Chapter 4
Four
Two days later, I have changed my socks.
See? Improvement. I also plan to shower. Maybe. And if I’m not too wiped out after The Last Jedi, then I plan to search the internet for soul-sucking jobs that happen to pay the bills.
I am in the deep, dark depths of an itty-bitty depression at the moment. I’ll be fine! I just need to see if Rey defeats Palpatine or not.
My phone pings, and I glance down at the device sitting next to my latest bag of popcorn and a freshly opened can of Diet Dr. Pepper.
Mom.
Oh, bless. I’m not ready to be the cause of more pain for my parents … maybe next month. But then, why would I ruin Christmas? Disappointment from your daughter is a terrible Christmas gift.
I lie on my side on Willow’s couch and tap the device, while it sits on my friend’s coffee table—Poe and Rey in the background—and read:
Mom: You stayed the night at Willow’s again. Is everything okay?
I lift up from this horridly uncomfortable throw pillow and scramble for my phone.
Flopping back down, my head hits the pillow.
I hold the device above me to reread Mom’s message.
Ominous music sounds in the background, and it feels so very appropriate for my life right now. “How does she know I’m at Willow’s?”
I send her a cool, relaxed, Stella-isn’t-hiding-a-thing text:
Me: ?
Mom: I can see you’re there, Stella. No work today?
“Private detective?” I ask Willow’s ceiling. How else is my mother spying on me from Canada?
Mom: You shared your location with me last year when we met up for your cousin Connie’s wedding, remember?
Me: And you’re still using it?
Mom: I’m not allowed to live in the same country as my daughter at the moment. She refuses to move here. Forgive me if I have to get creative when checking up on her.
Mom: You’ve been at Willow’s two nights in a row.
Well, it doesn’t sound as if she knows I’ve been here twenty-four-seven for more than a week. So …
Me: Yeah. Two nights.
Me: My place is getting some work done.
“A lot of work, actually,” I mutter. “Not to mention the landlord evicted me.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
Mom: Updates on the house? That sounds like fun. And in the meantime, you get a little slumber party.
I sigh. “So fun.”
Me: I’m thinking about moving.
I have to say something. The woman is literally tracking my location. She’ll know soon enough that I will never step foot back inside that cottage.
Mom: Oh, Stella. Don’t. The only reason Daddy and I don’t worry about you every second of the day in that huge city is because of that house and your neighborhood. The policeman who lives across the street is a godsend.
Ugh.
Well, as long as I’m lying to the woman who gave me life—
Me: OKAY, MOM. I’LL THINK ABOUT IT. BYE. BYE. I’VE GOTTA GET TO WORK! LOVE YOU. TALK TO YOU LATER. GIVE DADDY MY LOVE.
“Hey Siri,” I say, one second after hitting send. “How do you remove someone from tracking your location?
“Okay,” Siri says. “I found this on the web—”
Before I can dig any deeper into my search and see just what Siri found, another text pops up.
Willow: What are you doing tomorrow?
Willow: Scratch that. You LITERALLY have nothing on your agenda right now. And Star Wars doesn’t count.
Willow: Go shower. Brush your teeth. Put real actual clothes on. Because …
Her “because” is followed by seven little drums. But I’m too impatient. And slightly offended.
Me: I always brush my teeth.
Willow: BECAUSE I’ve purchased us tickets!!!!!
She’s sweet. She’s excited. I love her. But I won’t be going anywhere.
Me: Nah.
Willow: SHUT UP, Stella Everly. You don’t even know what the tickets are for. You’re going to want them.
Will I? Doubtful.
Me: Nah.
Willow: SHOWER. NOW. And do NOT respond with ‘Nah’ again, or I will hire a bouncer and you’ll be out on the street before you know it.
Me: But I don’t wanna.
Willow: That’s it. I’m evicting you. You officially cannot live on my couch anymore.
Me: Rude.
Willow: It’s called an intervention.
Willow: I have purchased two tickets to watch the Reno-Tesoro Red Tails play tomorrow night. And you will be attending with me, or you will be sleeping on the park bench outside that sketchy McDonald’s you’re too chicken to go into tomorrow night.
I jolt to a sitting position. My head spins, aching with the quick action. “Reno-Tesoro. That’s Roman’s team.” I stare down at Willow’s message, rereading her last text when another pops up.
Willow: Roman Graves, #21, will be very disappointed if you don’t show up.
Me: I’m afraid of that McDonald’s. I never eat there.
Willow: I know.
Me: I can’t sleep there.
It’s an excuse. Willow wouldn’t make me sleep on a park bench.
She would never make me go near that McDonald’s.
At least, I don’t think she would. No—Willow is the kind of friend that buys you tickets to a soccer game, then drives you to said soccer game to watch the high school hottie you crushed on, who also happens to be the only person who ever believed in your work.
Just to try and kickstart belief in yourself again.
That’s the kind of friend that Willow is.
Willow: So, I guess you’ll be attending the game with me then.
I kick at the blanket around my toes and hurry off to the bathroom. It may take a couple showers to remove the grime that has accumulated over the last eight days.
I’m going to see Roman. Brice’s best friend. My high school crush. The one person in my life who looked at my pottery like it might be something special. Like I might be something special.
And sure, he won’t see me. He’ll be on the field while I’m in the stands.
We won’t speak to one another. But that’s okay.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I don’t even know him anymore.
But I do know that for the first time in days, I want to shower, I want to get dressed, I want to eat more than popcorn.
And I want to leave the safety of Willow’s apartment.