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EIGHTEEN
Cari
It’s a date.
As soon as I said it, I wanted to throw myself out the window. I hadn’t planned any of it. When he suggested a group send-off, I’d opened my mouth to agree. Instead, I cornered him into hanging out, just the two of us.
It’s a date.
I saw it on his face as soon as I said it. He was angry. Confused. I ended things. I’d been brutal. Mean. I didn’t deserve a second chance. I didn’t deserve him. Even if all I want is to hang out for a few hours and eat pizza.
It’s a date.
Jesus.
I’m on the verge of texting him and letting him off the hook, but then Miranda’s guy shows up, and I get busy directing him on which paintings to pack and which to leave.
“Not that one,” I say, my voice sharp.
The guy checks his list, his fuzzy caterpillar brows crumpling into his forehead. “The list Miz McIntyre gave me says—”
“I said not that one,” I repeat myself, pulling it out of his hands. “And not this one either.” I pick up the painting I did a few days ago of Patrick, sleeping in the sun.
He opens his mouth to argue with me.
“I’ll take care of Miranda,” I tell him, carrying them into the living room and stash them behind the couch before he can argue with me.
Before I can head back into the bedroom, someone knocks on the front door.
My first thought is that it's James and my gut clenches. Con shot me a text this morning, warning me that he’d been released from the hospital. Checking the peephole, I relax a little but not by much. It’s not James. In fact, I’ve never seen this guy before in my life. Tall. Swimmer’s body—powerful shoulders and torso that taper into narrow hips. Light-colored eyes framed by a pair of dark, thick-rimmed glasses. Hair so dark it looks almost black, sticking up and out in a way that could be considered styled but something about him says he’s not the type to bother.
Pulling the door open, I angle myself in the wedge, barring easy access. “Yes?”
“You Legs?” the guy says, reading the nickname off the envelope in his hand. Looking up, he gives me a quick once over before smiling. “Stupid question.” He thrusts the envelope into my hand. “I’m Logan.”
Flipping the envelope over, I rip it open.
Legs –
This is Logan. Let him in, he has
something to show you.
Con
Next to his name is a rough sketch of a penis towering over a tiny stick-figure. Next, to it, it says:
p.s. Just in case you’re doubting the
validity of this note and who it’s from,
I drew you a picture of my dick. Enjoy!
In spite of everything, I laugh. I suspect that’s what he intended. Shoving the note back in its sleeve, I look at the guy standing in front of me. “Are those cats?”
He looks down at his T-shirt. “No, they’re cats, shooting laser beams out of their eyeballs—” He adjusts the backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Way cooler than regular cats,” he says, scratching the bridge of his nose behind his glasses. “Can I come in?”
I don’t move. “How long have you known Conner?” I say. I have no doubt that Con sent this guy but I’m trying to figure out why.