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“You free to meet me there tonight?” she asked. "I could text you the details."
“Yes,” I said a little too quickly, then cleared my throat to add more calmly, “That sounds good.”
Sage laughed again. The sound was lower and softer, and I imagined the smile that went with it. It would be small, with her mouth parted slightly. I was going to get to see that tonight. I was going to see every stage of her blooming laughter. Reality had never had me this giddy before.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Sage said.
“Can’t wait.” I winced at my perky voice and hung up before she could offer a teasing remark.
“Did she just ask you out? The girl you’ve hated since college asked you out?”
I hid my face in my hands. “Yes, and I sounded so…"
"Fucked," Amaya said with a laugh. She didn't look even the slightest bit disapproving. "You are a goner. You're fucked."
"God, I am." I groaned.
"Good for you," she said seriously. "Anyone who makes you smile like that deserves a second chance."
I peek through my fingers, shocked. "You don't give those."
"Correct. But for you, I'll always make an exception."
"Are you just saying that because you want me to do your hair before you leave?"
Her hesitation made me snort and shove her.
"Only partly." Amaya laughed. "Come on, you know I'm this close to having a bald spot from last time. You're the only person who doesn't make my braids too tight."
"Fine." I sighed dramatically. "I'll do it if you promise to help me get ready for tonight…and let me wear that dress you got from France."
She groaned. "Deal. But you better not spill anything on it, or so help me God, you'll be my hairstylist for the rest of our lives."
"Seems fair enough."
The Treehouse was on the opposite side of town, making the drive far longer than my hand was used to. By the time I pulled into the packed parking lot, my wrist throbbed with a vengeance. It was the longest the pain had lasted, and the hardest I've tried to ignore it.
I knocked back a painkiller before getting out of my car. It'd take about a half hour to kick in, and I was going to push through every minute.
You got this. It's like conditioning.
I was training myself to be stronger, like a runner in a marathon. There were so many artists like Sage who had my workload and got through it with little to no pain. My wrists needed to build up strength. My body—along with my mind—needed to build up endurance. I needed to make this work.
My phone vibrated with a call. When I saw the ID, I almost didn't pick it up. But after a quick scan of The Treehouse's entrance and no new messages in my text thread with Sage, I figured I had a minute to spare.
"Hey, you didn't call this morning." I leaned against the car as I spoke.
"Your Dad stopped by," Mom said, sounding out of breath on the other end. "He's still here and you're on speaker, say hi!"
I laughed at her excited energy. "Hi, Dad."
"Hi, Noah," he sang my name, drawing out the syllables like they were a lullaby. "How are you?"
"I'm good–"
"I was just telling him about your little comic," Mom interrupted.
My jaw tightened at the word "little." Little comic was what kindergarteners made during art class. It was what dinner guests created when someone wanted to play Pictionary.
