But I was honest with Sara, because I really didn’t view her as more than a friend. It’s not like Icouldn’timagine kissing her. I’ve noticed her lips before, like when she smiles or when she puts on this peach lip gloss that makes them extra shiny. And they seem soft . . .
Okay, so maybe I could imagine kissing her—but what if it was weird? Why take that risk and ruin our friendship?
“Why not?” Vicky pushes. “What’s wrong with Sara?”
“Nothing, geez.” I roll my eyes. “She’s great, but I’ve never thought about her like that. Besides, dating ruins friendships. And that sucks.”
“Hmm,” Vicky says, thoughtful. She brushes the palm of her hands over her work slacks, as if wiping away invisible dirt. “Feelings may develop now that you’ve got real competition.”
“Man, why do you have to bring this up while I’m trying to eat?” I put another bite into my mouth, swallow, and then say, “We’re clearly not on the same page about her.”
“Hey, you’rethe one who brought her up.” Vicky stands, already heading to another table across from me. “Not me!”
As she produces a receipt for a family who’s done eating, I pull out my phone. Sara hasn’t updated her blog, and why would she? She’s in tutoring right now.
I guess I miss her. But that’s normal, isn’t it? We do everything together, and now she’s focused on other things. Like Joe. And calculus.
And Subwayboy.
That last one makes me shiver. Geez, what if he’d said yes to kissing her? Would they be dating right now? Would she be obsessed with him instead of Joe? Have I ever pictured Sara Lin with a boyfriend before now? No—so why does the mental image get under my skin?
I blink away those thoughts.
The thing is, I hate making bets she keeps losing, but if that’s the only way to keep her close, then maybe it’s not a bad idea after all.
NINETEEN
Sara
I can hear Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” blaring down the hall as soon as I step from the elevator, and I already know who’s to blame.
Dad.
The muffled music blasts straight into my eardrums when I open the door, where I find him untangling a wad of thick cords. Ah. He’s setting up his amp. Somehow he senses I’m standing in the threshold, because he grins as I drop my shoulder bag onto the floor.
“Hey, honey, check it out.” He brandishes an arm toward the side table perched beside the couch. “I fixed my record player!”
“I can tell.” I have to raise my voice in order to be heard over Robert Plant’sOh yeahs. “Our neighbors are gonna complain if you don’t turn that down.”
He cups an ear. “What?”
My point, ladies and gentlemen.
“Daadddd,” I moan, sauntering closer so he can hear me. “I thought I was free from this music after that thing broke.”
“What are you talking about?” He starts shimmying his shoulders and, because he hasn’t changed out of his professional work attire, it screamsmidlife crisis. “These are classics. Look, AC/DC”—he shoves an album under my nose—“Queen! Only the best in this household.”
Shaking my head, I step toward the fridge and grab a sparkling water. “It’s too loud, though,” I call over my shoulder. “It disrupts my spirit.”
“I miss the good ol’ days when I’d rock it out on the guitar with ma’ mates,” Dad says, putting on this terrible British accent.
I shut the fridge. “What are you talking about? You can’t play the guitar.”
But when I come back into the living room, I find him with a shiny red Fender strapped across his chest. Even I have to admit it’s impressive looking, and I know zilch about guitars.
“I will now.” He gives the instrument a strum. Dissonant chords scream through the amp. Oh, geez, we’re gonna be evicted if he keeps this up. “Now I can play along to all my favorite tunes. Check it out—I learned the chords to Black Sabbath’s ‘Iron Man.’”
He strums the strings again, except this time the sound comes out bumpy and jumbled. If he realizes it’s out of tune, he doesn’t show it. Just grins at me, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Oh, bless him. I guess even dads need hobbies. I shouldn’t burst his excitement bubble.
