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An hour later,I’m sitting in Sullivan’s kitchen, sniffling after a good, solid cry.
I do not like confrontation. Or making people upset. Especially when I’m not sure what I did wrong.
Why was Sullivan’s dad suddenly so furious?
Was it just because I woke him up?
Granted, it was noon, but he wasn’t expecting anybody…maybe he works nights and that was like midnight to him. I haven’t even asked Sullivan what his dad does.
Maybe I should ask him right now? Maybe I should tell him what happened…it’s probably better if he hears it from me before he finds out from his dad…
Usually, I’d call Martinique in this sort of situation, but I’m worried about awkward questions. She’s going to wonder why Sullivan didn’t introduce me to his dad in the first place, and even more, why said father wasn’t informed that I exist.
Plus, it’s unsatisfying asking Martinique for advice when I can’t tell her what’s really going on. Even the smallest fibs to my best friend make me feel like shit.
I glance at my phone, imagining Sullivan saying hello in the way he does, like we’re already in the middle of a conversation, like he was just waiting for me to call…
On impulse, I snatch up the phone and press his number.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless, “is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer automatically, though it isn’t at all, “everything’s great.”
“Did the groceries arrive?”
“Yup—I put them in the fridge.”
“Not the ice cream, I hope…”
“Ice cream’s in the freezer—I learned that much at school before I dropped out.”
Sullivan laughs, and it feels like someone set a heating pad on the center of my chest.
Distantly, an angry voice snarls, “Take your time, Sullivan…”
My shoulders stiffen, and I clutch the phone to my ear. “Do you need to go?”
“Nah,” Sullivan says. “I can talk.”
“I don’t have all fucking day…”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me,” he says, and I hear shoes against pavement as he walks a little farther away, “it’s better if he has a minute to cool off. We’re not quite seeing eye to eye on this deal.”
“Sounds like your job’s about as fun as mine.”
Sullivan’s chuckle is a fingertip stroking down my spine.
“You’re not the only one trying to climb out of the shit, Theo.”
I’ve never particularly loved my name—it’s boyish, and the only famous Theodore is that chubby little chipmunk. Plus, Teddy Roosevelt, I guess.
The point is, only one person has ever made my name sound sexy.
Sullivan saysTheowith an intoxicating intimacy, like he knows everything about me, like we’ve always been friends.
