No. No. No. Just. Let. Me. GO,I silently scream, rubbing my temples, all my earlier energy sucked clean out of my body.
“No. I have a lot of work to do, and I have to get busy.” I sigh. Something has to give.
“Whatever. Run off and tell your friends,” he snaps, and the call goes silent.
“Blaze of Glory” blasts forth from my earlier playlist, and I scramble to turn it off, dropping the phone on my desk. I’m older and more jaded now, no longer the same spunky rock star I was a half hour ago.
If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s compartmentalizing, so I’m going to put this mess in a suitcase and shove that baggage under the bed. Time to address the car situation.
Again.
I absentmindedly run a finger over the latest addition to my notebook when Annie appears in my doorway. She knows I’m a word collector, but I scooch Bret over the last entry to avoid any discussion.
“Knock, knock,” she says with a sympathetic smile.
I get that a lot lately.
“Hey, Annie. How’s your mom?” I ask, tapping the bobblehead to inspire some joy, trying to look less defeated than I feel.
“She’s good. She sent you some of your favorite oatmeal-nasty-raisin cookies. Man, that doll creeps me out.” She grins, shaking her head while she slides the scattered guitar picks on my dresser into a pile.
“He’s not a doll. He’s the greatest front man of ’80s hair metal, but I don’t want to debate. I want cookies.” I jump up and link my arm through hers, abandoning my notebook in favor of food. “They’re my favorite breakfast.”
“Breakfast? Honey, it’s like noon.” She laughs. “And I ain’t touchin’ those disgusting raisin cookies.”
“I know she made you chocolate chip.” I stare at her, challenging her blatant disrespect of my favorite Elise Parker cookies. The woman puts pixie dust or possibly crack in these cookies. If I lived closer to Annie’s mom, I’d need a full-blowncookie intervention, and the booty would be completely out of control. I love oatmeal cinnamon, but I’d eat my weight in anything she makes.
“Dang right, she did.” Annie sashays down the hall to the kitchen, shiny auburn hair swaying at her back. She opens an airtight container, and we each grab a cookie, but Annie holds hers up to the light to inspect it. “I ain’t never bitin' into another raisin. I learned my lesson.”
She takes a big whiff, undoubtedly to ensure she has chocolate chip and not raisin.
I grab two mango teas from the fridge and jump up on the counter so I can be closer to Annie’s height. At five feet nine inches, she’s hard to talk to with my eyes seven inches below hers, eight with her shoes, so I usually perch myself somewhere a little higher.
“You look like a little-bitty rock star today, Lucy Sky,” she says, examining my big hair, ripped jeans and babydoll-style black top with extra bracelets, hoop earrings, and beaded necklaces. More accurately, I look like an elf on a shelf next to her. “Are you gonna sing with the guys tonight?”
“I might. DC gave me an energy drink, and then I listened to Bon Jovi. I think the music influenced my hair.” I shrug. “I’ll sing if they want me to, but my one o’clock class was canceled, so I need to get my car fixed while I can.”
“Was that what you were talking to Nate about?”
“Tried to. I’m pretty sure he accused me of having a fling with Daniel because I said he boosted my car last week.” I roll my eyes like I’m annoyed more than hurt. I’m getting there.
“Well, youshouldhave a fling with Danny, and he absolutelyshouldbe the one boosting you. Like, as often as possible. I mean, vroom, vrooooom.” She fans herself dramatically. “Danny knows how to get your motor running.” She giggles hystericallyat her own bad joke as I gasp with my mouth full and spew mango tea with chunks of cookie gracefully all over the counter.
Not concerned with me actually dying, she grabs a clean dish towel and throws it at me. “Lucy, have you really looked at him lately? He’s got to be working off some kind of frustration. He was cute before with that messy hair and the smoldering green eyes thing goin’ on, I mean, daa—dang! But he’s probably gained twenty pounds since you moved in, and I mean the good kind, you know? Arms and chest and I heard he was a catcher in high school. There’s no other way to explain theexpert wearing of the pants.He ain’t skippin’ leg day.” She tilts her chin down and raises her brows with intensity. “I got brothers, and we’re athletes. I can see it,” she says with a grin.
“You’re ridiculous,Anastasia.” I’m not sure what power her full name holds as a comeback, but I got nothin’. And “catcher” tracks. That’s always been my theory. He checks all the boxes.
“Something made him allergic to haircuts, and he almost never shaves anymore. He went from that sweet boy next door vibe to broody long-haired rocker in a year. That’s all you, girl. And he’s attached to you something fierce. Ain’t nobody bringing me my preferred caffeine right when I need it. That’s expert-level boyfriend shh—stuff.” She quickly modifies her otherwise unfiltered opinion. “You being with Nathan is killing him.”
Hazel. His eyes arehazel. The green sort of swirls with an amber color and a darker brown. And his hair has always been long. He grows it out and cuts it all the time, but it’s never been traditionally short, not that I’m going to correct her. It’s whatever. I’m just observant.
“Dude. I’m engaged … theoretically,” I rasp out. “Do you think I’d do that to Nathan?”
“No, but sister,theoretically, you should.” She shakes her head, widening her eyes. “If I had a chance, I’d go after him myself, but there is only one girl he’s had eyes for in a year.”
Oh, puh-lease. Mental eye roll on both halves of that statement. I know who she wants.
“He treats everyone exactly the same,” I insist. “He carried your bag in this morning, and he helps everyone move in—Hunter and PJ, Hallie and Tara. That’s only who I’ve seen. He changes locks, replaces the burnt-out porch lights, gets YOU new keys when you LOSE THEM. Most of that is his job! I know we’re kind of closer, but it’s because we’re more alike, and we like the same music, and okay, he helps me with literally everything in my life, but come on, you know it’s not like that,” I protest, probably a little too much.
