Chapter 17 #2
“But she was just going to demonstrate how she was trapped in a sports bra and made Ga—ouch!” she said when I kicked her under the table. “A completely random guy you don’t know grab her boobs,” Hazel corrected.
“I hate the sweaty sports bra trap, and I love a good second base scene,” Jennifer said. “I’ll help.”
“Yay!” Hazel clapped her hands and stood up.
“This is ridiculous,” I said, gesturing to encompass the cat, the sign, and the two women eagerly awaiting my instructions.
“You’ve got at least five minutes left on the cat clock. You might as well give us all the dirty details,” Hazel insisted.
“Did you have your back to him or were you facing him?” Jennifer asked.
I reluctantly obliged and directed them through the scene, making sure to replace Gage’s name with Adonis to protect the innocent.
“There. Happy now?” I demanded when it was over. The rest of the café patrons broke into spontaneous applause, startling Brenda, who finally vacated my lap. Jennifer took a bow while Hazel fired finger guns at everyone.
“Stop that,” I hissed at her as she took her seat.
“Sorry. You know I get awkward when I get excited. So when are you not going to have sex with this Adonis again?” she asked.
“Don’t you have enough inspiration yet?”
“This will give me a few chapters. But I’m thinking about you and real life right now. It’s not like you to be so angsty over a guy.”
“I just don’t get it. He’s so earnest and respectful. Ugh. I mean, shouldn’t I be more into Levi? He at least looks like he’s emotionally unavailable. Do you think I should get my brain scanned? Like what if this is the first sign of a significant personality change?”
She snort laughed and pushed her glasses up her nose.
“I’m serious, Haze. I’m not into nice guys.”
“Zo, Gage isn’t the nice guy. He’s the good guy. There’s a big sexy difference.”
“Oh, what do you know anyway? You’re so full of orgasms and wedding plans you think everyone needs to be in love,” I complained.
Hazel picked up her pen and drummed it on the table. “I say this with love. Don’t you think it’s time you outgrew the whole ‘my parents got divorced; therefore I believe all relationships are doomed’ thing?”
“I say this with love. Stop trying to character-arc me. I have a right to my feelings, and I don’t need to change. I’m perfectly happy where I am.”
“But are you though?”
I glared at her.
She held up her hands in surrender. “All I’m saying is maybe you should think about whether you really don’t want a relationship or you just think you can’t have one.”
“I will do no such thinking,” I said and began stuffing the remaining baked goods into my bag. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go hunt down Opal and ply her with sugar until she agrees to let me represent her.”
“Have fun. I’ll just go pump Gage for his side of the story.”
I ceased my baked-good packing. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
“How else am I going to get the hero’s voice right?” she asked innocently.
“If you go harassing him about our almost moment, he’ll know that I told you, which means he’ll know I’m still thinking about it.”
“Oh no. How terrible,” Hazel deadpanned.
“Do not go near Gage,” I warned her. “Or I’ll tell your publisher you changed your mind and you want to go on a twenty-city tour for your launch.”
Hazel grinned. “You’re a monster and I love you.”
“Love you too, shit waffle.”
“You’re so stupid, Zoey. When are you going to grow up and be responsible?
” I said under my breath as I rummaged through my bag for the phone I knew was in there somewhere.
Because if it wasn’t, I was going to have to go back to the café and ask if I’d left it there…
like my car keys. It served me right for carrying such a big purse, I thought as I headed through the automatic back doors of the Haven’s main building.
I had cat hair on my pants and an unwrapped brownie crumbling in my purse, and I couldn’t remember if I’d locked my car, which didn’t really matter since the roof clip had broken again.
“Whose voice is that?” a gruff voice asked.
“What?” I glanced up from my fruitless search.
The question had come from Opal. “‘You’re so stupid, Zoey. When are you going to grow up?’” she quoted back.
“Well, it came out of my mouth, so I’m gonna say it’s mine. Aha!” I triumphantly pulled out my phone from under a now-squashed muffin.
Opal glared at me for a long beat, then rolled her eyes. “Come with me.”
“I was actually just coming to see you,” I explained as she shoved a shopping bag into my arms.
“My lucky day,” she grumbled as she set off down the path that connected the Haven’s main building with the apartments. The wildflower garden was starting to bloom, and every bench was occupied by residents soaking up the warmth of the spring sun.
