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“Oh?” he said, bushy gray eyebrows shooting up.
I’d flown out to Philly to visit my dad here and planned to stay through tomorrow. But the truth was I felt like a kid with a shiny new toy at home. Part of me wondered if she’d still even be there when I got back. I’d spent my life chasing the things other people wanted. Success. Money. Fame. I’d walked away from one failed relationship and one more empty career for it. And what did I have to show?
Things and stress. Everything except the satisfaction of writing the book had been an illusion not worth chasing. Lately, more things started looking like smoke to me—as if reaching out to grab them would only make them explode into fading wisps.
Except she seemed real. Solid. Kenzie was something concrete to hold onto, and even being in the same room as her was drug-like. I felt grounded again. She was interesting. A delightful little taste of unpredictability and intrigue. She was just as likely to snap at me as she was to smile, and I was already tempted to go back and spar some more with her.
“Just a work thing,” I said.
“Your work is putting words on a laptop, Sebastian. Why the hell do you need to be home to do that?”
“It’s more complicated than that. I’ve explained it to you.”
My dad sighed. “It’s not, son. You’re playing pretend for a living. You know, I talked to Brandon and Paul last week. They said you were one of the best businessmen they ever worked with. They’d still bring you back in. Brandon is branching out with a new venture and said he could really use you—”
“No,” I snapped. I didn’t always let my father’s dismissal of my writing get to me, but the combination of my writer’s block and his attitude wasn’t sitting well with me. The blood in my veins felt hot and I couldn’t stop my fists from clenching tight on the chair. “You may think it’s bullshit, but it matters to me. It’s important to me. More than anything else.”
My dad’s face fell. “And that’s exactly your problem, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have time for this,” I said, standing suddenly.
“Good. You were blocking my view, anyway.” He got a look on his face, smirking and looking past me.
I turned to see what he was staring at. Cheryl and Meryl were leaning forward with their palms on the table and their bath-robe clad asses sticking out towards us. Cheryl looked over her shoulder and gave me and my dad a wink.
“Ugh,” I said.
“Just you wait,” my dad said. “One day, you’ll be seventy-five. And when you’re seventy-five, well, I guess you’ll find a nice old man with a tight ass and—”
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw I had a text from an unknown number.
* * *
Sebastian, I got your number from the butler. Yes, he is a butler. Also, this is Kenzie. And, uh. There’s a slight problem. But don’t freak out about it. Just wondering if Mr. Meatball has any favorite hiding spots? I’m only asking because I think he wants to play hide and seek and I want every advantage I can get. Don’t get worried.
You’re a jerk,
Kenzie
Sent from my Razor flip phone
* * *
First of all, who the hell writes a text in letter format? And did she sign her letter, “you’re a jerk”?
“Why are you grinning?” My dad asked. “Are you watching the pool boy on your security cameras or something?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, not looking up.
Wait. Did Kenzie lose my fucking cat?
“I’ve got to go,” I said, grabbing my coat and getting up.
“Give that boy a raise,” My dad called after me. “He certainly gave you one!”
17
Kenzie
It was Saturday morning and I’d just faked a calm mood through my visit with Dr. Willows. She came by every few hours to check on me. Judging by her demeanor, I thought Sebastian was sending her at gunpoint. She agreed I wasn’t showing any signs of a concussion or any concerning symptoms, but kept coming back all the same. Once she left, I resumed my twelve-hour search for Mr. Meatball.
I had a little less than a day before Sebastian was due back, and if I didn’t find this cat, I was dead.
Last night, I’d had one too many chocolate milks and sent a stupid text to Sebastian. And yes, chocolate milk and I had a bad history. It wasn’t an abusive history like the one I had with broccoli. It was more like a toxic relationship. Literally. For starters, I was lactose intolerant. But I loved the stuff so much that when I was really feeling low, I couldn’t resist its silky sweet call.
So I’d downed two glasses before the gurgles set in. By the time I texted Sebastian, I wasn’t seeing straight anymore. The chocolate milk had hit my stomach and was already making escape plans. The exit lights were lit, and someone had yelled “fire.” My digestive tract was no Alcatraz, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the inmates found their way out, one way or another.
