Chapter Twenty-Four #3
“Give me that,” Sam demands, taking the tongs out of my hand. “Go get your laptop. We want to see the photo. And then I want to know why you look so miserable if you won this contest. Also, why did I not know that you broke up with that guy?”
“Because you’ve had your head so far up Cassie’s pus—”
“You’re just jealous. Maybe if you took a shower once in a—”
“I own my own business, fuckface. You’re the one working yourself to death for some guy in a suit. You think—”
“I think you’re both idiots,” I interrupt, snatching back the tongs before launching into a brief recap of my fight and subsequent breakup with Wes. When I’m done, they both stare at me, Sam’s expression thoughtful, while Eric is looking at me like I’m the idiot.
“They are fuckup flowers,” Sam says slowly. He cocks his head to the side, glancing between me and Eric. “But dude put some effort into it.”
I grab the chicken out of the pan and drop it onto a waiting cutting board before reaching for my knife. “What is this, some sort of birds-of-a-feather-fuck-up-together nonsense? Been to the florist recently yourself?”
“Of course he has,” Eric says before Sam can defend himself.
“So, look, I’m going to say a thing, and you’re probably going to hate it, but if you kick me out, I’m taking tacos with me.
” He pauses, glances at the knife I’m now using to chop up the chicken, and takes two steps back while Sam snickers.
“Wes fucked up. Complete fumble on his part. But he also told you he was going to fix it, and from what you said, that’s exactly what he did.
No one is perfect. I think it says a lot about the guy that he took responsibility.
And he plainly still cares about you or he wouldn’t be sending serious-effort flowers.
Those didn’t come from a grocery store.”
“Really? You too?”
Eric holds up his palms and takes another step back. “You think you can put the knife down? You’re kind of scary right now.”
Rolling my eyes, I finish chopping the last two pieces of chicken and set the knife aside. And then I finally put words to the one fear I haven’t been able to get past.
“How many times have Mom’s losers screwed up and tried to make up for it with flowers or some other over-the-top gift? How do I know this isn’t just the start of a pattern I want nothing to do with?”
“You don’t.” Sam sets down his beer. He comes closer, his palms gentle on my biceps. “But you’re not Mom, Sloane.”
“And Wes isn’t some barfly loser like the guys she always picks,” Eric adds. “None of those wastes of life have ever stood up for her outside of an excuse to throw hands, never mind taken care of her when she’s been sick. It’s not the same.”
Confused, I blink at Eric. “How do you know Wes took care of me? I never told you that.”
“You were asleep. I called to check if you were coming back anytime soon to pick up his car. He was practically whispering. When I told him to speak up, he said you had one of your migraines and had fallen asleep on him, so he wasn’t doing anything to wake you up. He didn’t mention it?”
“No.” But now that I think about it, Wes only told me he’d heard from Eric days after it happened. I glance between my brothers, but my attention inevitably drifts right back to the flowers. “I just don’t want to turn into Mom.”
“The fact that you’re worried about it means that you won’t,” Eric says simply. “Hear the guy out. If he screws up again, leave him. But if you ask me, he made a mistake, he’s genuinely sorry, and he’s already said there’s stuff you don’t know. You’re going to this awards dinner anyway, right?”
“It’s my first cover. I’m definitely going.”
“What have you got to lose by seeing what he says?” Sam takes another sip of his beer and shrugs. “Maybe it works out. Maybe it doesn’t. You’re never going to know if you don’t talk to him.”
“When did you get so wise?” I mutter before grabbing the chopped chicken and sliding it into a bowl next to everything else laid out on the counter. “Eat before it gets cold.”
Eric grabs a taco shell and starts shoveling more meat into it than will ever fit, but he pauses and looks me in the eye.
“We’re assholes and don’t say it enough, but we get how much you did for us as kids.
How much of Mom’s crap you hid from us. You wouldn’t have done any of that if you were like her.
Maybe Wes is a good guy. Maybe he’s not.
But I don’t think this one thing is enough to give up on someone who makes you happy. ”
My sniffle is exaggerated, but the tightness in my throat is real. “You’re annoying when you’re right.”
It’s only later, after my brothers have left and I’m just a little tipsy from the beer, that I find myself delving into my closet.
When I finally pull Wes’s sweatshirt out from behind the stack of boxes where I shoved it after our fight, I press it to my nose and draw in the ever-so-faint trace of his scent left in the fabric.
Yanking the sweatshirt over my head, I grab my phone and finally hit send on the text I typed out earlier.
We can talk in LA. I love the flowers. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss you. Just give me some time.
A notification pops up a few seconds later. I’ll wait as long as you need me to.