Me: Don’t shoot anyone. Or yourself.
Me: Yeah. Barely. But I was there.
Wednesday after lab, Maria kidnapped me under the guise of “errands” and dragged me through Target like we were preparing for an apocalypse, Jewel judging us from the cart seat like a tiny Roman empress.
Maria held two mascaras to the light. “Waterproof or extra black?”
“Waterproof. Always”
She tossed both in the basket. Jewel grabbed one, gnawed on the corner, and declared it superior by drool. We detoured through home goods because my apartment still looked like a rental catalogue threw up. Maria pointed at a plant. “You need something alive.”
“I’m alive,” I said.
“That’s debatable,” she said sweetly, and put the plant in the cart.
Thursday night, Hannah called just to ask what side I wanted to bring, like I wasn’t the least reliable potluck participant on earth. “We’ll take anything,” she said, voice soft around the edges. “And don’t fuss about it. Just come.”
“I’ll—” I stalled. “I’ll bring a salad.” Salads were safe, right? I hoped.
By the time I walked out of the bathroom on Friday evening, Dalton had already sprawled across my couch like he owned the place. Boots on my coffee table. Remote in one hand. My Pop-Tarts in the other.
“Jesus, Holly, what’s taking so long?” he mumbled around a mouthful, crumbs scattering down his shirt.
I yanked the box out of his hands before he could finish the packet. “Stop eating all my food. And get your nasty boots off my table.”
He only grinned wider, eyes flicking to the eyeliner I hadn’t wiped off fast enough. “What’s the holdup, anyway? You’re not meeting the pope.”
I walked over to the kitchen to grab my super boring, super safe Caesar salad and told myself this was normal. A cookout. People I loved. A boy I…refused to name. My phone buzzed.
Jackson: Leaving now. Save me a burger.
Me: Maybe.
I stared at the word for a stupidly long time, feeling twelve and thirty at once. I was so zoned in on my phone, I didn’t hear Dalton walk up behind me, and when he tapped me on the shoulder, I nearly threw the salad at him.
“Whatcha doin’?” he drawled.
Heat crawled up my neck. “Mind your business.”
“Mm-hmm.” He stretched like a cat, perfectly at home. “Ready?”
“I have been ready,” I snapped, grabbing my bag. “Now let’s go before you eat all my food. We’re late.” We made it down tothe lot, me storming ahead, Dalton sauntering behind. When I unlocked Sally, he stopped dead.
“You’re kidding.” His voice was flat. “We’re taking this?”
“This,” I said, patting the roof like a beloved pet, “is Sally. You will respect her. Or you can walk.”
Dalton eyed the Mustang like it was a coffin. “Pretty sure I’m too tall to legally ride in that thing.”
“Funny. Maria managed when she was literally giving birth. You’ll survive.”
He groaned but folded himself inside anyway, all six feet of him contorting into the passenger seat. His knees jammed the glovebox. His shoulders barely fit between the door and console.
“Christ,” he muttered, fumbling with the seatbelt. “This is a clown coffin.”
I slid into the driver’s seat, revved the engine just to make him groan. “Quit whining, sardine. We’ve got a cookout to get to.”
The ride was mercifully short, though Dalton filled it with complaints about his circulation and exaggerated groans every time I shifted gears. When we finally pulled into the clubhouse parking lot, the smell of hit me before the car even rolled to a stop.
