“Let me see.” Van leans over the side of the couch.
I stare at my puzzle, working the last four squares to beat my record time.
All three of their phones buzz simultaneously. There’s a collective hushed gasp, followed by those puppy dog faces.
“What the hell is going on?” I shove my pencil into my messy bun, but wince when pain shoots through my shoulder at the quick movement.
“None of your business,” Jos says. “You lost privileges when you turned into a hermit crab that only comes out to groan, gripe, and scavenge for food.”
“I got shot. . .in the shoulder. . .by a bullet. I think I’m entitled to a little complaining and time to rest and recover. That requires food.”
“Does getting shot entitle you to be a complete idiot who stands in your own way of true happiness? Instead, you’re settling for a secluded life and living in the sweatshirt of a man wholovesyou.” Van says it so eloquently that it almost doesn’t sound like an attack. “You do realize that eventually, he’ll be forced to move on and find someone else to be moderately happy with.”
I stare at her, but all three of them stare back, waiting as if I’ll answer. “What is your guys’ problem?”
Jos’s head falls to the side. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re sick to death of all this moping when the simple cure is you pulling your head out of your butt and talking to The Assignment.” She jabs a finger at me. “And if I have to hear “Die With A Smile” one more time, I’m getting Bruno involved. He should be warned that his songs are being used as a coping mechanism for emotionally immature dumbassness.”
“Oh, someone please help me.” I drop my head against the back of the couch. “We’ve been through this collectively and separately. First, can we please call him Cole? And second, I can’t be—”
Their phones buzz, and they all check them, their faces doing that thing again. The tap, tap, tapping begins, eyes glued to their screens.
“Who is texting you?!” My new, increased level of irritation and agitation spikes a little higher.
“No,” Jamie throws a hand up. “I’m usually on your side, but this. . . It’s gone too far. All your lame excuses and absurd ideas about whatColeneeds are getting really old. Until you stop this complete nonsense, I’m not talking to you.” She turns her body away, shunning me.
“Oh, for real,” I groan.
“Nicely said.” Jos fist bumps Jamie’s shoulder. “I like it when your redhead comes out.” She looks at me. “You can let us know when you’re done being a dipshit. Until then, you get no information from us. Have fun living in your shell and snapping at yourself.”
They press their lips together and get back to their phones.
“What information?” I’m trying really hard to be patient, but they are testing my limits.
“It’s only been thirty seconds. Does this mean you’re done now?” Lyla asks as if she’s talking to a toddler in time-out.
“You guys! I am doing this to protect him.”
“No. You’re doing this to protect yourself,” Lyla says oh-so-calmly. “He sent you flowers, gave you that number puzzle book, and his sweatshirt that you won’t take off even to wash. I’m sure it’s beginning to smell.” Her petite nose scrunches.
That’s because it might not smell like him anymore.
I stealthily lift it and inhale to check.
She avoids looking at me. “He’s messaged you almost daily despite you being a total jerk and not responding. He’s declared his love for you, and let’s not forget. . . ” She stabs me with her beautiful dark eyes. “Thatyouare totally in love with him, too. What the hell more do you want?”
I glare at her. “You know what I want,” I say through gritted teeth because we have beenthroughthis. “I want him to have the life that he deserves, which includes a wife and kids and someone who doesn’t tote a shit ton of baggage into every situation.”
I breathe. “He lives his life in front of the entire world. He deserves someone who isn’t going to show up with a black eye or stab wounds. Someone he can show affection and touch and who. . .smiles.” My body slumps a little. “Someone who’s easy to love and doesn’t want to run whenever things get just a little uncomfortable.”
“But that’s just it.” It’s Van’s I’m-going-to-back-your-ass-into-the-wall tone.
Shit.
I press into the couch.
“I think he’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want those things. He wants you.” She stands and then plops on the couch next to me, unlocking her phone like she’s presenting evidence.
I push out an exasperated breath.
