Lindsey’s lips twist as she looks up at me from her phone.
“Girl, that’s not even half a season of binge TV. You’re being crazy.” She draws a line through my last con, then circles all my pros before adding a string of bullets I can’t read upside down.
“What are you doing? Lindsey, we’re going to have to start over. This is my list, not yours.” I reach for the tablet, but she pulls it to her body, out of my reach, as she finishes scribbling her edits.
“There.” She tosses the crayon toward the box on the bed then flops the paper pad in front of me.
If you go to Texas, you can finish your degree, and then maybe you can figure out what is wrong with your own damn brain. Kidding. But seriously? You should go because Huntermakes you happy, and you deserve to be happy. And also, because you love him.
My gaze flashes to my sister, and she hits me with a smug grin.
“You know you do,” she says.
I leave the bed and huff, my hands scratching at my scalp.
“I don’t love him, Lindsey. I . . . enjoy his company.”
It’s such bullshit. I can’t even keep a straight face after uttering it.
“Fine, I like him a lot. And I could see maybe, if we were in different places, or if I was not locked down here?—”
“You aren’t,” she fires back.
My shoulders drop and I pull my Earl’s shirt from a hanger and glare at her on my way to the shower.
I haven’t showered in two days. Maybe three. I like to say it’s because I’m busy, but it’s because I’m a little depressed and anxious. I don’t need to finish my psych degree to tell me that.
My fingers massage a healthy dose of shampoo into my hair, and I push the sudsy pile into pyramid on top of my head, pressing my palms together to recreate the little girl with the mohawk. The wall of hair flops over my right eye in seconds, but for a moment, I think I had it. I was her. A sweet, innocent toddler who didn’t know any better, and who was happy to have two parents who loved her, and a roof over her head, and a sister who shared her room.
I still have all those things, just not the way I imagined I would. My mom’s words have haunted me ever since she shared them with me. My dad has never been hostile to my mom, and I’ve always wondered why. He wanted my mom to feel whole, and sometimes that’s hard for a woman. I get that. Maybe more than most.
“Hey, ass face, I’m taking the boys out for burgers. We’ll revisit this thing tomorrow,” my sister says after rapping on the bathroom door.
“Okay, I love you even though you make me nuts,” I holler.
“And I love you, too. Just like Hunter Reddick!”
“Lindsey!” I shout after her, popping my head around the shower curtain. I can hear her laughter in the hallway as she rushes down the stairs.
I’m going to miss having her as a bunk mate, though it would be more comfortable in that room if we had actual bunk beds. Two grown women in a double is tight. And my sister likes to kick. But I cherish those bruises for now. She’s already hunting for a place to stay longer term. Work is going to be a little harder to come by, but she should walk away from Brandon with a good chunk in her checking account.
The steam fogs the blue tiles on the shower wall enough that I’m able to draw lines in the condensation. I make a box first, then write the word abs next to it and check the box for my own amusement. I wipe the evidence away, though, then force myself to think about what myreallist is—the reasons why I want to take a leap of faith, and what’s holding me back. When I’m honest with myself, it’s a pretty simple scale. I think I might be in love with him. Also, I’m really scared he’s going to leave.
I finish my shower and dry my hair, but I still have a solid hour before my shift tonight. I love Sweetwater, but it’s also not the kind of place with a lot to do on Tuesday night unless you’re into bars. I already work at one, and I’d rather not clock in early, extra tips or not.
I’m tempted to text my sister and horn in on her burger date with the boys. If she took them for burgers, it’s probably at that place off the highway with the arcade and prize booth. It’s about ten miles out of town, though, and I don’t havethatmuch time to spare. I tiptoe my way down the stairs, the flickeringlight from the television bouncing off the walls. I hear my mom laughter and stop. It’s more of a giggle. Something about it makes me curious, so I sit down about five steps from the main floor and peer at them through the railing.
My dad is in his second-favorite chair, his leg propped up on the ottoman, which my mom is sitting on next to his cast. She has a marker in her hand, and she’s drawing something, or maybe writing. She has her reading glasses on the tip of her nose.
“O in the upper . . . right corner,” my dad says, and my mom draws something on the cast. I think they’re playing tic-tac-toe.
“You keep using the same strategy, and you keep losing, Dale.” She laughs her raspy sound, and I find myself smiling at the two of them.
“I like to think I’m . . . wearing you down,” my dad says. My mom pops her head up and peers at him over the rim of her glasses and within seconds, the two are laughing so hard I think there are tears involved.
“Fine, put it . . . in the middle,” my dad finally says.
My mom shakes her head.
