“No. I’m fine. Thanks for asking, friend.” She smiles before looking down at the napkins. “The world needs more men like you.”
“Convince Molly of that.”
She looks up and laughs. “I’m never gonna understand your infatuation with her. Never.”
“And I’m never gonna understand why you’d even breathe the same air as Logan.” I signal goodbye and head to the door. “Add my drink to my tab. And that twenty for the gas unless you accidentally forget. That’s cool too.”
“Goodbye, Peck.”
I keep my head down to avoid the sun as I step back outside. I can completely understand why Dylan called me a jackass now. She thinks I’m Logan. Navie and Logan? Makes me sick. That’s not even being lonely. That’s being … stupid.
A grin splits my cheeks as I imagine the look on Dylan’s face when she realizes her mistake. A chuckle rumbles past my lips as I consider the reaction of that little spitfire when that happens because it will. Linton is too small of a town for it not to.
Trudging along the sidewalk, my mind goes to the text I got from Nana earlier about coming over for dinner. I told her I’d be by, partly because I love fried chicken and partly because I can’t tell her no.
But as I climb in my car, I do some quick math. I can be at Nana’s in ten minutes, and she’s expecting me in about twenty. I start to take off when I see Navie’s car tucked in behind Crave.
“I’ve been late before,” I grumble and head the opposite way of Nana’s.
Three
Dylan
“That hurts.”
I wince. My little toe that’s silently screaming for assistance is swollen. It’s a shade of red like it’s been slapped … or taken a sucker punch from the corner of my suitcase, which is what actually happened.
“Darn thing,” I groan. Hobbling over to the sofa, I collapse against a pile of pillows. There’s one covered in pink sequins, and another that’s a soft, bright yellow that looks like it’s been crocheted. Next to that is my personal favorite—a blue, almost water-like design that evokes serenity.
Usually. My throbbing toe kind of supersedes the Zen.
Navie’s apartment is small but cute as a button. There’s an abstract painting of what I think is a farm over the couch, and a lime green and gray rug that stretches across the living room. A diffuser sits on the little round table in the area that’s probably pitched as a dining room slash breakfast nook.
I hold my toe and work it back and forth. The pain burns at first and slowly subsides as I tend to it. Sinking back into the pillows, I fill my lungs with oxygen. They inflate … effortlessly, which is a surprise.
There has been a tightness in my chest for as long as I can remember.
Stress, the doctor said. What in your life is stressing you this much, Ms. Snow?
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that it’s falling apart.
I sat on the examination table—an appointment I only made because Navie made me swear I would go—and looked at him blankly. Wouldn’t it be an easier question to answer if he asked me what isn’t causing me stress?
Surely, this was normal. That’s what I kept telling Navie. Doesn’t everyone walk around with pain in their shoulders and their chest squeezed so tight that they can barely breathe at least twice a week? Aren’t panic attacks normal when your boyfriend leaves you for his ex-fiancée and your mother basically makes you earn her love?
Apparently not. And this whole breathing easy thing is everything they said it would be. It’s definitely something I could get used to.
Closing my eyes, I feel the muscles in my body give in. The tightness that’s become second nature starts to relax when my phone rings.
“Crap,” I say, eyeing the contents of my suitcase strewn around the room.
I hop up and dig through the clothes that will get me through until the moving truck delivers the rest of my stuff. Finally, under a tee shirt with a pair of lips painted on the front, I spy the phone.
“Hey,” I say, testing my weight on my toe.
“You doing okay?” Navie asks.
“Yup. It’s been a very eventful afternoon.”
She sighs. “That worries me.”
Laughing, I retake my spot on the couch. “Don’t be worried. It’s fine. My toe isn’t broken, and Logan was effectively put in his place.”
“What did you do, Dylan?”
I twirl a strand of hair around my finger and smile. “I might have gotten bored, and I might have just happened to see a sign for Dave’s Farm Stand or whatever it is. And then maybe I wanted to see if he had any produce—”
“You did not.”
“Or I remembered that you said Logan worked out there sometimes and helped Dave, whoever he is, work on trucks and farm … shit. So I took a look.” I shrug. “I can’t help it that fate decided Logan and I should meet. He was just standing there, so-to-speak, when I arrived.”
“Fate didn’t decide that. You did,” she deadpans.
“I’d rather be karma than fate. Anyway, I did my greatest Best Friend Fuck You speech, and he promised to stay away from you and bring back your pots and pans. I think that’s a total win. You can thank me later.”
I pluck at the hem of my shirt. How nice would it be to be karma? To have the powers of justice and fairness? That might be better than endless tacos.
A girl can dream.
“You know,” Navie says, “I don’t even think I want the shit back. I’d rather just forget he exists at all.”
“I’ve had those.”
“Had those what?”
“Those guys you wish didn’t exist.” I drop the edge of my shirt. “Case in point: Charlie. I’d rather forget that I was left after committing a year to a relationship because he realized that he didn’t love me—that he couldn’t possibly love me because he truly loves Vanessa.” I sigh. “Or take this one guy I dated once. Super cute. Looked hygienic. Paid for dinner and let me pick some movies. But there was this one night,” I say, feeling my stomach rumble as the memory comes back to me. “I got up in the middle of the night to pee and legit stepped in his urine. The dude sprayed all over the floor, and it was on my foot.”
