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“Mom.”
“He must have been—”
“Mother, please, no need to lay it on thick.” I stand up, holding my robe together as I walk closer and try to take my sister’s phone, but she pulls it back. “I get it. If you’re calling to tell me to call him, I hear you. I will call him.”
“Why didn’t you tell him about your car?” She ignores me completely.
“Because I didn’t see him long enough to get to the whole conversation part.” Duh.
Is that not why she’s bitching?
“You could have texted him when it happened.”
Monti’s eyes snap to mine, but I keep my face blank.
“Your job is to share your life with this man, Jameson. Don’t make me teach you how to do so. Again. Men like Anthony have—”
“Billowing egos we must keep fed, yeah, Mom, I know.” I shake my head. “I’ll call him.”
“No, you’ll head home, fix your face and go to him, and it shouldn’t take you long. I saw the charge already go through from the salon this morning.”
Monti flips off the phone.
“Wait, now?”
“Right now. You had no school, being Labor Day. It’s fitting, if you ask me.”
“Well, no one did, so bye Mom!” Monti singsongs.
“Monti, if you hang up—”
My mother’s threat is cut off as Monti powers down her phone, and I’m already tying my robe and reaching for the door.
“Duty calls,” Monti teases.
“Fuck you,” I call as I push through the door.
“Love you!” is shouted from the other side.
A low laugh leaves me and I head for the changing room, redressing and making my way to my car. As I get into the parking garage, my attention is pulled to a flash of blonde and I look to my left.
Ransom stands before a park bench, a wide, slightly crooked smile on his lips. He laughs and grins and waves his hands all around, speaking animatedly, with excitement and liveliness I’ve never seen from him.
I follow his line of sight to a shiny, golden head of hair. I can’t see her face, can’t see any other part of her outside of the gorgeous shade of blonde money can’t buy.
My palms find the banister, latching on, my eyes sliding his way once more, and right as he points his grin to the sun in the distance.
He stands there, handsome without effort, the sunset creating a shadowy glow around him, making him appear gentle, vulnerable, unlike I know him to be.
His arms drop as he looks back to the girl.
His smile, it softens as he steps toward her, and he lifts a hand, cupping her face.
Something inside me tightens and twists, my brows digging in at the unexpected feeling. I push off of the cold cement and unlock my car door, quickly slipping inside.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I’m gasping behind the wheel.
My head falls back on the seat, but I lift it, slamming it back again because fuck. Something is wrong.
My stomach is queasy, my muscles suddenly too heavy for me to hold, but I don’t understand why. I was revived moments ago, enjoying my sister’s jokes and a massage and the lady had just taken our drink order. A steamy hot cappuccino was on its way.
I shake out my hands, but it does nothing, so I close my eyes, pull in a lungful of air, and when I open them, the weighted ache is gone.
I shift into gear and head home.
“Your mind is occupied.”
My fork falls to my plate, my head snapping toward Anthony.
At his smile, a short laugh escapes me, and I reach for my glass of water.
Talk about triggered by word choice.
And why, all of a sudden, do people seem to notice?
Nobody noticed before when I would stare off into space and answer with a single word or a fake smile. I would go as far as to say it was preferred. Who really cares to hear what’s on your mind when it’s not of benefit to the one forced to listen? No one, that’s who.
Really, they’re just annoyed they can’t read your mind.
It’s the quiet ones the people in this world of ours can’t handle as they’re so used to silence relating to sabotage.
It’s one of those ‘oh look at her sitting there, staring, watching, and studying. I wonder what she’s up to?’ And with the number of skeletons these people have waiting to come out of their closets, it could be anything, so, the uncertainty creeps in.
Anxiety, stress, and on the list goes.
It’s no wonder the pharmacy here is always out of Xanax.
“Sorry.” I dab at my mouth with a napkin and lie, “I’m a little tired is all.”
He nods, reaching for my hand, so I place it in his and he shifts his chair to face me better. “Does it scare you, being in your home knowing someone broke in while you were sleeping?”
