A darkness settles over me when I try to imagine what it’ll be like if she leaves permanently. There’ll be a Joey-sized crater in my life, and I’m not sure I’m ready forit.
Tori taps on the table. “You overthink everything. Just give her the dog already. Who knows, maybe that will help persuade her to stay? Trust me—she’ll be ecstatic about thegift.”
It’s funny how most people think I’m impulsive, but Tori’s been here a few years and she knows me better than that. Well, maybe my younger self was impulsive, but the grown version of me has a mortgage, bills, and too many responsibilities to count, so I have to besmarter.
My mother waltzes in, looking no worse for wear after playing with the kids this morning. “Who’ll beecstatic?”
I can’t handle any more talk about Joey, so I thank Tori for breakfast, kiss my mom on the top of her head, and leave the peanut gallery while I make my way to the barn behind thehouse.
At least the horses won’t ask me what I’ll do with myself if Joey leaves forgood.
8
Joey
With a pained groan,I roll over and blink at the clock on the bedside table. I can’t believe it’s almost noon. Beverly’s bed is ten times more comfortable than mine inFlorida.
That bus ride wore me out, and I nearly slept myself into a coma lastnight.
Rambo’s wet nose peeks over thebed.
“Hey,handsome.”
He wags his tail happily, unaware of the knot in the pit of my stomach. While I’m still pissed as hell at my brother for selling Gran’s house, this is the longest I’ve gone without talking to him. He could be partying in Vegas or lying in a ditch for all Iknow.
Reaching for my cell phone, I speed-dial my brother and get the same outgoing message: “Leave a message or don’t. Nobodycares.”
Charming, isn’the?
“Silas, hey. It’s me. You’re starting to freak me out a little. Call me so I know you’re alive.” I don’t bring up the house because if I nag him over the phone, he’ll never call back. “I’m leaving again for Florida soon, so I hope to hear fromyou.”
When I hang up, I scoop up Rambo and snuggle him. His furry face makes me smile even though I don’t much feel likesmiling.
Hunger gets the best of me, so I shuffle into the kitchen, pour some coffee, and pop two slices of bread in the toaster. Plopping down at the kitchen table, I tuck my bare legs under my shirt—Logan’s T-shirt—and getcomfy.
Pulling the neck of the material to my nose, I breathe in his yummy scent. He tossed it to me last night as we were getting ready for bed. I hadn’t even asked him for it, but he seemed to know I could use something to sleep in. It’s a shirt I got him for his birthday last year that has a keg on the front and says “I’d tapthat.”
Once I’m done eating, I decide to attack that pile of dirty clothes in my suitcase. I pause when I walk by Logan’s room, wondering if I should do his laundry too as thanks for letting me stay here. But handling someone’s dirty clothes seems too personal. He might not want me touching his stuff. I have a brother. I know boys are disgusting. My brother went through more socks his senior year of high school than I went through my entirechildhood.
Silas used to tackle me to the ground to rub his dirty socks in my face. He thought he washysterical.
It was probably a blessing that I never understood why they were hard and crusty until I was older. I shudder at thememory.
There are worse things than crusty socks, though. I eye Logan’s laundry basket in the corner of his room. What if I stumble across another woman’s clothes? Orcondoms?
I blink back the sudden rush of heat in my eyes and scold myself for feeling hurt when I have no claim whatsoever to Logan. But this is my pattern. I know enough about what he does when I’m not around to getcrushed.
Nope. Definitely not touching hislaundry.
By the time the washer buzzes, I’m over my emotional crisis. I just need to keep reminding myself that I’ll be back in Florida soon and I can survive whatever happens here in themeanwhile.
I’m dangling over the ledge of the washer, reaching for my shorts that are plastered to the bottom, when a cough behind me makes me lose my balance and I nearly knock my head against the agitator. A second later, two large hands settle over my hips, and I’m lifted out of the enormous Whirlpoolmachine.
My face is ten shades of red when I make eye contact with Logan, who’s laughing so hard, he can barely breathe. “You fellin.”
I yank my T-shirt down over my butt. “Shut up. I’m tiny. How the heck does your mom do laundry with this thing anyway? She’s not that much bigger than Iam.”
He reaches behind a cabinet and pulls out a stepstool.
