Come June, they’llallsee.
Or else I’ll well and truly be done.
With no fucking clue where I’ll belong next.
17
Goldie
I can’t decidewhich is more perplexing—being recognized by six people on the walk between my apartment and the wine bar, or being recognized because Fletcher posted a picture of us nearly kissing that got some unexpected attention that’s resulted in half of Copper Valley apparently shipping us as a couple.
“Who puts a picture on the internets of you kissing without telling you he’s going to do it, and then doesn’t have the decency to message you at all for four days?” Evelyn says over wine as all of us stare at our phones.
Odette is still in her wheelchair. She’s tucked in at the end of the table, shaking her head while she scrolls her phone. “Oh-em-gee, they’re so cute together,” she reads.
“Couple of the century,” Sheila quotes.
“If they don’t get married, I’ll die.”
“It’s giving opposites attract in all the best ways.”
“I hope she comes to the games and cheers him on.”
“I’m getting tickets because I want to see them together there. When he scores and she rushes to the bottom of the stands or whatever it is and he dashes over to her and picks her up and twirls her and kisses her? Swoon.”
“How cute would their babies be?Heart-eye emoticon. Heart-eye emoticon. Heart-eye emoticon. Baby-face emoticon.”
“It’semoji, hon,” Evelyn says, patting Odette’s hand.
“You’re the one who called itthe internets.”
“I did it ironically. Since I’m old.”
“Has he called you at all?” Sheila asks me.
I shake my head. Technically, he doesn’t even have my phone number. All of our communication has been through social media.
“And he hasn’t hit you up in your DMs?” Evelyn says with a sly look at Odette, who stifles a smile while she rolls her eyes.
“Nope.”
“So he’s using you,” Evelyn declares. “We should obituary his mustache.”
I wince. “It might be my fault.”
“How?”
