“Ugh,Sam,” I groan. He must’ve changed my alarm tone after class yesterday.
I hit snooze twice, but my phone dings with a text as someone bangs on the door.
Annie.Bothare Annie.
Annie:Lu Lu, let me in pleeeease!
Annie’s parents live about an hour away, so it’s not unusual for her to go home and drive back the next morning. It’s also not unusual for her to lose her key in her own purse and need me to let her in. I’m not sure why keychains or lanyards are hard for her to manage, not that I’ve been the best with keys lately myself.
But she pays her half of the bills, and she’s the best roommate I could ask for, so I’ll overlook being forced out of bed. I open thedoor hoping for all the noise to stop, and Annie plows in with a backpack, a purse, a coffee, and her phone.
Keys, though? Absolutely not.
She dumps it all, minus the coffee, on an overstuffed chair, and DC wanders in behind her with an ice-cold sugar-free energy drink and sets her overnight bag next to the stairs.
I’ve already forgotten why I’m here—barefoot—my hair looking like I fought with a herd of cats in my sleep and a blank stare on my face. This is too much for being vertical less than five minutes.
He opens the can and takes a sip before placing it in my hand, which is good for his safety, because he has a key and none of this had to happen.
“I’ll be in Blountville and Elizabethton for a couple of hours. Text me if you need help with the car. Retro Rodeo’s playing at the coffee shop tonight, and I want you to sing with me …us. Jace and Sam asked for you too. I know you’re not talking yet, but I wanted to tell you before I left. Go on and shower. Blink if you understand.” He stares for a minute to be sure I’m listening. “Good girl.”
Annie stifles a laugh-cough.Yes, I heard it. But I’m not ready to have facial expressions yet.
“Bye, Annie!” he yells over his shoulder as she runs up the stairs to change clothes and get ready for her class.
She’s still giggling at thegood girlcomment, but I don’t think he has any idea what she’s laughing about.
I’msure not telling him.
“Thanks, Danny. Bye!” she hollers back in her heavy Southern drawl. “Lock up when you leave, please. She ain’t really awake yet.”
“I know. I will,” he calls upstairs, and I groan a little. I hate when people call him Danny, though everyone does. I’ve had some complicated pastDannyexperiences, and “Daniel”is a better song, and people shouldn’t be talking so much yet anyway.
He cautiously puts an arm around me and steers me back toward my room. “Blountville and Betsy. Let me know about the car. Retro Rodeo later. It’ll sink in when you shower.”
I lift my chin in acknowledgement and flash a weak hang-loose shaka sign. I’m not necessarily agreeing to anything; I’m just confirming comprehension.
I get an alert from my one o’clock professor as I zombie-walk back to my room to find clothes. The storm left a tree down in her driveway, so our class is canceled. “See email for updates,” it reads, and my phone chimes with every thumbs-up response to her message. I briefly consider going back to bed, but I really need a shower.
Hot water, a razor, and several scented potions later, I feel human. Once I’ve scrunched some completely useless anti-frizz cream into my hair and slathered head to toe in peach-mango lotion, I might even be cute. I attach the diffuser to my hair dryer and lean over to flip my hair upside down.
Ten minutes later, wild waves fall over my shoulders, exposing what’s left of the pink conditioner I used last week, peeking out between strands of my otherwise unexceptional wheat color.
The caffeine has kicked in, and I feel pretty good despite my abrupt wake-up call. I love watching the guys play. And they’ve been asking me to sing with them more often, so I must not completely suck.
DC, Jace, and Sam have performed together for years. I don’t know if they ever tried to make a career of it together or if Sam’s the only one with the big dream. They call it Retro Rodeo, but I’m not sure if that’s the band’s actual name or a description of the multi-generational, genre-hopping chaos theyplay. Whatever it is, it’s always fun, and they know what songs I can’t resist.
I scream Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” at the top of my lungs as I finish my makeup, when my phone lights up with a call from Nathan. I pause the music and answer right away, hoping his mood has improved.
“Hellooooo?” I singsong playfully, attempting to coax a good mood out of him.
“Hey,” he says dryly. “What areyouso happy about?”
Not exactly what I was going for, but I keep trying.
“I’m happy to hear from you. Do you want to get lunch before work?”
I try to maintain an upbeat tone to keep my own mood from tanking.
