“Tomorrow, yeah,” I agree, projecting calm into my voice despite the storm stirring in my stomach.
Chapter 18
Wes
Istareupatthehigh-rise building where Isla lives, smack in the middle of downtown Palmer City.
Across the street, the lights at the Palmer City Owls baseball stadium illuminate the sky, starting to dim as we approach 8 p.m. Despite growing up outside of Palmer City, I’ve only been to this part of town a handful of times. I prefer my small town on the outskirts of the city.
My stomach grumbles, making me regret not eating since lunch. Only rich people have dinner at 9 p.m. The Covingtons will probably serve small fancy meals made of shit I’d never choose, but inexplicably cost more than what I make in a week.
I don’t know why I agreed to this.
“You look lost.”
My head turns in the direction of a raven-haired woman with heavy eye makeup beside me. She’s wearing professional attire and uncomfortable-looking shoes that add at least three inches to her height.
“Just questioning all my life choices.”
“In the middle of walking traffic on a game night. Bold.” Her words jar me out of my haze to realize that people are passing me on both sides, none of them looking too pleased to maneuver around me. “Heading in?”
She takes three purposeful strides toward the building without a glance backward. I suck in a deep breath.Here goes nothing.
“You’re back early,” the older man behind the desk says to her.
“Left my phone. It’s the second inning. I won’t miss much.”
“Your boy pounded one into the gap,” the man says.
“Bertram, please never say that sentence to me again,” she replies through a huff of laughter. She doesn’t break stride while walking to the elevator. “Also, he’snotmy boy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bertram waves a dismissive hand as he rises from his seat. “He with you?”
The elevator dings and the doors open. She looks at us. “Nah, I found him looking like a lost puppy on the streets.”
No one has ever described me like that before. But I think little intimidates this woman. Maybe we all look like lost puppies to her.
“What apartment are you going to?” Bertram asks, his tone hardening. “I’ll need your I.D.”
“604,” I answer, fishing my wallet out of my pocket and sliding my driver’s license across the desk to him.
He picks up the license, scrutinizing it against whatever is on his computer screen.
“You’re headed up to Brooks’s place?” The woman’s eyes narrow in interest.
“Friend of yours?” I ask.
“I cat-sit for him, and we live on the same floor.” She blocks the elevator door with a hand. “Come on.”
I look to Bertram for approval.
“You’re on their list,” he confirms, handing my license back to me. “Go on. And watch yourself with her.”
The woman sighs, loud and dramatic.
“Thank you,” I say.
The woman steps back from the elevator door once I’m inside. She smacks a hand against her hip. “Oh, that’s right. Tonight’s the infamous dinner. That explains this outfit choice.”
