This is bullshit. You told me you put all my things in storage. This isn’t a storage center, Luca!
Another message read and ignored.
Great.
“Through here?” the driver calls out as he nears the bay door of the garage.
I jog after them, panting, a single bead of sweat trailing from my temple to my neck.
“I really don’t know. If you could just hold on?—”
“This thing’s awkward and heavy, ma’am,” he says. “Old furniture like this always is. And we’re already thirty minutes late for our next gig. Just let us do the job we were hired to do so we can get on our way.”
Before I can respond, a tinkling sound distracts me: metal hitting the stamped concrete beneath our feet.
Three or four coins roll toward me, passing by like they have a far-off destination in mind.
“Set her down,” the driver tells the other guy.
They drop the couch harder than necessary, the stubby wooden legs clunking from the force of the fall. When the man straightens with a groan, he wipes his brow, then hits an inconspicuous button outside the bay door.
The mechanical sound of the lift has my gut twisting with anxiety.
It also drowns out the soft purr of an engine pulling up the driveway.
For a few seconds, anyway.
When the sound registers, I whip around, then gawk as a vintage black Lamborghini Countach rolls up the driveway, nice and smooth.
Wait.
I’ve seen that car before. It’s an unforgettable machine.
Luca’s taken me out in a Lambo before. The one approaching is identical to the car we drove to his teammate’s wedding in Arizona last summer. The glossy black mirror paint finish and gold rims are ostentatiously memorable. There’s no way there’s more than one of these babies around Austin. It has to be the same car.
Hope floats through my chest like tiny effervescent bubbles dancing toward the surface of a glass of champagne.
Luca couldn’t reply to my texts because he was driving. He’s a cheapskate and a cheat, but he still showed up for me today.
With a huff, I strike the brightness from my heart. I don’t want to fawn over a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about me. It’s stupid to be grateful when a person does the absolute bare minimum.
Still.
At least I don’t have to deal with this on my own.
At the end of the day, that’s all I’ve ever really wanted. A confidant to share my days and my thoughts with. A person who doesn’t consider my fears too much, who doesn’t think my dreams are too big or my quirks too outlandish. A partner who isn’t turned off by my mess. Because my god, do I attract and create messes everywhere I go.
I blow out a long breath, sticking my hands in the pockets of my paper bag shorts. It’s not really warm enough for shorts today, but I tried two pairs of jeans and a pair of leggings while stress-dressing this morning. Nothing felt right because I was already anxious and overstimulated by this whole ordeal. I didn’t experience the same visceral reaction I’d had to all three pairs of pants when I slid these babies on, so shorts it was.
Oh, if only eight-a.m. Evangeline had known what we were about to endure.
I stand straighter, steeling my spine and giving myself a pep talk as I wait for Luca to get out of the car.
Hold your nerve. Stay strong.You deserve more than the bare minimum, Evan.
My pep talk sounds pathetic even in my own mind. My inner diva is a badass bitch who takes no shit. It’s a shame she gets stage fright and rarely appears to help when it’s time to advocate for myself.
I don’t want Luca to see how deeply this morning has affected me. I may be in the middle of an internal meltdown, but that doesn’t mean he gets to see any real part of me. Not anymore. He might not have ever deserved to in the first place.
