Page 17

“H oney, I’m home,” I grumble to Mercer as I walk in our front door. Anders just gave me one last hug. We said goodbye and I listened to sad Celine Dion love songs the whole drive home. Next, I’m having a pity party catered by my friends Ben and Jerry. I dump my bag on the floor and stomp into the kitchen.

“Geesh. Rough day?” she grunts, from what looks like an intense yoga pose in the middle of our living room. She’s wearing her holey, velvet track pants that read “Juicy” across the bottom and are at least fifteen years old. She found them in a thrift shop when we were in high school and has worn them consistently since. Her predictability is comforting.

“Something like that,” I call from the kitchen, digging through the freezer. There’s a half-eaten pint of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream in here somewhere. “I got busted for making out with Anders last night. Oliver gave me a talking to.”

I give up on my ice cream. It’s probably freezer burned by now, anyway. Defeated, I flop on the couch.

Mercer faceplants. “What?” she screeches, muffled by her yoga mat. She scrambles into a sitting position with her legs folded under her. “I mean, I figured you guys weren’t making friendship bracelets in your closet, but what ? And how in the heck did Oliver find out? I haven’t told anyone!” She holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Geez, she looks like the female version of Anders right now. Not the reminder I needed. I scowl thinking of his Scout’s promise to stop hugging me.

“I think it’s like this,” I mumble, holding up three straight fingers. “Anyway, I guess Anders butt-dialed Oliver when we were…you know… and he heard it. A lot of it.” My face heats at the thought. I’ve been blushing about it off and on all afternoon, ever since Ollie came over at lunch and laid down the law.

Mercer cackles, standing. “No way! Talk about crummy luck.” She drops onto the cushion beside me. “Well? So?”

“So, what?” I hug one of our yellow throw pillows against my stomach.

“Ugh! What else? How was it? Making out with Anders Beck? How am I even asking this question? I’m offended you didn’t tell me about it the minute you got home last night.”

“Merce, you were dead asleep by the time I got home.” I wanted to talk to her, but anyone who prefers to keep their face attached to their skull lets Mercer sleep. “And to answer your question, it was… surreal. But it’s over. Oliver made sure I understood that nothing can happen between us, or it will essentially ruin Anders’ career.”

“Pfffft.” She rolls her eyes. “Oliver is a tool. He better have given that same lecture to his boss.”

I nod. “Anders and I decided on some professional boundaries. Rules.”

She makes a fart noise in response. “That is lame.”

I have to agree. “Yeah, but we all need this movie to go well, right?” I’m talking myself into this, but I shouldn’t have to. This is huge for our resort. I honestly don’t know if we’re prepared to handle the publicity that will come from being used as a location for this movie. We’ve been busy enough since Indigo’s crazy social media following discovered us. My brother’s fiancée used our resort to hide out when she needed a break from the spotlight and it worked out very well for all involved. She found my brother and it put our resort on the map. That’s how the location scouts found us. Now here we are, making out with movie stars in closets.

Mercer shrugs. “So, what are the rules? Did you run them past Oliver for approval?” She mimics his robotic tone with disdain I’ve never seen in her before. Mercer doesn’t sugar coat anything and she’ll tell you right away if you’re being a doofus, but she doesn’t just dislike people. My spidey senses are tingling.

“Um… what’s your beef with Oliver?”

She jumps from the couch. “No beef.” She’s rolling up her yoga mat awfully fast.

“Mercer. What?” I know there’s something.

She groans. “Nothing. He’s just annoying. I’ve been helping Joe this week—”

“Thanks for that, by the way.” She’s taken over a lot of my work since I’ve been nannying Immy. We’re playing musical chairs at the resort right now. There’s too much to do and not enough of us to go around.

“It’s fine. Anyway, Oliver is like a freaking mosquito in my ear. He’s always looking for something or needs something and I’m like, dude , let me work.” She tosses her yoga mat into our coat closet, it knocks something down and she slams the door before whatever it was can fall out. “Ya know?”

I grin. “Hmm.”

“Shut up.”

“The lady doth protest too much—'' A throw pillow smashes into my face. I jump up to retaliate when my phone buzzes in my purse.

