Page 120 of Hard to Score

I have a million contracts to review—because life goes on even when my heart wants to stop and wait for the man I love—but I’m mentally exhausted. So even though it’s early, I snap my laptop closed and crawl into bed.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Just staring out the window at the stars trying to shine through the bright lights of the city and my thoughts running wild in the darkness.

“Go away, Bratty Brex. I don’t want company. Don’t feel like talking,” Drew says.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that this trip. Dreadful Drew has become Moody Drew, always wanting to be alone, and while I’ve tried not to feel hurt by it, I’m still hurt.

He’s never minded my company before. In fact, he’s been fine with just sitting in silence if he didn’t feel like talking.

But not this trip.

And it stings more than ever.

I bet if Ginnie Huber were here he wouldn’t say go away to her.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Then why are you so grumpy?”

“I’m not grumpy, it’s just . . . stuff.”

“Like what kind of stuff?” I ask, imagining him heartbroken. How I could swoop in and save him from it.

“This is why I want you to go away. You keep asking questions.”

“Yeah, well, you keep being grumpy.”

“I said it’s just stuff, okay? Stuff you don’t understand.”

“Humph.” I cross my arms and stare at him. “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you either, Dreadful Drew. Maybe I’m just here to look at the stars and you’re the one who should go away.”

“I was here first.”

“So?”

He looks over at me and rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t object when I take a seat beside him. “My mom likes to look at the stars.” I point to the star-filled sky above. “She says there’s nothing better when you need to think than to look at the stars.”

“Why?” he asks and glances over at me. I lie on my back beside him and put my arms behind my head.

“Because the sky and its stars remind you that your one problem is so very little in this great big world. It makes you feel like you’re not all alone.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s a fact.”

“A Mom fact,” he says with a snort but copies how I’m lying.

“And now you need to make a wish.”

“A wish? For what? It’s not my birthday.”

“It doesn’t have to be your birthday.” I sigh. “You’re looking at this great big sky. How do you not know that someone else who is looking at the same sky—somewhere—doesn’t have the answer to your problem? So make a wish. Maybe they’ll hear it and help you.”

“Another Mom fact?” He nudges me.