Page 3 of Under My Skin

Chapter Three

LUCY

It has taken me twenty-four hours to come to terms with my parents separating, and not because either one of them cared to call. Nope. Still no word from Mom or Dad to break the news, but I was able to confirm the house is listed on Zillow . . . so Simon is at least being honest about that much.

The coffee shop around me bustles with people coming and going, but all I can do is stare at the photo of my childhood bedroom, zoomed out with some type of lens to make it look twice as big.

The walls are still a dark shade of purple from my rebellious teenage years.

I’m surprised the realtor didn’t tell them to paint it before the photos were taken.

They could probably get more for the house if they put a little into it.

But maybe it’s not about the money.

Maybe it’s about getting away from each other as quickly as possible.

My stomach twists, but my phone buzzing on the table snaps me from my thoughts. Allison’s name shines in large letters across the screen, and I slip my noise canceling headphones around my neck before answering. I told her the news last night. Her only advice was to call my parents, but I can’t .

Making sure to keep my voice low, I say, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Where are you?” she immediately says, and I have a split second of panic like maybe I had made plans and forgotten about them.

“Uh . . . at Button’s Café. Why?”

“Really?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, see you in a minute.” She hangs up before I have the chance to respond, and I’m left staring at my phone.

No more than a minute later, Allison comes sweeping into the coffee shop and takes the seat across from me. “Why aren’t you home?”

I take a sip of my dirty chai and grin. “Well, hello to you, too.” I miss her.

I still see her at least twice a week for one reason or another, but it’s not the same as living with her.

She became the sister I never knew I needed.

“I came here to get some work done. Where were you that you got here so quickly?”

She gives a careless wave of her hand, her curly black hair swaying at her shoulders. “I had to run to the florist after work. One of our clients has her wedding this weekend and suddenly she wants pink instead of white.”

“And I’m assuming you sorted it out?” One of the reasons Allison cared so much about her wedding, and had it planned down to every tiny detail, is because it’s her job to make weddings perfect. She used to do a variety of events, but now it’s all weddings, all the time.

“I did,” she says happily. “And as long as the bride doesn’t change her mind about anything else for the next twenty-four hours, we should be able to pull it all off without a hitch.

” She knocks on the wood tabletop not to jinx it before unzipping her jacket.

“Why are you here anyway? You hate working in coffee shops.”

I grimace. “I know.”

“You say they’re too noisy.”

“They are.”

“So why aren’t you home?”

I hesitate. I’ve kept my feelings about living with Jasmine to myself. The last thing I want to do is guilt trip my best friend.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, my god. She’s making it impossible for you to work, isn’t she?”

“No,” I answer a little too quickly. “She’s fine. I just needed a change of scenery. She sleeps most of the day, anyway.”

But even with her sleeping all day, it doesn’t take away the mess she makes each night.

As I sat at my desk today, all I could think about was the state of the kitchen floor and how badly I wanted to vacuum her midnight crumbs, but I didn’t want to be an asshole and vacuum while she was sleeping.

So, coming to this coffee shop and working with headphones seemed like the better option.

“Okay . . . as long as the living arrangement is working out.” Her eyes hold mine, but I won’t crack. She’s radiating that “I love my new wife” bliss, and it should stay that way.

“It’s great,” I lie with my best smile.

Her eyes narrow slightly before she relaxes and says, “Okay, good.” My shoulders ease until she adds, “Any word from your parents?”

The tension in my muscles returns, and I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Damn,” she mutters. “Tomorrow is Friday. What are they going to do, wait until the last minute and expect you to hop on the next flight?”

I close my laptop. “Probably, but I already booked it. I bought a ticket as soon as I saw the house listing.”

“No shit?” She reaches for my cup, taking the lid off and tipping it in her direction to see how much is left.

I’ve only drank a little. It’s hard for anything to settle in my stomach right now.

I’ve been too stressed, too hurt, too busy dealing with my parents not being the people I thought they were.

“Hold on. I’m getting a drink. We’ll be here a while.

” She quickly secures the lid back onto the cup, slides it in my direction, and hops up from her seat.

There’s no line at the counter this late in the afternoon, so it only takes her a minute to order her drink and pay.

By the time she’s put her card back in her wallet, the barista hands her, no doubt, a cup of green tea. Allison always drinks green tea.

The black metal chair skids across the dark tile floor as she settles across from me again. Despite the shop’s use of dark décor, the place still manages to feel light and open thanks to the huge windows lining the walls.

Cupping her tea with both hands, she gently blows on the hot liquid. “So, what time am I taking you to the airport tomorrow?”

Her offer warms something inside me, but I have no problem quickly turning her down. “You don’t have to do that. The day before you have a wedding?” I shake my head. “No way.”

“Stop.” She says the word so adamantly that I have no choice but to give her my full attention. When my eyes meet hers again, she smiles. “What time am I taking you to the airport?”

My shoulders drop in defeat. “Four.”

Allison lets out a snort of laughter. “You took the latest flight out, didn’t you?”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “I’m still doing the finishing touches on the logo for the winery. I want to try to finish it as much as I can before I leave.”

She tilts her head, still firmly holding her cup between both hands. “Because you’re taking a break from work while you’re home?”

She arches a brow, and I cave. “I might bring my laptop.”

There’s no audible tsking as she shakes her head, but I still somehow hear it. “You work too much, Lucy. You make your own schedule, and you still work too much.”

This isn’t the first time she’s said this, but I fight the urge to let my eyes roll.

There’s some truth to what she’s saying, but that’s what happens when the side business you’re passionate about becomes your main source of income.

For years, doing this full time was my dream.

I put in all the late nights and early mornings, trying to kick off a business from the ground up while still working my shitty cubicle job for a company selling audio-visual equipment.

There wasn’t a spare moment in my day that wasn’t productive.

My lunch breaks were spent emailing clients, and I’d work on design projects before and after work.

Hell, even as I brushed my teeth, I was usually scrolling through color pallets to get inspired.

Being that committed to something makes it hard to scale back. Now I feel like every moment not spent on my business is another moment wasted—except when I can’t stop looking at my childhood bedroom on Zillow apparently.

Instead of admitting she’s right, I take a sip. “I’m going to need an escape from whatever I’m walking into with my family. Let me have the laptop.”

Her lips purse, but eventually she gives a sharp nod before carefully bringing her cup to her lips and blowing. “Fine, but only because you’re going through an existential crisis.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t believe they still haven’t called you,” she mutters before carefully taking a sip. “Have you heard from Simon again?”

My fingers tap against my cup like a nervous tick. “Just a text telling me to let him know when I’m supposed to get in tomorrow.”

Her features relax a little. “Good. At least he’ll be there.”

I can’t say Simon being there gives me much comfort, but I nod. She’s never met Simon. As good of a brother as he is, he hardly gets ruffled by anything. I could hear it in his voice on the phone. He doesn’t care if Mom and Dad get a divorce, but I do.

He always talks about how he wants to do a cross-country motorcycle trip with his friends and visit me along the way, but every time those plans fall through, I breathe a little easier.

If he got hurt riding his damn bike all this way, I’d never forgive myself.

He might be five years older, but I swear I’m more worried about him than he is about me.

I’ve seen the idiot pop wheelies on six lane highways like he has some type of death wish.

Just the thought has me gripping my cup a little tighter. It’s better that I be the one to visit—even under the shitty circumstances.