I hold up one hand to fend off my friend. “Oliver and Mercer Jones,” I sing-song, grabbing my bag from the floor. I dig for my phone, “Sounds good. Like your names belong together.” I swipe open my phone and see a text from Anders. A pillow ricochets off my head from Mercer’s direction, flopping onto the ashy fireplace grate .

ANDERS

Did you make it home okay, Sunflower?

I squeal in my throat, holding the phone to my chest. “It’s him,” I whisper with wide eyes.

“Oliver?” Mercer makes a face like I tracked dog doo in the house. “No way.”

“Gross. No.” I can’t stop smiling. “It’s Anders.”

I spin away from her to type out my response, as if I have anything to hide.

SUNNY

I made it. Thanks for checking in, boss. [winking emoji]

It’s not a flirtatious wink, for the record. It’s a business wink. I sigh. I’ll be reading and re-reading his texts for the next year. I think I’ll lie in my bed and do that right now, as a matter of fact.

“I’m headed to bed,” I mumble, staring at my phone. I’m floating toward my bedroom on a cloud of hormones and delusion when Mercer calls from the living room.

“Hey, Sunny.”

“Yeah?” My eyes are glued to my screen, distracted.

“You have a big ol’ Snack sticker on your butt.”

My week flies by in a blur of dance parties with Imogen, endless vacuuming of Hairy’s fur, and a constant stream of vaguely unprofessional text messages from the incorrigible Anders. He may have mentioned something about what he called my “squeezable jeans” at one point. And I may have an album on my phone dedicated solely to screenshots of our conversations .

On the surface, he is Immy’s dad and my boss, and I am just the nanny. He comes in the door at the end of the day and I give him an update on his daughter. We say goodbye. I get in my car. By the time I’ve buckled my seatbelt I have a message waiting. The first night, the message was two words: “Your eyes.” I hounded him for the rest of the night to explain himself. We texted until after midnight that first night. The next night, Anders needed to catch up on sleep and so did I. We only texted for a few hours.

The system is working well. According to Anders, there haven’t been any more distractions, lectures, or location hiccups. If the rest of the shoot goes like this, it will all be over before I’ve had time to really appreciate it. I’m making a conscious effort to slow down and enjoy my time with Immy and my text messages with Anders. Who knows what will happen when this shoot ends. This daydream has an expiration date and I am dreading that day.

That’s what is on my mind as I’m doing my hair for my date with Eric. I shoot a quick text to Anders while I wait for my curls to cool before I brush through them.

SUNNY

How is it already Saturday?

ANDERS

Right? Seems like I just got caught kissing you in your closet last night.

SUNNY

You can’t see it, but I’m blushing. That was so embarrassing.

ANDERS

You should be embarrassed, Sunflower. I’ve seen the decorations in your closet. Shameful.

SUNNY

Excuse me? That poster is fine art. It will be worth a fortune someday.

ANDERS

Maybe if it wasn’t covered in lipstick kisses .

SUNNY

The only thing getting lipstick kisses in that closet is you.

I laugh. Maybe that was too much. It’s my new favorite hobby to flirt and torture Anders, knowing full well there’s nothing we can do about it. I run my fingers through my long curls, separating them and freezing them into place with a shot of hairspray. My phone buzzes on my bathroom counter and I snatch it up, antsy to hear from Anders. It’s been a full forty-five seconds without contact, after all. His first message is a GIF of one of Snow White’s seven dwarves blushing, then:

ANDERS

What are you up to tonight?

SUNNY

I’m going to a Fleetwood Mac cover band concert. Should be good.

I’m focusing on my excitement to see the band. Eric is harmless, but I’ve known him way too long. He’s already dated everyone around me. If he was really interested, he would have asked me out long ago. Once again, I’m feeling like I’m at the bottom of the dating barrel, and It’s not a great feeling.

ANDERS

That’s right.

ANDERS

The birthday gift date.

