He’s quiet for a beat then clears his throat again. “I see. Well, I guess I should have tried harder when we first met. I was under the impression you were unattached and thought perhaps we could, well, it doesn’t really matter now. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
I almost feel bad for the guy.
Or at least I would if he didn’t send my creep alarm into a tizzy.
“No bother. I’m sorry you wasted your time.”
“Not a complete waste. See you Monday, Leonor.” Then he hangs up.
Weird. So fucking weird.
I need to talk to the boys.
Not about my first phone call, maybe never about that, but I want to talk to them about the second, and definitely about why Pete parted with his model GTO. That’s giving me more anxiety than Collinsworth did.
Heading back inside, I shake off all my negative thoughts the best I can and try to force myself to look forward to cooking the rest of the dinner I keep trying to make for the boys.
I strip off my jeans and T-shirt, leaving a trail of clothing as I head to the bathroom to make sure I’m not wearing those phone calls on my face. I pat a little cold water on my cheeks in order to hide the fact that I was almost crying. Not that it matters, they’ll know anyway but I’m making an effort and that’s what counts.
After fixing my face and hair, I walk over to my dresser and pull out tank top and yoga shorts, then smile when I see Lucky’s super organized stacks of clothes on top of it.
I wonder if I should look into another dresser or something?
I don’t have a closet and now I don’t have any extra drawer space because Pete, Mark and Norm have all started keeping clothes here, too. If they’re going to be at my loft as much as they have been, I’ll need to figure out giving them their own space, especially Lucky. It’s only a matter of time before his OCD dictates it’s not ok for his clothes to be in neat piles on top of something that is supposed to hold them, or that it’s problematic for them to be touching Mark’s underwear or Norm’s socks.
I really love how much of my space he occupies, though. Which has become a lot because Lucky is a few trips away from essentially moving in with me at this point, and I’m surprisingly not terrified of that.
Looking around my room and seeing him scattered throughout it helps with that.
Two pairs of solid black Chucks—one high top, one low—sitting perfectly straight in front of the nightstand.
The charger for his phone is plugged in next to his keys and wallet, all in a tidy row a few inches from the edge of the tabletop.
There’s a pair of his gray sweats folded meticulously and set on top of his pillows, he sleeps with two and brought them from his place the second night he stayed.
Lucky’s cologne, toothbrush and deodorant are on the counter in the bathroom, his shampoo and conditioner are in my shower. He uses my body wash and I’m pretty sure my lotion, too, and I’m not about to be the one to tell him the boys are using his shit because none of them have planned accordingly for so many sleepovers.
Downstairs, Lucky’s added several of his books to my already vast collection, brought over a couple of his favorite throw blankets—both of which I bought for him years ago—and on our most recent trip to his place because they make me tagalong everywhere now, he brought back his dad’s drumsticks.
Lucky doesn’t use them but they were the pair he learned to play with, and his dad gave them to him when he got his first kit. They’re sitting on the mantel shelf under the TV next to framed vinyls of our first and only two albums, the three framed set lists from the first shows of each of our tours, and the first promo photo ever published of the five of us.
All of those were packed away until Norm dug them out and put them up, and that wasn’t as scary as I thought it’d be, either.
My loft finally feels like a real home because of them.
If they’re not careful, I won’t ever let them leave.
Realizing I’m wasting lots of time and probably going to burn dinner, I quickly head down the stairs and start talking to whoever is around. “Hey, so guess who I was just?—"
Damn near tripping over my feet, I make it halfway around the spiral when the heavy opening baseline fromMiss Murderby AFI blasts through the amps now set up in my living room, blaring so loudly I might end up seeing Jesse sooner than that cup of coffee I wasn’t going to have with her.
My heart starts slamming into my rib cage as I slowly finish my descent, now clearly seeing that the boys were doing way more than just waiting for me to finish dinner while I was up here.
They spent their time exorcising my apartment and banishing the final ghosts from here once and for all.
Their music hits me like an atomic bomb to the chest, my entire body tingling, and my palms begin to sweat.
I can barely breathe.
