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She’s had a rough night, and my actions have only made it worse.
“You’re right. You’re over it. It’s time I do the same.”
She clears her throat. “Let’s be friends, okay?”
“I can’t be your friend.”
“I understand.”
She gives me a quick nod before opening the door, ending our conversation. She’s gone, rushing up the sidewalk to the front porch before I have the chance to say her name. I stay parked until she disappears into the house, and my phone rings before I shift my truck into reverse. My stomach churns when I see the number, and I accept the call, though I know it’s a terrible idea.
I’ve already hashed it out with one woman who ruined me tonight, so might as well do it with the other.
“You have a collect call from … Missy from the Cook County Department of Corrections.”
My fingers fist around the phone at the sound of her voice.
“Do you accept the call and any charges that can occur?”
“I accept,” I grit out.
I don’t wait for her to mutter a hello when the call is processed. She doesn’t deserve that. Hell, she doesn’t deserve a second of my time.
“I told you to quit fucking call me.”
“Gage!” she yells on the line. “Please! Please listen to me for one minute! I want you to hear me out for once.”
“Nothing you say will ever make me forgive you. Don’t call again.”
Click.
The phone rings again. Same number.
Decline.
I whisper to the darkness, “I fucking hate you, Missy.”
Nine
Lauren
“Someone came home late.”My mom slides me a glass of orange juice across the kitchen table before placing two Advils next to it. “You look like you had a little too much fun at your brother’s party last night.” Her hands rest on her hips. “I know you like to keep up with the boys, honey, but you’re much smaller than them. Alcohol hits you harder.”
I wave away her warning. “Psh, I can drink them under the table.”
“That’s my girl.”
I grin at the sound of Dad’s voice as he comes strolling into the kitchen.
“Where’s your car, Laur-Bear?” he asks. “I planned on changing the oil today.”
“At the pub,” I answer. “I didn’t feel like driving last night.”
“The pub?” my mom repeats. “Who took you home?” The expression on her face tells me she already knows the answer.
My mother is the gossip queen of Blue Beech, and I have a love-hate relationship with that hobby of hers. It’s all fun and games until the gossip spread is about you.
“I see you still excel at spying on your children,” I mutter into my glass before taking a sip and popping the pills. “Even when they’re grown.” An omelet is placed in front of me next.