ANDERS

Have fun

ANDERS

Don’t let him get handsy

Here we go. Anders is rapid fire texting again. Sometimes when he messages me I have to pause to be sure he’s gotten it all out before I respond. I stare at my phone while I wait it out and notice the clock in the corner of my screen. Eric is supposed to be here in seven minutes and I still need to grab all of my stuff for this outdoor concert. I’ll probably take a blanket and my little travel rain poncho just in case. I need to hustle. But first, I give Anders a little taste of his own medicine.

SUNNY

I will

SUNNY

And I won’t

SUNNY

Have fun with Immy and Hairy tonight!

SUNNY

Don’t miss me too much

He responds with a GIF of a pathetic looking dog waiting at a closed door and I sigh. He has a way of sneaking right into my heart, even when we’re having an innocent conversation. I need to hide my phone from myself or I will be the worst date ever, rereading old messages from Anders while drool runs down my chin. I silence my phone, stuffing it in the bottom of my purse where I can’t sneak peeks at the screen.

There.

Now I only have to work on staying mentally present, because this man is totally ruining my concentration.

“Are you warm enough?” Eric leans in to shout into my ear, maybe for the tenth time. It’s hard to be heard over the music and noisy crowd around us, so he keeps ducking in and talking right into my ear. He’s been doing this all night. If the concert doesn’t make my ears ring, Eric is determined to finish the job.

“Yep,” I shout, pulling my blanket tighter in front of me and focusing on the band. They’re doing a decent cover of my favorite Fleetwood Mac song and I’m into it. They’re good. My date, though? He’s like a golden retriever and it’s like I have a forgotten hot dog in my pocket or something.

I don’t have any hot dogs for you, Eric.

He throws an arm around the back of my seat. “Are you thirsty? I can get drinks,” he says, way too close. His tan, hairy leg brushes against mine. It’s not a warm night. I don’t know how he isn’t shivering in those cargo shorts. This amphitheater is at the base of a canyon and once the sun goes down behind the red cliffs it’s downright chilly. Most concert goers are wrapped in blankets or are dressed in hoodies and hats, even on this spring day. Eric’s shorts and t-shirt make me question his sanity. And I wish he’d stay out of my bubble for a minute so I can enjoy the music in peace. This gives me an idea.

“A drink would be great,” I call over the band, inching away nonchalantly.

“What do you want? Pepsi?”

He shouts the hard P in Pepsi and I swear it blows the hair back from my face. His breath smells like he hit Taco Bell on his way to my house. And who drinks Pepsi?

“A Coke would be great.”

“Do you want diet?”

I want to listen to this song, man. “Diet is great! Thank you!” I call over the band with a smile. He is a nice guy, just oblivious.

To my great relief, Eric makes his way down our row, apologizing with a loud, “Pardon!” in the face every person he passes. One guy winces. Those poor souls .

But now the seat next to mine is vacant and luxuriously silent. I’m loving the feel of the cool night air on my face and the music echoing off the canyon walls around me. I lean back and snuggle deeper into my crocheted blanket. I love this afghan. Its zigzagging multi-colored rows always make me happy. My mom made it for me after my idiot boyfriend broke up with me in high school. She said the crazy colors are supposed to remind me of Joseph from the Old Testament whose brothers betrayed him and sold him into slavery. His life got really difficult before it turned out amazing. So will mine. My mother is good at gifts with meaning and this one brings me pure joy.

I’m so focused on the colorful pattern of the blanket that I barely register when Eric returns to his seat. That was way too fast. Since when are concession stand lines short? Maybe if I keep my attention on the stage he’ll sense that I want to enjoy the concert in peace

“Having fun?” a deep voice mutters from Eric’s seat, though it’s certainly not Eric.

I spin to face the man beside me. His poor disguise is laughable. A baseball hat barely hides his wavy hair and the thick-framed glasses he must've stolen from Oliver do nothing to distract from his stormy ocean eyes.

“What the heck are you doing here, grumpy butt?” I nudge Anders’ shoulder with mine.

“Listening to some Fleetwood Mac classics,” he almost snarls, slinging his arm around the back of my chair.

I grab his hand and drag his heavy arm over my head and back to his arm rest. “Eric will be back any minute, boss .” I emphasize the word. “And speaking of. Where is Imogen?”

