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And, God, had it been amazing …
I wished I could go back. I wished I could do it again, maybe even do things differently. We had made a connection apart from the sex. I knew he’d felt it, too, and if I could go back, I would’ve at least left him my email address. Just to keep that door open instead of slamming it shut before we were even allowed to make ourselves comfortable inside.
I sighed mournfully and plopped my cheek onto my fist. Mom nudged my thigh with her toe.
“Are you ever going to tell me what you’re moping about, or is this just the new you?”
My laugh didn’t hold an ounce of humor. “I dunno,” I said. “I’m just sick of everything, I guess.”
“Sick of me?”
Lifting my lips in a rueful smile, I replied, “Never.”
“Sick of Dad?”
“Oh my God, you know I’m not.”
“What about Connor?” she asked, bringing my fun but delinquent brother into the conversation.
“Oh, please. I’m always sick of his crap.”
She laughed, a fond smile stretching across her face. “Yeah, we all are.”
Sighing, I turned from James Spader and whatever craziness he was getting up to on TV and said, “I’m not sick of you guys. I’m just tired of my life feeling … stale. Like, I’m almost thirty years old, and my existence is no different now than it was when I was in high school.”
Mom looked away and nodded softly. Understanding sat heavily against her sagging shoulders as she sighed. “I know it’s frustrating,” she commiserated, and I believed her.
Nobody was a bigger advocate for me than my mother, and I knew she felt just as fed up with the world and its lack of accommodations as I did. But compassion alone changed nothing, and I sighed and told her it was fine, that I would be fine, and she smiled even though neither of us fully believed it.
Tarryn called a few minutes later, and I excused myself fromThe Blacklistto hurry upstairs to my room.
“Hey,” I said, closing the door behind me. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the audition of your dreams or something?”
“I am,” she whispered. “But I’m not up for another ten minutes or so, and I couldn’t wait to call you.”
“You just missed my voice that much?” I asked with a dreamy sigh.
“Yeah, that’s it,” she muttered. “Well, that and the fact that I just got a call you might be interested in.”
Ernest, the black munchkin cat I’d adopted six years ago, looked up from his favorite spot on the bed with his one eye, scowling like I had some nerve, disturbing his slumber.
I scratched behind his ear and convinced him to purr as I replied, “Oh, really? And what call might that be?”
The last time Tarryn had thought I’d be interested in something was when she received the news from her agent that she would be presenting an award with Dylan Pierce. And she was absolutely correct; I had beenveryinterested in that call.
“My agent just got a message from Mitch Stewart. Does that name ring a bell?”
Narrowing my eyes toward my desk and the thirteen or so empty water bottles that hadn’t yet made their way to the recycle bin, I thought how familiar the name was, yet I couldn’t place it.
Mitch…
Where had I heard that before?
“I don’t know … maybe?”
“Mitch, I need some Shake Shack, and I need it now.”
“Oh my God. Wait.”