Navie makes a gagging noise, and I try not to throw up in my mouth.
“I wish I could forget they both exist,” I say, fighting off a shiver.
“I bet you do. That’s how I feel about Logan. I didn’t even really like him. I’m just pissed off he took my kitchen utensils and then ghosted me. He was just a stupid fling. I don’t know what I saw in him in the first place.”
Logan’s face flutters through my mind. His bright blue eyes and almost shy, yet mischievous smile light a bubble of excitement in my stomach.
I snort. “I do,” I say before I can catch myself.
“What?”
“I saw him. He’s cute, Navie.”
“Dylan …”
“I mean, he’s an asshole,” I say, getting to my feet. “We know that. But it’s not hard to see why you took him up on whatever offer he threw down.”
She groans. “He’s not that cute. I have guys in the bar every night cuter than him.”
“Then I think it’s time that I accompany you to work.”
“Not tonight,” she says. “Machlan just left, and I’m here alone. I can’t protect the men from you.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. See ya when you get home.”
“Adios.”
I end the call and toss my phone onto the couch. The apartment is ridiculously quiet—even quieter than my apartment in Indiana. There are no neighbors fighting or talk shows seeping through the walls. Heck, there’s not even the smell of burnt pizza. Everything is just … still.
It’s very Navie, very calm-in-the-storm. She always has a way of doing that. Riots and chaos can be going on, and Navie is the one in the middle doing yoga.
We met on the first day of kindergarten and bonded over chocolate pudding as finger paint. We were virtually inseparable until she left to come here.
I was devastated when she l
eft, but I understood. If my family is difficult, hers is toxic. Seeing her so happy and adjusted here makes the months I spent without her okay. I’m just glad to be here with her, my only real friend, now too.
I study the length and try to guess how many steps it would take to get from one to the other when a movement catches my eye outside the window. I slink over to the curtain.
Logan walks up to the front door with a big box in his hand.
“Victory is mine,” I whisper as I reach for the door handle. I yank it open. “Well, hello there.”
He grins over the top of the box. His teeth are white and straight, his hat pulled down over his forehead.
“I was going to leave this here,” he says, tapping on a box of pots and pans.
He’s the enemy, Dylan. Be strong.
He shoves the box toward me. “Since you opened the door, here you go.”
I take the box and set it inside. I should flash him a tight smile and close the door, but I’m only human. Besides, I’m not the queen of karma, so I should probably have manners.
For karma’s sake.
“I’m happy to see you bringing those by,” I say, clearing my throat. “Even though they aren’t her old ones, they’ll do.”
“I couldn’t find the old ones.”
“Pawned them.”
He fights a laugh. “I’m doing the best I can here, okay?”
I lean against the doorframe and take him in. He’s so disarming with his blond hair poking out the sides of his cap and tall, lanky frame. And no man should have lashes that long. It’s just not fair.
But it is proof that everyone is a disappointment. I’ve speculated for years that no one actually cares about other people anymore, and this Logan thing proves it. By looking at him, you’d think he was the kind boy-next-door type when, in reality, he’s a hedonistic jerk. It’s very disappointing.
It’s either that, or I set my standards way too high.
Like top of the ozone layer too high.
“Navie will appreciate you being a man about this after all,” I say.
“Yup. Logan is a real winner.”
I arch my brow. “Third person? Really?”
“I didn’t take the pots and pans, Dylan,” he says with a sigh.
“Then what happened to them? A burglar broke in and ignored the television and her computer and the cookie jar of cash that probably holds thirty bucks, but still? Not plausible, Logan. But why you’d want them, I don’t know. Was it to get back at her in a way she’d think about every day? Is that it? Are you so in love with her—”
“With Navie?”
“Obviously.”
He laughs. “No. She’s like my sister.”
My brain scrambles. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Forcing a swallow, I eye him carefully. “I have a lot of questions as to why you’d sleep with someone who’s like your sister and then steal from her, but I’m not sure I want the answers.”
“Good,” he says, leaning forward. “Because if I start giving you answers, you’re gonna feel really stupid, and I don’t want to see your pretty little face all scrunched up in embarrassment.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
He shrugs, the corner of his lips tugging to the sky.
He’s lit from behind by the setting sun and a sky full of vibrant rays. It’s like he’s the center of a painting, the star of a poster from some Hollywood romantic comedy, and I can barely take it.
I have to look away.
And berate myself for thinking this about a guy who screwed over my friend.
“I forgot your Jack,” he says. “I can bring it by later. Thinking maybe you need it.”
“Nah, I’m good, Chef Boyardee. I shouldn’t drink anyway. Drinking puts me in all my feels, and that’s not the place for a sane girl to be.”
“You mean you’re sane?” he teases.
I level my gaze with his and try not to laugh. “Yup. You don’t even want to see me really mad.”
“Does smoke come out of your ears and everything?”
