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Willow shifts to face me, arms crossed in a no-nonsense manner. “We need a favor.”
More words I hate. “A favor,” I repeat, mentally flicking through the file in my brain where I store pre-prepared polite refusals. “Gotta give you credit. Most people don’t bother with the small talk before asking for tickets to a game.”
It’s a joke—mostly—but Willow doesn't take it as one. Brows pinched, her head quirks to one side. “That’s sad.”
That’s life.
“We don’t want tickets,” she clarifies before amending. “Well, August probably does but he can beg for himself.”
I stow that piece of information somewhere safe for another day. “He need a ride home or something?”
“Luna’s got him for the day.” A pause. Then, “She invited us to your little birthday party.”
Of course she did. I doubt there’s a person alive who isn’t invited to the celebration I don’t want, nor do I care about.
“I wanna go,” Willow continues. “August wants to go. Sunday, however, thinks it’ll be weird.”
I can’t say I completely disagree with that but still, I shrug. “I don’t care if she comes.”
“Once more with feeling.”
I slide Willow an unamused look that she meets with a wide smile, the stretch of her mouth just an inch shy of demonic. “Is this the favor? You want me to tell her to come?”
“Oh, she’ll go. She couldn’t say no to August to save her life. I just want you to not make her feel like shit while she’s there.”
Is this gonna be a regular thing? You making me feel like shit?
I wince as the ghost of Sunday’s voice echoes in my ears. Hearing that from her lips made me feel fucking terrible but hearing it from Willow’s is someone worse. Like additional confirmation I didn’t need that I was, in fact, being an asshole. “I—”
“—would never?” She cocks her head. “Forgive me for not believing that.”
“I apologized,” is what I was actually going to say, but that doesn’t seem to land any better.
“That’s nice.” Willow pats my arm, a patronizing move I can’t in good confidence say I don’t deserve. “But actions speak louder than words, don’t you think?”
* * *
It’s funny how my brain had such qualms with texting Sunday yet as I stand outside her apartment, it urges me to knock.
A Tupperware of soup burns the palms of my hands.Soup, for fuck’s sake. A peace offering disguised as noodles swimming in broth. Handmade by me because my usual ways of working out stress are off-limits and the kitchen is one of the few places I can’t get myself into trouble.
I feel like a creep. I feel pretty damn pathetic too, and I imagine once I work up the courage to raise knuckles to wood,unwantedis going to join the list.
When I finally manage to locate my courage, the three quick raps are answered almost immediately by a muffled‘coming’.As the door opens, I’m expecting a range of reactions. Definitely a scowl. Possibly wood being slammed in my face. A few curses, more than likely.
Not once do I anticipate a tired smile and a throaty laugh.
Shaking her head, Sunday leans against the door. “I thought I was the one stalking you.”
A surprised blink is my only reaction to the unexpected but definitely deserved quip. “It’s called a wellness check, sunshine.”
Stormy eyes narrow at the nickname like I knew they would. “I’m well,” she drawls. “Check over.”
I snort as I flick my gaze down the length of her, taking in all five-foot-nothing worthy of a decidedly unwell woman. Hair scraped back in a bun and wearing a stained tracksuit, she’s the dullest I’ve ever seen her. “You look like death warmed over.”
“I think my southern charm is rubbing off on you.”
“I think you should let me in before this soup gets cold.”
