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It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, though I realized it a long time ago, I think. It just took time to come to the forefront of my mind and form into a coherent thought, not only a feeling in my soul.
Toni licks her fingers ungraciously. “Like love-love? Willing to go to the ends of the earth love? Willing to make a fool out of yourself love? That kinda love?”
“Yes,” I snap. “But I don’t know how to tell her.”
“I do.” She shrugs casually as if she’s not holding the key to my future happiness. “If you’re willing to risk it all for her. What do you say, Carson? Are you feeling lucky?”
“All right, Dirty Harry. What’s this idea of yours?” I ask. I should be careful. Toni comes up with some ridiculous things, but I really am that desperate.
“First, I have one question. Who’s Dirty Harry?”
“Feeling lucky?” I repeat, adding a little gruffness to my voice in an attempt at an impersonation.
“Yeah, like the Google search bar thing,” she explains, a world away from what I thought she meant.
“Right. Like that.” I nod, feeling old. Trying to stay on target, I ask, “Your idea?”
“Let me grab my phone, and then you do what I tell you to. We’ll have Jayme back in your arms in no time.” Toni lunges for the end table, smushing the chips and grabbing her phone with greasy fingers.
This is who I’m turning to for help.
I think I’m doomed.
CHAPTER 27
JAYME
“I came in like a breaking wall . . . all I wanted was to wreck your balls . . . all you ever did was bray-ay-ayk me.”
I sing into my spoon microphone from my kitchen counter stage in Taya’s kitchen. So what if I’m getting the lyrics all messed up? Who cares if I’m slurring words and flashing my ass to Taya as she loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher? And who cares if I sound like two alley cats fucking while I do it?
“Don’t quit your day job, bitch. Damn, you cannot sing a lick, and that’s coming from someone who appreciates a little autotune when needed.” Taya insults me and her own voice, which has never needed a lick of autotune, without missing a beat as she closes the dishwasher door. The slight vibration through the counter tickles my feet, and I dance around. It feels like an Irish Riverdance, but gauging from Taya’s slightly amused eyes, it must look more like I’m trying to kill a cockroach and missing with every step.
I sink to the counter, my legs askew and hanging ungracefully off the edge, one toward the counter stool and one foot in the wet sink. “Ew, I have a noodle between my toes.” I wiggle the aforementioned foot. “It’s icky.”
“No, you don’t,” Taya counters without looking. “I already washed down all the fettucine alfredo you didn’t eat.”
Taya swivels her head, daring me to argue with her. I can’t. I know I didn’t leave a single noodle on my plate. Hell, I might’ve even licked the parmesan cheesiness after I inhaled every noodle. Calories and cheese don’t count when you’re sad. It’s a PR rule. One I taught Taya, and she learned well, given that within minutes of my showing up on her doorstep unannounced and with tears in my eyes, she’d ordered takeout, poured me a mega pint of wine, and helped me out of my formal dress and into an oversized sweatshirt.
I hadn’t even known she’d be here. I’d planned to just invade her oceanfront home and wallow in my sadness.
“I fucked up, Taya.”
“Duh.”
“Hey!” I pout. “You’re supposed to say ‘no, you didn’t’ so I feel better.”
“You know I keep it real. That’s why you love me.” She leans back against the island, her arms crossed over her chest as she grins at me.
“Why are you smiling? Can’t you see I’m falling apart here?” I grab at my sweatshirt dramatically. Or I try to, but my hands slip drunkenly.
And as my balance is thrown off, so am I. I scrabble to grab the faucet to stop from tipping back off the counter. Thankfully, between my hand wrapping around the gooseneck and Taya firmly grabbing my ankle, I don’t bust my head on the tile floor.
Upside down, I see Carlo standing in the doorway and wave at him with my one free hand. “Hi, Carlo.”
I forgot he was here, if I’m honest. But he picked me up from the airport and drove me how he always does. Carlo is one of the few freelancers I work with when I need to travel, and he’s been with me on countless trips to dozens of locations, though he’s based out of Los Angeles. He’s much more than a driver, though. He’s more like a security-bouncer-assistant-jack of all trades. Plus, he never argues when I want to make a late-night drive-thru stop for greasy fries as long as he gets some too.