I jogged ahead and hit the open button for the Keiko Fukuda apartment building’s glass front doors. “If you give me five minutes, you might actually mean that. I wanted to talk to you about letting me represent you…as an agent.”
Opal said nothing as she trundled past me with her walker.
I assumed she wanted me to follow her since I was carrying her groceries, so I followed her inside to the bank of elevators. The doors opened, and Opal stepped in. “Let’s go before my ice cream melts, Curly,” she said.
We headed up to the third floor, and Opal hung a right. The doors were all seasonally decorated with green leafy wreaths, sprigs of fake spring flowers, and cheerfully worded welcome mats. Opal stopped at the end of the hall in front of the only unaccessorized door.
“Are you allergic to festive decor?” I asked her as she let us into her apartment.
“What the hell’s there to be festive about? It’s spring. Big whoop-de-do. Time marches on until you die. Then it keeps marching on without you.”
“I see you’re one of those optimists who annoy everyone with your zest for life,” I observed.
“Bite me.”
This was going well.
Opal’s apartment was small but cozy. Well, it would have been cozy if the curtains hadn’t been shut tight against the spring sunshine.
There was a TV against the wall on a console table, with drawers and a single recliner facing it.
A dining table was buried under stacks of books that didn’t fit on the overflowing shelves that took up the space on both sides of the windows.
Sci-fi, romance, thrillers, and nonfiction all warred for space.
“Wow. So you’re definitely a reader. No wonder you’re so good at writing.”
“Stop kissing my ass,” Opal said, leaving her walker by the door and limping over to the table.
“Are you supposed to do that?” I asked.
She grabbed the cane that was hooked over the back of one of the chairs. “You a narc?”
“I’m just trying to make conversation with a grumpy brick wall.”
“I had a hip replacement. The know-it-alls in rehab pretend like I need to be on the walker for another few weeks.”
“Yes, Opal. I’m sure the mean medical professionals are just making up the rules as they go for their own entertainment without any scientific basis.”
“I’m wounded by your sarcasm. Do you have a hard time following conversations in noisy places?”
“Huh?”
“Do you have a hard time—”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize we were starting in the middle of a conversation. Uh, yeah. I guess. I actually stopped going to my favorite wine bar in the city because it had concrete floors and brick walls, and the noise just echoed off everything.”
“Do you have a hard time following verbal directions?”
“What?”
“Do you sometimes ask, ‘What?’ even though you heard the question, but it feels like it takes your brain a few extra seconds to process what you heard?”
“How did you…?” I trailed off.
“How many times do you have to rewash the laundry you forgot was in your washer?”
“I don’t know what’s happening here. Are you some kind of crabby psychic?”
Ignoring me, she turned her attention to her wall o’ books. “If I said I wanted to teach you to play a card game right now or that I needed you to assemble my new coffee table, would you immediately start looking for excuses to leave?”
“Obviously. Why? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Do you interrupt others mid-conversation?”
“No.” Relief coursed through me that the all-knowing lady didn’t quite know everything.
“Or did you used to interrupt others but got corrected as a kid so now you spend all your effort in every conversation trying not to interrupt while still holding on to the point you wanted to share until you realize you’re not even hearing what’s being said?”
Damn it.
“At home, do you have to leave important documents or items sitting out so you don’t forget they exist?”
“Lots of people have an ‘important’ pile,” I said defensively.
“Do you feel ashamed all the time? Like you’re a bad person and you’re terrified one day everyone is going to find out?”
Baffled, I slowly sank down onto the recliner.
“Do you drink alcohol not because you crave it but because it makes your brain quiet?”
“Who are you, and why do you know stuff?”
Opal plucked a book off the shelf, then moved to the table.
“Do people close to you call you impulsive? Did you have a temper that got you into trouble when you were younger? Do you catch your belt loops on drawer pulls? Do you have a voice in your head constantly criticizing you? Do you feel like an underachiever compared to everyone else in your life?”
I held up my hands. “Are you some kind of fortune teller?”
She picked up a second book and limped across the room to me. She dropped both titles in my lap. “ADHD.”
“Wait. What?”
She poked the top book with the tip of her cane. “ADHD. Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. My guess is you have it. A raging case of it. Those will help.”
I glanced down at the books in my lap. “Sorry, isn’t that, like, an ‘elementary school boy’ thing?”
“Are you an elementary school boy?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Though I did have the sense of humor of one.
“Then no, it’s not.”