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“Trade,” he said, skittering back, holding the phone out behind him.
“Ugh. You’re such a fungus!” She threw the remote down on the carpet. He tossed the phone at her and dove for the remote. The phone bounced between her hands before she caught it, and the video game music started up again.
She pressed the cell to her ear, blocking her other ear with one finger.
“Brad?”
“Not likely,” said the cool voice on the other end.
A thunder started in her chest.
“How did you get my number?”
“Relax.” His tone went from cold to glacial. “My folks have caller ID. You called me.”
“Oh,” she said, cringing. Oh? She glanced quickly at her brother, then slipped out of the room and out of earshot. “Well, listen,” she said, groping for what she’d originally planned to say. “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t tell Brad about the number thing.”
“I wasn’t hitting on you,” he said, as if he was the one setting her straight. “If nothing else, you’re not my type.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Uh, yeah,” she said, trying to ignore the heat that crawled its way up her neck. She felt like throwing the phone against the wall and curling up to die all at the same time. Who did this guy think he was? “I never said I thought you were—”
“Well, someone felt threatened.”
“Look, I talked to him about it,” she said, the words coming out quick and jerky. She hated sounding so spastic, especially when he seemed so unconcerned. “He just gets like that.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter as long as he has you to make excuses for him.”
Now he was making her mad. “You know what—” But he didn’t let her finish.
“If you’re not bailing on the project, I’ll be at the main library tomorrow,” he said, his voice hushed. She could hear a crackle on the other end, like he was moving around. “After one.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“Christ,” he hissed, “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Isobel started to say fine, whatever, she’d meet him. She paused, though, at the sound of someone calling for him in the background—a man. “Never mind,” he snapped, “I’ll do it myself.” The line went dead.
Isobel bit down on the insides of her mouth hard. She drew the phone away from her ear and squeezed it. She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash the phone to pieces or cram it into the disposal.
“Turn it down,” she yelled to Danny as she stormed through the living room. “I’m going to bed!”
“I can’t hear you,” he shot over one shoulder.
She mounted the stairs, her steps pounding hard enough to skew the picture frames.
What exactly was his type, anyway? Bride of freaking Frankenstein?
4
Entitled
Isobel checked her cell for missed calls first thing the next morning.
None.
Texts? None.
