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“I don’t know how you talk me into these things.” I juggle a bag of clothes and another containing my make-up and electronics.
“Yes, you do.” Layla grins and waits for me to settle inside. “You love me and love to indulge me.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes and slam the door shut.
The gorgeous blue sky is punctuated by puffy white clouds, which I should be enjoying on my balcony, but instead, I’ve come home to model for my best friend’s photo shoot. Coming back last week for my mom’s birthday party put me behind at work so I should buckle down to stay in my boss’s good graces, but Layla called, and I came running.
“Don’t roll your eyes. You’ll mess up your mascara.”
“How would I mess up my mascara?” The urge to roll my eyes again is powerful. So powerful that I must count to five to keep my face expressionless.
She tilts her head and puts the vehicle into drive. “Just don’t move your face.”
“Whatever.”
“How was the birthday party? I’m sorry I missed it.”
“It was good.”
“Is she mad?” Layla’s face falls as she stops for an older couple, giving them time to cross the street. After they pass, she waves and continues down the road.
“She’s fine. She had a great day.”
In bigger towns, people walking would have to travel to the nearest stoplight and wait for the walk light to turn green, but not in Meadow Bay. Here, the drivers wait.
“I couldn’t get away from work, and Mr. Campos needed a ride.” Layla has settled back into small-town life like she never left.
“I understand.”
“You understand?” She frowns and flips on the blinker. “Oh, my God, she’s mad, isn’t she?”
“Layla, calm down.” There’s no use. I roll my eyes at her dramatic response.
“I’m stopping on our way back and buying her flowers and a cake. I knew I should have told Mr. Campos I couldn’t drive him, but I didn’t want him getting his car out and taking it out on his own.” Mr. Campos is a 79-year-old man with cataracts and an expired driver’s license. And my do-gooder best friend lives to rescue people.
“She’s fine.” I pat her arm as she turns two streets away from the fire station. I brace my shoulders to prepare for any unwanted sightings of Cole or any of the other guys at the fire station. “You worry too much.” Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? I’m the one praying I don’t see Cole as we drive past his workplace.
“I’m still getting them.” Layla’s jaw shoots out with stubbornness. There’s no point in fighting with her now. She may be Ms. Suzie Sunshine, but when she digs her heels in, forget it; it’s like trying to move a boulder with a pedestal fan.
When my phone beeps, I slide it out of my bag.
Connor: I got roped into a homecoming thing. Can you help?
Me: Seriously? I don’t live here anymore.
Connor: Tough. I put you down as a volunteer.
Layla drives past an older man and a woman wearing casual wear, holding a paper map, and scanning the streets. Who has a paper map anymore? They aren’t locals, or they’d know Main Street leads to Murphy Street.
Me: Doing what?
When is homecoming? I frown while trying to calculate the days of the month. Crap. That’s next weekend.
Me: Tell them to find someone else. I’m busy.
Connor: Working?
Me: No.