He has the nerve to shush me. “I’m trying to listen.”

“I know you didn’t leave her with Oliver.” Suddenly I’m less interested in the band and more worried about Imogen and the man beside me.

“She’s fine. I found a babysitter.” He slouches into Eric’s seat .

“Who?”

He completely ignores my question. “Having fun on your date?”

“You don’t have to make that face.”

“What face did I make?” He’s trying way too hard to sound innocent.

I’m not buying it. “The face that says you know I’m not having fun and you only came over here to rub it in.” I imitate his smirk the best I can, making it extra dopey because he’s being a pain and he needs to be brought down a peg. “Like that.”

He chuckles. “Well, are you having fun?”

A sigh gusts out of me before I can stop it. “The band is good.”

“What about this Eric guy? Are you having fun with him?”

There’s no way I’m detecting jealousy in his tone…. Right? I bask in the idea that I’m more than a fling to him and this evidence that he might honestly care about me. “Sure. He’s a nice guy.”

He raises his eyebrows behind those heinous costume glasses. He’s so arrogant with his perfect face, stupid expensive cologne, and women caving to his every whim. Well, not this woman. Not tonight.

“Listen, I’m not going to sit here and bash on my date while he’s off getting a drink for me. He might be clueless and pushy, and okay, yeah, his breath smells like a beefy five-layer burrito, but he’s a nice guy.” I shove his arm off the armrest between us. “Go back to your seat.”

He’s grinning like he won. “I knew it.” He doesn’t move.

“He’s coming back, you know. You can’t hijack my date.”

He just grins and hogs the entire arm rest, completely invading my space.

“Who has Imogen? You can at least put my mind at ease if you’re going to steal my date’s seat.” I know my mom can’t have her. She’s at dinner with her sister about an hour’s drive north of town. And there’s no way he asked Oliver to take her.

His warm smile in response to my question makes my heart trip. “You’re really worried about her? ”

I roll my eyes at his non-response. “Obviously, I’m worried about her. I can’t just turn off caring about her because I’m off the clock.” And I’ve gotten too attached, just like I feared I would.

The music crescendos and he’s hard to hear, but it sounds like he says, “You’d be surprised…” At my confused look, he shouts over the pounding music, “You’re good with her.”

Anders is quiet for a minute, seemingly listening to the band instead of teasing or distracting me. I can’t help but picture Eric coming back to an occupied seat, and I’m annoyed that I don’t know who’s taking care of Imogen. I am fully distracted by Anders, and not in the fun way. I check the aisle behind us periodically, but Eric doesn’t return. After the fourth or fifth time I turn around, my phone buzzes on my lap. Maybe that’s him? He has been gone a suspiciously long time.

Instead, I find a bizarre message from Mercer. It’s one of her classic, voice-text-gone-wrong, stream-of-consciousness messages with zero punctuation and lots of decoding required.

MERCER

Hypothetical question period if someone is babysitting and the kid they are babysitting falls off a skateboard and lands on her arm weird and it’s probs just a sprain but you want to be sure it’s not broken but you also don’t want to freak out the parent or alert the general public which doctor would you go to for that? Hypothetically speaking period

I gasp and grab Anders’ arm, clinging to him like a lifeline. I reread the message to make sure I understood it correctly.

“What?” he yells over the music. “What’s wrong?”

I spin on him. “You left Imogen with Mercer ?” I shout. It’s not a question. “Talk about the blind leading the blind!” I wad up my blanket and snatch my bag. “We have to go! ”

I drag Anders to his feet and down our row, pushing through the crowd in a way that’s probably drawing too much attention.

“What’s wrong?” His grip tightens around my hand.

I don’t want to attract any more looks, so I pass my phone to him and let him read while we stomp up the steps to the back of the amphitheater. After reading my message, Anders marches ahead of me, sliding my phone into his back pocket and pulling me behind him. On our way to the exit, I spot Eric chatting it up with two blonde women. I catch his eye. He shoots an apologetic look my way and all I can do is shake my head at him. I can’t even think about that mess right now. One disaster at a time.