“Am I at least close?” Amantha grunts, and I can picture her lifting a laundry basket.
“Kinda.”
“Good enough. So what’s the emergency?”
“I’m backsliding! That’s what!” I wail, dismissing outfit after outfit into a heap on my closet floor.
“Kate, backsliding means going back to a guy that’s bad for you. Brandon is great. I’ve always rooted for you guys to give this another shot.”
“A fake shot.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Amantha’s voice turns irritated as she shouts, “Anthony! For the freaking last time, I. Am. On. A. Call!” She sighs. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“You were telling me this was a horrible idea and to call everything off.”
Amantha snorts. “No, I wasnot. I really don’t get your hesitation here. You’ve grown. He’s grown. You two are completely new people than you were back then. Why not ditch the ‘fake’ title and try things out for real?”
Because I feel more like a hot mess than ever, and disappointing Brandon now that I know what he’s been through terrifies me.
He’s a good guy. He deserves a good girl.
“Because I don’t want to,” I say.
“You are too stubborn for your own good, I swear,” Amantha says. “You’ll figure it—ANTHONY FRANK WILLIS WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!”
A muffled bang sounds from deep within the call.
“Holy sh—I gotta go, Kate. Anthony just blew up my kitchen. Ew! What kind of goo even is this?”
The call drops before I can say goodbye.
I chuckle as warm affection for my friend and her nutty son fills my chest.
A peek at my phone chases it away and spanks my butterflies back into action.
I have a new text.
BEFORE YOU DO, DON’T: Hey. Thought it might be a good idea to set some ground rules before we leave for Marisol Bay. You free today?
I bite my lip, debating as I rename Brandon’s contact info. Judging from the category five hurricane of awkwardness we endured at work on Friday, a reset sounds necessary.
KATE: I’m free. When and where?
BRANDON: 10 o’ clock? I’ll drop a location pin from my phone.
KATE: Sounds good.
My wild eyes whip to the time, then to the mirror. I’m still wearing rumpled pajama shorts and a baggy t-shirt that drapes off my shoulder. My messy bun could pass for a bird’s nest. Panic skirts up my spine. I bolt from my room toward Liza’s, intent on thieving her curling iron that heats faster than mine.
Someone speaks, and I crumple like a stringless puppet.
“Where’s the fire?” Liza asks calmly from the couch, sitting primly in jeans and a knit sweater. Her brown eyes are amused atop her mug of tea.
“I didn’t hear you come home last night.” I pant, collecting my limbs.
“Obviously.” She laughs, then takes another sip. “Whatcha doing?”
“Meeting Brandon.”
