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Tap, tap, tap.
Popa B looks at me, and I hold my finger to my lips, telling him, “Shh.”
“Whitley Mae Belington, I know you’re in there. I’d be much obliged if you opened the door and gave me my keys.”
“You took the man’s keys?” Popa B asks crossly.
Gram walks in, chuckling. “It’s like the two of you are twelve years old again. Now, move aside and let that young man in.”
“I’m not giving him his keys. He’s been drinking.”
Clearly, he heard me. “Planned on waiting a full hour more before heading out. But it’s forty degrees outside. I’d really appreciate my keys, so I don’t catch a cold.”
Gram hip-checks me and opens the door. “You come on in, John Paul. You’re always welcome.”
He steps inside and smiles at Gram as she gives him a hug. “So good to have you home, son.”
“Would you like a drink? Whitley and Nora made it fresh this afternoon when Whitley’s friend Kal stopped over.” Popa B pours him a glass of lemonade without him answering.
“Have a seat, John Paul.” Gram insists, then looks at me. “You too, Whitley Mae.”
My blood is boiling at the fact that he still has me all tied up in knots—no, scratch that. Knots are too soft of a word to describe how tied up John Paul has had me since I kind of lost my mind, knowing I was losing him to the game that had brought us close from the day I met him. Gram sets the glass of lemonade in front of me, and I wrap my hand around it, welcoming the cold.
“Thank you, Gram.”
“Much appreciation, Mrs. B.” John Paul gives her that sugar-sweet smile he used to always give, the one that has been missing since he found out about Bianca’s illness. It’s back, and, dear Lord, it’s changed. It’s major league.
He takes a sip and clears his throat. “Whit’s lemonade has always been the best.”
“Sure is,” Gram agrees.
“Now, what’s this about your keys?” Popa B asks.
John Paul slowly turns his head so his eyes are trained on me.
I narrow my eyes. “No one should be drinking and driving.”
“Wasn’t going to drive until the”—he holds up three fingers, three very thick and meaty fingers, fingers that he didn’t let Nelly ride—“three drinks were out of my system. Was just gonna sit in the SUV to keep warm.”
“Your house not warm?” Popa B asks him.
“Not yet. Should be by tomorrow. I was gonna head back to the hotel and book the room for another night.”
“Nonsense. You’ll stay here,” Gram insists.
Great, just great.
5
Monday
Ifell asleep with my mind playing ping-pong. One side of the table was a version of myself, wondering what the hell was wrong with me, and the other side was a smug-ass version of me, telling me it’s about damn time. I wake hearing the sweetest little voice.
“Why’s he smiling like that?”
Whit huff, “Because he’s insa?—”
Mrs. B cuts her off. “Whitley Mae, hush your lips.” She smiles at me. “The pastor and I have to head to the big house and spread some gospel. These two both tend to lollygag. See to it they get out the door on time.”
