“My car, Travis,” I say, pointing.
He looks over, and then his eyes widen. “What the fuck.”
I try to say something clever, but nothing comes out. My mouth feels full of cotton. I look at the writing, bright and sure, and all I can think is—who the hell hates me this much to leave a mark like that?
Travis squints at the street, then at the neighbors’ houses. “You got any idea who did that?”
“No,” I say, my voice tight. “Maybe it’s the same person sending you all those letters.”
He leans closer to the paint, takes a photo with his phone. “I don’t know who the fuck would do something like this. I honestly don’t.”
I don’t answer.
He circles the car once, scanning for more damage, then stops in front of me. “You want to call the cops?”
I shrug. “And tell them what?”
“That someone fucking vandalized your car.”
“There isn’t anything they can do,” I murmur, rubbing my arms, suddenly cold.
“Well, they might be able to check cameras.”
That’s true. “Yeah, we will. I just...I need to go to the store and get these eggs first. I need a minute.”
He doesn’t argue, just hooks a finger under my chin, forces me to meet his eyes. “You be careful, okay? Until I figure this out. I will come with you now.”
I don’t argue, because I want him to come with me.
We move through the store quickly and quietly, and when we get home, Reagan’s blue Jeep is in the driveway. She is leaning against the hood, sunglasses on, arms crossed. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just points at my car, then at me, then at my car again.
“What did you do?” She sounds impressed.
I try for a joke. “Guess I pissed off someone.”
She walks over, drags her fingers along the fresh paint, and then walks back to me. “You have a stalker,” she says, but in that delighted, fuck-yes-some-drama tone only she can manage.
“That’s not funny,” Travis mutters. “Because it’s probably true.”
Her brows go up. “Am I missing something?”
I tell her about the letters I found at Travis’s office.
“Oh, so you definitely have a stalker. Damn girl, you don’t muck around.”
I start to laugh, the sound barrelling raw out of me.
Reagan pulls me into a hug, strong and warm. I didn’t realize just how much I needed it. “We’ll sand it down and repaint. No one will ever know.” She leans in and whispers, “Unless you want to keep it so people know not to mess with you because they will think you’re crazy.”
I snort.
Travis rolls his eyes, but his shoulders drop a touch. “Let’s go eat.”
We do. Groceries in hand. Reagan looks at me, then at the eggs, and then claps.
“What are we making? Pancakes?” she says, like it’s a perfectly average morning.
This right here is why she’s my best friend.
