“Thosetypes?” Why am I still talking to this infuriating man? “What is that supposed to mean?”
“The types that do the opposite of what they want. You want to go out with me, but instead of saying yes, you’re saying no because…” He squints at me, then smiles. “You want to make me work for it.”
My bitten out “I do not” crashes into my mother’s “That’s exactly who she is.”
I scowl at her; she smiles at him. These two are a match made in hell.
“If you say so.” Nash flips his receipt over, grabs a pen from the old coffee can, and scribbles something on it. “This is where I’m staying.” He slides it to me. “If you change your mind.”
“Presumptuous.” My gaze goes from the address—belonging to a hotel—to him. “Most people start with a phone number.”
“Maybe.” Another grin. “But I don’t have a phone. Hate all that constant need to be connected, you know?”
I simply smile, relieved I’ll never see him again. “Nice to meet you, Nash.”
He winks at me in a knowing way and says goodbye to my mom. “I hope I see you again, Iris.”
She smiles wide. He’s a charmer, I’ll give him that.
At the door, he pauses, looking over his shoulder to add, “And Ireallyhope I see you again, Rue Conway.”
I flick him a slight wave. That won’t be happening for about a million reasons.
In his absence, my mother’s quiet disappointment could be another person in the room. I refocus my attention on the laptop and mindlessly scroll through the prices of condom tins. The mouse actively refuses to click links while my mother’s eyes work to bore holes into me. Both are smothering.
Hands on my hips, I sigh, annoyed, and face her. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Why didn’t you go with him?” she demands.
“I’m working. Ever heard of it?”
“I said we could close up and?—”
I groan.
“And,” she repeats louder. “I own the place. My opinion should count more than yours.”
“Ha! Says the woman who logs five hours of work a week between her ever-growing list of hobbies. If we kept your hours, there would be noplaceto close up.”
We glare at each other, a love language that can only be understood by women who have mothers or are one.
“Pottery is tomorrow,” she finally says. “I got the days mixed up.”
I give her a disbelieving look. “Since when?”
“Since forever,” she argues. “It’s tomorrow. I’ll work this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s good for you.”
“Good for me?” I scoff. “We don’t even know him, Mom. He might be a serial killer. And—and—he’s arrogant. And doesn’t want to stay here. Weren’t you listening?”
“I was listening to you laugh.” She says it like it’s the only criteria that should be used to make decisions. “And he’s here now. Stop worrying about what happens tomorrow.”
That is such an annoyingly her thing to say. And while I’ve never understood that mindset—tomorrow seems like a damn good thing to think about—for the first time ever, I really want it to be my own. I really want to not care about what’s going to happen and chase this ridiculous harmonica-playing stranger covered with ice cream cones into the sunset.
My heart is pounding, and if my dad were still alive, he’d remind me that it is the singular indicator that a bad decision is about to be made.
