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I let out an audible groan. She laughs, and I smile. But if it means she’ll curl up next to me on the sofa, I’ll sit through it one more time. I could always catch up on my medical journals while she sniffles.
“Sideways? Or, no, I know! It’s still the holidays.” She snaps her fingers. “Let’s watchLove Actually.”
She breaks off a piece of croissant and drops it into her mouth. Her eyelashes flutter closed, and she lightly moans. God, I want to step up to her and share in that buttery goodness.
“DoesLove Actuallywork?” she prompts. I might have been staring.
“It’s good. Let me go change, and we can start up movies.”
“Do you have a crock pot?”
“Do I look like someone who would own a crock pot?” She sort of giggles, and my goofy smile breaks out. “Why?”
“Well, I thought I could put on a pot of chili.”
“I don’t have any of those ingredients.” But I have a full drawer of menus.
“Well, the grocery…”
“We’ll order lunch in. There are a couple of places nearby that were advertising they’re open for New Year’s.” Sunny’s lower lip pokes out, her signature dramatic pout. “Hey, gotta support the small businesses.”
“I think I need to make a point of stocking your refrigerator before I leave.”
“It would go to waste. I don’t cook.” Although, that isn’t completely true. The freezer holds a pack of chicken breasts and frozen smoothies from the health food center down the street.
She tucks a loose strand behind her ear. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it. I lean forward, closer to the breakfast bar. Her gaze falls to her plate.
“What is it?” She can say anything to me. I hope she knows that.
“Last night. John.” My muscles tense at the lounge owner’s name. “He said he’d love to have me come back and play. Like play a set one night. He said Sunday nights he does all acoustic.”
All my muscles relax. “You should totally do that. You enjoyed it, right?”
She lifts her eyebrows and looks at me like I must be out of my mind.
“I can already hear what people would say.” She adjusts her tone and feigns an annoying female. “Who does she think she is? Like she’s going to get a musical career at her age? Like people launch careers in Houston.”
“First, who gives a damn what they say?” I air quotetheyfor effect, but I have a vague idea of who qualifies from her perspective. “You’ve got one life. You live yours and let those folks live theirs. And two, why would anyone from back home know? None of those people venture to Houston. I’ve lived here for, what, ten years? I have yet to run into anyone from home.”
The faint chorus from the BeatlesBlackbirdechoes down the hall.
“My phone,” she says and jumps off the stool.
Her loose sweatpants fall lower on her hips with each step, exposing a slim riff of skin. I like that she used a Beatles song for her ringtone. I do, too, only mine isHere Comes the Sun, and my phone is always on vibrate.
She answers the phone in the guest room, and while I can’t hear exactly what she is saying, I can tell from her tone it isn’t good news. A few minutes later, she reenters the kitchen, holding her phone up against her waist, her expression pensive.
“What’s wrong?”
“Polly. I think I need to head back.”
Neither Ollie nor my dad are home, so I can’t get them to go check on her horse for her. “Who called?”
“Frank.”
I scowl. She’d said she wasn’t seeing anyone, not that I have a right to be upset if she is.
“He’s one of the ranch hands at your family ranch. Nice guy. He offered to swing by and check on her and feed her, since it’s on his way to work. She didn’t eat.”
