She shrugs while shaking her head. “Why?”
I raise my eyebrows, because the answer is obvious.
She huffs and concedes, “Okay, maybe not Raven specifically, but why can’t you date a sexy musician? Why can’t you close the gap between fantasy and reality?”
I don’t hesitate. “Because sexy people date sexy people.”
She claps her hands and points at me, like she’s finally getting through. “Yes.That’s my point.” When I don’t say anything, she softens her tone. “Soph, do you honestly not realize what a smoke show you are?”
I shake my head. “You’resexy. I’m…” I hesitate because I’m not sure how to finish that sentence, “…normal.” I shrug.
She scoffs. “For fuck’s sake, when’s the last time you looked in a mirror? Your legs go on for days. Your tits are incredible. And your hair? Don’t even get me started; it’s like a goth mermaid and a vixen and a bonfire had a baby.”
I rub my lips together. “Do you feel sexy?” I ask in all seriousness.
“Yeah, I do,” she answers, unabashedly.
I knew she would say that, and it makes me smile. “God, I love that.” I mean it. “I fucking love your confidence, Lo.That’s sexy.”
“That’s it though, isn’t it? Owning it.” She taps her temple. “It’s all up here.”
“I want that,” I admit.
She tilts her head and asks, “Did any of your boyfriends ever make you feel sexy? Did they tell you how beautiful you are?”
I think back and then answer honestly, “No.”
She blows out a breath. “They were all useless, weren’t they? Every last one of them. It’s time for a reset. Not just the men in your life, but on every level. Turn your world upside down.” She drums the chalkboard with her fingernails on her way to the stairs. “Growth happens when we do scary shit. Get reckless. The universe has been waiting, like a proud Mama, for you to unleash, Soph.”
When she descends the stairs to her room and I’m left alone with theFuck-It Tally, I try to think about the last time I did something reckless. Nothing comes to mind. And I realize that my life is entirely worry-based. Some people are Buddhists or Baptists. I’m a Worrier. With a capital ‘W’. It’s where I place my faith, because I know, deep in my bones, that the minute I stop worrying is the minute I lose control, and then it all goes to hell. I do damage control ahead of time so I can avoid things that scareme and stay in my lane, where it’s not always safe, but it’s as safe as it can be.
A knock on the front door disrupts the tornado of confusion spinning in my head. When I open it, Chance is standing on the doorstep looking shower-fresh, as always. His older BMW is parked at the curb, still running. A sign he wants to make this fast.
“I came to pick up my things,” he says. He’s trying to make eye contact but can’t quite get there.
I open the screen door, step back so he can enter, and gesture to the boxes inside. There are so many things I want to say, but I can’t decide where to start. An unhinged, angry tirade would feel so good. But those only exist inside my head. Instead, I cross my arms and watch him take the boxes out to his car one by one while queasiness fizzes like Pop Rocks. I can’t stop staring at his license plate: Mndful1.
Bull. Shit.
When he picks up the last box, he looks at my hairline again. “We should talk about this.”
I huff out an unamused snort, take a deep breath, and shake my head. “I wish you well.” I don’t mean it. It sounds like,Fuck you. I’ve never been good at masking emotions.
“Fine, if that’s how you wanna be,” he snips while walking to his car. He stops a few steps away and then turns back to add, “Going into this next chapter of my life, I need someone who can meet me where I am. It’s as simple as that. Someone who can match my fired-up energy and inspire me as much as I inspire them. I’m on my way up, and I can’t do that with someone who’s bringing me down.”
“Two months ago, I was too much, and you told me to back off. Now I’m not enough? Which one is it, Chance?” Without even thinking, my earlierI wish you wellthat sounded likeFuckyou, is repeated. But this time, shocking myself, I actually say, “Fuck you.”
I slam the door before he can reply. The cross-stitch sign hanging on the wall next to it sways. It reads:
Life Rules
1. Don’t be an a**hole.
2. Repeat #1.
Benji made it three summers ago when he went through an intense crafting phase with Mabel, our seventy-five-year-old neighbor, landlord, and mother-figure who lives in a tiny home in the backyard. They were heavy on censored, sweary, positive messaging—the crafts and Mabel.
I straighten the sign and glare at it because I feel like the embroidery is judging me. “He was an asshole first,” I whisper.