“Yup.”
We both struggle to keep a straight face. In seconds, we’re laughing.
The sound of our voices mixing together sets a too-comfortable ambiance on Navie’s front porch. It shouldn’t be this easy to be friendly with Logan, and I shouldn’t be questioning how he could possibly be such a jerk to Navie, but I am.
I’m a traitor.
A traitor who can’t quit talking.
“Did you get that truck done?” I ask.
“Yup. And I paid the guy back for the gas. Just mentioning that so you don’t think I’m a thief.”
“But you are. You know, pots and pans.”
He takes his hat off and scratches the top of his head. “But I brought the pans back and paid for the gas. So maybe I’m a good thief like the good witch in the Wizard of Oz.”
“She was still a witch,” I say.
“But pretty in that pink dress. It was pink, right? It’s been a while.”
He moves to put the hat back on. The air comes alive with his cologne. It’s aromatic with an aquatic, slightly woodsy hint that barrels through my veins and makes my brain foggy.
Glancing at his watch, he frowns. “I gotta be hitting the road.”
“Hot date?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and grins. “Yup.”
My stomach flip flops as I take a step back toward the door. The logical part of my brain tells me that this is a good thing—that he’ll be leaving Navie alone—but the female part of my brain, the one that favors charisma and looks over sensible actions, is kind of sad.
“My date tonight makes the best cheeseball in the world. She puts extra bacon in it just for me, and word on the street is that she made fried chicken. It’s the best,” he adds. His eyes twinkle as he describes the night waiting for him.
“Good. I need to get going too,” I say, jamming a finger behind me. “I have to, you know … make sure all of my stuff is ready to move and all that.”
“Where ya movin’?”
“I’m renting a house on Vine Street. Just waiting on the tenants to get out. They were supposed to be out last week, but the landlord had a hard time getting them to go, so now I have to wait.”
He nods. “Cool. Well, if you need anything done around there, I know people who’ll work for cheap.”
“Thanks.”
“Now I gotta get going, or Nana will be pissed.”
“Nana?” I say as he heads down the sidewalk. “What kind of name is that?”
He smiles before climbing in his truck. The engine starts before he rolls the window down.
“Don’t forget to give Navie the pots and pans,” he says.
“I will.”
“And if you get a hankering for fried chicken, I know a grandma who loves to feed people. It’s one of Nana’s best recipes.”
My mouth drops open. “You just ghosted my best friend, and you’re inviting me to dinner? With your grandmother, no less.”
Even though I’m quietly thrilled Nana is his grandmother and not some exotic beauty, I feign indifference.
“Sorry,” he says, revving his engine. “I forgot about all that ghosting thing.”
“You’re a bastard, Logan.”
His laughter is loud as he backs down the driveway. He waves from the street before his tires bark as he pulls away.
I go back inside and close the door behind me. Venturing into the kitchen, I spy a shirt slung over the back of a chair. Navie tossed Logan’s shirt there this morning as she complained about not being able to make breakfast.
Glancing back at the door, I try to imagine Logan screwing Navie over like that.
It’s hard to imagine him being such a dick. He seems so … I grin before I can even get the words into a coherent thought.
“Face the facts,” I say as I pick up the shirt. “He’s a troll like Navie said.”
I toss the shirt into the trash can.
And force myself not to take
it back out.
Four
Dylan
“I am an adult, for heaven’s sake.”
Glancing at the pile of paperwork in front of me—bills that need paid, papers that need my signature, and a budget that I need to peruse to remind myself of its existence—I do the logical thing: I fall back on the floor, sending papers flying in the air, and think happy thoughts.
Happy thoughts that, by definition, don’t include adultish things.
“I need a grown-up,” I moan.
I think back to my last birthday, the one where I turned twenty-nine, and how I thought this would be the year I got myself together. The year I felt like I knew how to handle all the things. Life. Paperwork. Insurance.
Instead, I’m camping out on Navie’s couch at two in the morning while she’s at work, and I’m killing time. I don’t even have my own place yet and am living out of a suitcase and a duffel bag.
I might never reach adult status when it comes to all the things.
I gasp as the front door pushes open. The only available weapon close by is a tube of mascara. I grab it and hold it in front of me as Navie walks in.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I say, blowing out a breath.
“Sorry. I just live here.” She shoots me a tired smile before dropping her purse on the table. “And what were you going to do with that?” One of her fingers makes a slow circle in the air as it points to the mascara in my hand.
I drop it.
“Um, maybe poke the intruder in the eye,” I offer with a sheepish shrug. “That’s a solid plan. Right?”
She nods like I’m crazy. “Sure. Or you could’ve smothered him in all those papers. What on earth are you doing?”
Grabbing the closest paper to me, I take a look at it. “Sorting my life.”
“I hope it’s going better than it looks.”
“It is. Kind of.” I peruse the financial data on the paper I’m holding. “According to this, I’m doing great at living on a budget. Well, except for this one little line item.”
“Eating out?”
“Kind of. I call it the HAS Line,” I say.
“Has? Like, you has to have it?”
Gibson Boys Box Set Page 100
