Chapter 6
Hanging by a Moment
I’m shocked out of a dead sleep by the sound of my phone blaring “Heat of the Moment.”
“Ugh, Sam,” I groan. He must’ve changed my alarm tone after class yesterday.
I hit snooze twice, but my phone dings with a text as someone bangs on the door.
Annie. Both are Annie.
Annie: Lu Lu, let me in pleeeease!
Annie’s parents live about an hour away, so it’s not unusual for her to go home and drive back the next morning.
It’s also not unusual for her to lose her key in her own purse and need me to let her in.
I’m not sure why keychains or lanyards are hard for her to manage, not that I’ve been the best with keys lately myself.
But she pays her half of the bills, and she’s the best roommate I could ask for, so I’ll overlook being forced out of bed. I open the door hoping for all the noise to stop, and Annie plows in with a backpack, a purse, a coffee, and her phone.
Keys, though? Absolutely not.
She dumps it all, minus the coffee, on an overstuffed chair, and DC wanders in behind her with an ice-cold sugar-free energy drink and sets her overnight bag next to the stairs.
I’ve already forgotten why I’m here—barefoot—my hair looking like I fought with a herd of cats in my sleep and a blank stare on my face. This is too much for being vertical less than five minutes.
He opens the can and takes a sip before placing it in my hand, which is good for his safety, because he has a key and none of this had to happen.
“I’ll be in Blountville and Elizabethton for a couple of hours.
Text me if you need help with the car. Retro Rodeo’s playing at the coffee shop tonight, and I want you to sing with me …
us. Jace and Sam asked for you too. I know you’re not talking yet, but I wanted to tell you before I left.
Go on and shower. Blink if you understand.
” He stares for a minute to be sure I’m listening. “Good girl.”
Annie stifles a laugh-cough. Yes, I heard it. But I’m not ready to have facial expressions yet.
“Bye, Annie!” he yells over his shoulder as she runs up the stairs to change clothes and get ready for her class.
She’s still giggling at the good girl comment, but I don’t think he has any idea what she’s laughing about.
I’m sure not telling him.
“Thanks, Danny. Bye!” she hollers back in her heavy Southern drawl. “Lock up when you leave, please. She ain’t really awake yet.”
“I know. I will,” he calls upstairs, and I groan a little. I hate when people call him Danny, though everyone does. I’ve had some complicated past Danny experiences, and “Daniel” is a better song, and people shouldn’t be talking so much yet anyway.
He cautiously puts an arm around me and steers me back toward my room. “Blountville and Betsy. Let me know about the car. Retro Rodeo later. It’ll sink in when you shower.”
I lift my chin in acknowledgement and flash a weak hang-loose shaka sign. I’m not necessarily agreeing to anything; I’m just confirming comprehension.
I get an alert from my one o’clock professor as I zombie-walk back to my room to find clothes.
The storm left a tree down in her driveway, so our class is canceled.
“See email for updates,” it reads, and my phone chimes with every thumbs-up response to her message.
I briefly consider going back to bed, but I really need a shower.
Hot water, a razor, and several scented potions later, I feel human. Once I’ve scrunched some completely useless anti-frizz cream into my hair and slathered head to toe in peach-mango lotion, I might even be cute. I attach the diffuser to my hair dryer and lean over to flip my hair upside down.
Ten minutes later, wild waves fall over my shoulders, exposing what’s left of the pink conditioner I used last week, peeking out between strands of my otherwise unexceptional wheat color.
The caffeine has kicked in, and I feel pretty good despite my abrupt wake-up call. I love watching the guys play. And they’ve been asking me to sing with them more often, so I must not completely suck.
DC, Jace, and Sam have performed together for years.
I don’t know if they ever tried to make a career of it together or if Sam’s the only one with the big dream.
They call it Retro Rodeo, but I’m not sure if that’s the band’s actual name or a description of the multi-generational, genre-hopping chaos they play.
Whatever it is, it’s always fun, and they know what songs I can’t resist.
I scream Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” at the top of my lungs as I finish my makeup, when my phone lights up with a call from Nathan. I pause the music and answer right away, hoping his mood has improved.
