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My friends being the loudmouths they are, Mira has heard all about Daphne and our past. Before she moved in she offered, with an enthusiasm that made me want to lock myself in my room, to give me a makeover like in some eighties movie I’ve heretofore avoided watching. I’d like to keep up that trend.
It was embarrassing for obvious reasons, and also because I, like most people, would prefer for the people I find attractive not to think I’m unattractive.
“She’s got the use of one leg,” I tell him. “I don’t think she’ll be keen on the idea anymore.”
He snorts and runs a hand back through his hair. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, brother. She seems like the kind of woman who gets something into her mind and won’t let go. Like a pitbull.”
“I wouldn’t call her that to her face,” Shane says with a whistle. “I once called Ruthie that to her face, and she tried to hit me in the balls.”
“She was ten,” I say with a smirk.
“I took the threat seriously,” he says, straightening up as best as he can seeing as we’re sitting on the floor around the half-built record table, which looks more like a tank, if you ask me.
Leonard scoffs. “Do I look stupid to you? I’d never say that to a woman. Ten years old or a hundred and ten.”
They get into a discussion of whether Leonard does, in fact, look stupid, but my mind isn’t anchored in this room anymore. It’s moved on to thinking about Mira coming back.
Here’s an unexpected truth: I actually want her to. She was only here for a matter of hours on Monday, and I spent most of that time wanting her gone, but the apartment feels strangely empty without her. She has a certain frankness about her that I find appealing—a talent for cutting through the bullshit most people layer on like it’s whipped cream.
After the guys leave, I stay up late poking at the code for a local bank. There are so many ins getting inside would be as easy as pushing a pin into a cushion. I send them an email with the details from one of my junk accounts. If they try to figure out who I am, they’ll run up against a wall. I can’t help them, not right now, but someone else can.
Then an email comes in from Daphne:
Daniel—
I couldn’t believe it when they told me who was behind True Colors. It’s brilliant, Daniel. Everything we’re looking for in a survival game.
I very much look forward to seeing you again and catching up. There’s so much for us to discuss. Actually, I was wondering if you’d be willing to meet up outside of the office before the meeting. I’m traveling for the next two weeks, but what do you say we meet at Glitterati at 5:00 p.m. on Wednesday, November 17?
xx Daphne
My first thoughtisn’t excitement, even though she just reached out to me directly for the first time in eight years and sent me the same invitation I’d thought about making to her.
It’s that she’s asking me to meet at Mira’s bar.
Still, I reply to the email and tell her yes.
ChapterFour
Mira
My leg is stretched out in front of me on the backseat of Burke’s car. I stare it down like the traitor it is, and it doesn’t even do me the decency of staring back. My sister and her man picked me up from the hospital this morning. Thanks to Delia, who brought me toiletries and a long-sleeved red dress. I’m not wearing the outfit I came in with on Monday. This is also probably for the best because they scissored my favorite leggings off of me. If not for Delia, I would have been going home in nothing but a shirt. A statement, to be sure, but not one I’m in the mood to make.
I’m grateful for her help, but not grateful enough to agree to her final, heartfelt pitch for me to spend the next several weeks at their house.
“No means no, Delia,” I sigh out.
“You heard her, Sunshine,” Burke says, and takes a turn toward the apartment building. Thank goodness someone’s ears are working.
“I’m just worried,” my sister says, glancing back at me.
“Yes,” I agree. “We all know you’re worried.”
When Burke finally pulls up to the apartment building, miraculously finding a close space on the street, I glance out the window and straighten a little in my seat. Danny’s waiting out front, hands in his pocket, leaned up against the wall like a rangy James Dean. If James Dean only wore brown and taupe with his jeans. Something warms inside of me, seeing him standing against the side of the building, watching the road and completely missing the location of his friend’s car. He may be directionally challenged, but it’s sweet that he wants to be out here.
Well…presuming he’s not just waiting for delivery food.
“You ready?” Delia asks, looking back at me again.
