She stared at me. “I’m… miraculous?” The door slipped open a bit more.
“You’re a divine phenomenon. I’ve never met a woman like you.”
“Like…what?”
There were a lot of things I could’ve said to explain what I meant.
Someone who makes me think about things the way you do.
Someone who makes me feel the way you do.
Someone who makes mefeel.
Instead I said, “Like someone who’s willing to put up with me long enough to try to help me. Also, it’s the first five letters of your first name.”
Her face had softened. “Why do you do that? Why are you such a massive jerk, and then you’re so kind? And then just when you’re kind, you’re dismissive about it.”
“Am I?”
She looked away. “I’m really closing the door now.”
“Angeline?”
She met my eyes like she’d rather not. Like she was bracing herself for however I was about to ruin her night next.
“You told me the other night, when you were wasted, that I was your hero.”
“I did not.”
“You really did.”
“Door’s closing.” The door started to slide and she disappeared from view. “In three, two, one—” The door settled into place.
“Actually,” I said to the slab of smoked glass, “you told me you had a crush on me for four years.”
Then I went home alone.
ChapterSeventeen
Angeline
When Shayla let us into Johnny’s house the next morning to “borrow”—in other words steal—some flour because she wanted to make pancakes, I could hear a guitar in the distance. Acoustic, very faint.
It was Sunday morning and I’d promised Shayla we’d do brunch, then go shopping to pick out something special for her to wear to rehearsals this week. They had a wardrobe for her to wear for the video shoot—she’d already had a fitting—and she definitely had a ton of dance clothes, but she said she wanted to show up in something “just right.”
But I hesitated to follow her as she headed back out of Johnny’s kitchen.
When I told her I was going to go “check in with my client” she frowned like the entire concept of Johnny and I, alone together, taking up rent in her brain was intolerable. “Have zero fun,” she said warningly. “And don’t let the pancakes get cold.”
“I won’t. I’ll just be a minute.”
She plucked an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter like that was Johnny’s payment for stealing my time from her, and headed back over to her place.
I followed the sound of the acoustic guitar, downstairs, where Johnny had a music studio. He was playing an old song I recognized but couldn’t name. I’d heard him playing the same song before, other times when Shayla had dragged me over here to barge in on him for one reason or another. Her dishwasher broke, she was out of milk, she needed cash to tip her cab driver. Whatever she needed, he’d always handed it over.
As I walked up to the open studio door and listened to him play, I realized how envious I was of Shayla and Johnny’s relationship. Of having a brother, especially a brother like him. Not because he did everything for her that she asked. Because he fucking loved her.
Which meant that he’d look out for her, protect her, for the rest of their lives.