“Hellooooo?” I singsong playfully, attempting to coax a good mood out of him.
“Hey,” he says dryly. “What are you so happy about?”
Not exactly what I was going for, but I keep trying.
“I’m happy to hear from you. Do you want to get lunch before work?”
I try to maintain an upbeat tone to keep my own mood from tanking.
“Can’t. I’m supposed to meet Candi, er, Candace at her doctor’s appointment before work, so I had to get up,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I don’t need to waste money.”
Candi? Is her name really Candi?
And he didn’t get up early to spend time together or help with my car problem. Fabulous.
“I guess you finally heard back from her.” I prod for more information.
“A few days ago,” he says.
“I’m trying to be supportive, but it helps to know what’s going on.” I’m irritated that he talked to her and made plans but hasn’t talked to me, the person he claims he wants to be the mother of his children.
“I don’t see how it affects you at the moment,” he snaps, “but she did say I should include you so you don’t feel left out.”
Well. How sweet of his married baby mama to think of me. She sounds lovely. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry at this whole conversation.
“That’s … considerate,” I say in a neutral tone to hide the vomit bucket of sarcasm I’m holding back.
“Yeah. She wants to go to lunch one day and get to know you. She thinks it’s best if we’re all friends. I gave her your number and told her to talk to you about it. And Sarah needs you to watch the boys next week. She’ll call you.”
Cool. Cool. I’ll pencil all these stimulating activities right into my planner. Monday: Make plans with boyfriend’s hookup partner. Tuesday: Babysit boyfriend’s feral nephews for free.
I like his sister, but why does he assume I’m available?
Given the circumstances, meeting the baby mama makes sense, but I feel like I’m going to throw up nonetheless. I sit on the closed toilet lid and try to figure out when people started viewing me as a parent. Or is it a personal assistant?
A better question might be why I still act like one. No one asks me; they just assume it’s okay to add items directly to my to-do list.
Stop being selfish, I scold myself.
I don’t mind helping his sister, but I don’t know if I’m ready to co-parent his pre-born child.
Oh, my goodness. Is this how DC feels replacing my battery and picking me up from work?
“Do you know where I can get my car fixed?” I blurt, opting to change the subject. “We think it needs a battery and probably a new alternator.”
“We? Who is we?” he asks with an accusatory edge. “Did you already have it checked out? I can’t do anything about it. Did you call my dad?”
Ugh, the “Dad” answer again. It’s a sticky subject.
His brother and dad are both nice enough, but Nathan thinks I should consult them for any and all mechanical matters, which is a great plan in theory, but our schedules rarely line up.
It’s also awkward, because Nathan expects me to find a way to meet up with them thirty minutes away while he’s at work or golfing.
They’ll tell me the same thing Daniel already told me.
Then I’ll have to go buy parts I know nothing about and get to them in the car that is, as previously established, unreliable.
Nathan won’t participate in any way, but he’s deeply offended if I get help from anyone else.
His solution to everything is “Ask Jackson or Dad.”
I know Nathan’s not a mechanic, but this feels like a prime example of when a couple should work together to solve a problem. Am I expecting too much?
“Daniel boosted my car so I could get to work last Thursday, and your brother boosted me so I could get home Sunday when you weren’t …
uh … up to talking. Jackson thought it was the battery, but with the inconsistency of it dying or being fine some days, Daniel suggested maybe the alternator,” I explain.
“Plus, he just replaced the battery. It happened with my mom’s car before, so he’s probably right. ”
“Daniel, huh?” he says with disdain. “He’s awfully concerned about you all of a sudden.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I’ve noticed when Nathan isn’t helpful, he pouts when other people come to my rescue.
Men, obviously, but not exclusively men.
It’s as if he knows the behavior makes him look bad, but rather than step up, he acts like I’m doing something wrong.
And what am I supposed to do? Not accept help when I’m stranded?
I walk back to my room, picking up the Bret Michaels bobblehead and notebook from my nightstand, and sit at my desk, thumbing through the pages.
Nathan recites a familiar diatribe of less passive and more aggressive accusations that range from implying I don’t know how to operate a vehicle to creating problems solely to get attention.
I pull the phone from my ear to take a deep breath and glance at the time.