Let me think about it.
Abby’s solution was simple and would probably work, unless Belén followed me or had spies around the neighborhood. If I told her the Schmidts called last minute and needed me to come over, she probably wouldn’t question it. And if Abby picked me up, that would take care of the odometer issue. But on the off chance something went wrong, my head would be rolling for sure.
I idly opened my laptop and considered the work I should be doing. Hunter’s bandmates agreed to me making a sample flyer for them, and they’d talked with the guy in charge of Sol Jam about advertising that too. Apparently Owen thought it was “an inspired idea,” and hoped he could make the event bigger than ever this year. I was supposed to bring something to show Hunter to our next plant-pulling session. As I stared at the screen, my eyes unfocused, and I zoned out until the ding of my email brought me back to reality. My chest seized up when I saw the sender’s name; my hand dipped into my pocket and gripped my house key, the teeth biting into my palm.
Tatum,
While I appreciate your attempt at diffusing the tension between us, I need you to understand that I am still very upset with you for turning me in. I can’t stop you from emailing me, but don’t expect me to reply again. I’m doing my best to adjust to this new life that was thrust upon me, and I am not at a point where I’m ready to deal with my old one, and that includes you. If/when I come to that place, I will let you know.
Best,
Ashlyn
I had to remind myself to breathe when I got to the end of the email. Definitely not what I had been expecting—the email itself, or Ashlyn’s response. I reread it three more times before I could tear myself away from the screen. Okay, so she was still mad at me, and she implied I was disloyal. That was fine. I could understand that, and even see from her point of view how that was true.
The fourth read through, I laughed. Her word choices were so much like her father’s: terse and professionally snarky. Maybe she’d consulted with her dad on what to say. She’d never use those words in the real world. On the fifth read, it dawned on me that even though she was dismissing me, she was also giving me a tiny shred of hope. She said if/when, which left the door cracked, a bit, for me to slide back in. With that revelation wrapping its claws around my heart and shaking it, I texted Abby back.
Pick me up in 30 minutes.
I needed to channel the adrenaline surge that was gliding through my system, and music sounded like a good outlet. I printed my sample posters and shoved them into my bag. I left a note for Belén, who had just left to go shopping for new leotards with Tilly, saying I’d gotten a last-minute babysitting request, with my car’s mileage written at the bottom, natch, and told Blanche, who had just returned from her movie and was stretched out in the basement with an afghan and a cup of tea, that I was going to take care of the girls. She looked up from her romance novel, the kind with a ripped, shirtless warrior in a kilt on the cover, winked at me, and told me to have a good time. I shook my head in disbelief, walking back up the stairs. I swear the woman was psychic. Or my Patronus. Blanche always sensed exactly what I needed. She somehow knew what I was up to no matter how sneaky I thought I was being. And cheered me on.
At the Schmidts’, I dealt with the animals and blew Gus a kiss goodbye as I dashed out the door and into Abby’s car, which tonight surprisingly was of the muscle variety. I slid my hand over the black vinyl of the dashboard as she pulled out into the street. “What is this fine piece of machinery?”
“Oh, you like it, do you? This is my brother’s baby. He’s grounded tonight, so his loss is my gain. She’s a 1968 Camaro.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“Pretty much all you need to know is that she’s a classic and that he rebuilt her himself, so I must drive slower than your grandmother, but we’ll get there eventually.”
I snickered. “I think my stepgrandmother might actually love this car, and would drive it like she was on the autobahn.”
“Right on. So what convinced you to come tonight? I thought you were chained to your bed. I know you didn’t ask for permission.”
I bounced my heel on the floor mat and studied my silver sandals, knotted too tightly at my ankles. “I just needed some company, I guess.”
Abby did an admirable job of staying straight on the road while still giving me a suspicious look. “No. You don’t get to do that. You were all keyed up when you got in the car, and your voice just plummeted to the floor. You’re also ticking like you’re anxious. What happened? Because I know something did.”
I mashed my lips together. Curse Abby and her journalist’s observation skills, even though I knew it wasn’t hard to pick up on the vibe I was sending out. My voice came out shaky and quiet. “Ashlyn emailed me back.”
“And?”
I set my head on the headrest behind me and closed my eyes. I recited the email, word for biting word. I’d read it so many times, I had it memorized, burned into my brain for all eternity, or at least until the next crisis.
“Shut the front door. What is her problem? I mean, I get that she’s mad, but you are so not the person she should be mad at. You did exactly what any self-respecting human being would do in that unfair situation. She should be livid with her subhuman boyfriend—or ex, I hope—and direct all her righteous attitude to the city jail.”
I just blinked at her. “Can I fire my lawyer and hire you instead?”
“Sure. Can I be paid the same salary?” We laughed together. “And signing off with ‘best’? Seriously? Who uses that besides snobs and twits?”
I yelped with laughter. “I love you for saying that. That was my favorite part! I can’t stand ‘best.’ It makes me want to gouge my eyes out.”
“Am I right? The worst way to end a letter.” Then her voice took on a more somber tone. “I’m so sorry, Tate. I guess she’s still processing.”
“That’s a good way to put it.” I wondered if Chase was processing too, from his jail cell, hopefully with a scary cellmate. Probably not.
“So, are you going to respond to her?”
I shrugged. “Probably. At least she wrote back. I take it as a good sign that she wants to scold me, but she also doesn’t want me to forget about her.”
“That’s messed up.” Abby shook her head.
“Yeah, it is what it is. She’s my friend. Hopefully, we’ll get past it. And if we don’t, we don’t.” Sometimes I even impressed myself with my ability to stay calm when all I really wanted to do was scream or cry or punch a hole in something.
“It is what it is,” Abby echoed, trying the words on for size and nodding slowly.
At Hunter’s house, the garage door was wide open, with questionable noises sailing out into the night.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whispered.
“Any time with Hunter is a good idea, in my world.”