She tucks her lips around her teeth. “I never loved you,” she says in perfect old-lady-with-no-teeth character.
I raise one eyebrow, unamused. “Wow. I’ve never seen that one before.”
She breaks into a smile, then, and lightly kisses my cheek. “Goodnight. I’m sure you’ll sleep soundly tonight.”
Her smile turns evil. I grab a pillow and whack her until she’s cowering on the couch.
Laughing, I snatch up my purse and wave at them. “See you tomorrow!” I snag some quick leftovers—cold mac-n-cheese—before disappearing into the rest of the house.
My bedroom is down the hall, and I close the door behind me, sighing happily into the silence. It’s really messy: unfolded clothes at the end of the bed, books lying on the ground because I don’t have enough money saved for a new bookshelf, and three coffee mugs creating rings on my desk. I sling my purse onto its hook before taking the mugs to the kitchen. I rinse them out and hurry back to my room.
Taking one look at the pile of clothes on my bed, I realize I have no energy left. I grab my bowl of mac-n-cheese, shove the clothes aside, and sit down with an exasperated, “No way.”
That’s when I see there are seventeen unread messages from Gretchen. I check the clock. It’s eight o’clock here, so it’s eleven her time. I pray she’s still awake as I stuff my face with mac-n-cheese and read her messages.
Gretchen
Daily song! Get ready. Are you ready?
…I don’t think you’re ready.
Well, I don’t know why you’re not answering me because Facebook tells me you’re online. I think Facebook is lying to me. shakes fist ZUCKERBERG!
I laugh outright and continue to scroll.
Gretchen
Anyway, new song. GET READY.
Below this, there’s a link for a song called “Moon”. I press play and turn up my Bluetooth speakers.
Gretchen
ISN’T IT THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SONG EVER?! I AM SO IN LOVE.
Bee
WHAT IS THIS MAGIC?! I am in love with it only twenty seconds in. Why haven’t we heard this before?
I smile wide when the green light appears next to Gretchen’s name. It takes a minute, but soon new words pop up on my screen.
Gretchen
I DON’T KNOW. BUT WE CAN DIE HAPPY NOW.
Dude, where were you all day? I miiiiiissssseeeddd youuuuuu!
I give her a quick update on all things Bee & Car. I think about the beautiful, yellow-sweater-wearing boy in the shop and nearly mention him, nearly say something about my rude staring, but then Gretchen’s reply comes in, and I forget.
Gretchen
I’m shaking my head right now. Only you, Bee, would get two flat tires. Only you.
I take the last bite of my leftovers and set the bowl on the desk, right where the old mugs used to be.
Bee
I know. But that’s why you love me, right? Because I provide amusement and entertainment to combat the everyday mundane?
Gretchen
I love you; this is true, but not just for that reason.
Also, I hate to be rude, but I need to go to sleep now. I’ve been staying awake just for you.
Bee
Thanks. You’re the best. Sleep well.
Gretchen
I think you’re crap.
I smile. I’ve heard this a thousand times before—it’s our way of saying goodbye, because goodbyes are stupid, and we don’t like them. It’s our coping mechanism for living three thousand miles apart and missing each other every single day. (I love her parents, but I also resent them for taking her away from me all the way to Pennsylvania.) Hearing Gretchen say “I think you’re crap” makes me forget that we’re so far from each other.
It’s the biggest lie ever, but I don’t care.
Replying to her message with those same, sacred words, I exit the app and pretend I’m not super-tired as I stand up and start stuffing my unfolded clothes into my drawers. The mess will still exist, but at least I won’t have to look at it or sleep on top of it. I’m folding up my favorite pink shirt when there’s a knock on my door “Come in,” I mumble, hoping whoever’s there won’t actually hear me.
He does. My papa stands in the now-open doorway, hands in the pockets of his paint-splattered jeans, his shirt equally messy. The Flash lightning bolt logo looks sad with paint splattered across it. I shake my head and tsk, saying, “You and Tom.”
My dad ignores my teasing and steps into the room. “What? We love our superheroes. Just like you, so don’t try to pretend you aren’t as nerdy as we are.” He looks pointedly at my Clark Kent t-shirt hanging half out of my drawer, then holds out his arms to me. “I didn’t realize you were home and I’m offended that I didn’t get a hug.” He sniffs with pretend vexation.
I smile and hug him tight. “Sorry, I’m tired.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Did you build an attic today?”
I groan. My dad loves to compare his job with each of his kids’ to remind us that we don’t work nearly as hard as he does. (I admit: It’s true.) “No, Papa.”
He chuckles. “I’m just messing with you.”
I’m about to take a swing at his arm when my mom appears behind him and practically pushes me out of the way to hug my dad. “Matt Wescott, you have to come snuggle me—I’ve been crying over that movie!”
Ah, the aftermath of sad period dramas. This happens every time.
“Oh, baby,” my dad says dramatically, “I’ll snuggle you anytime.”
Ew, gag me. I mean, I love my parents, and I love that they love each other, and I wish more parents loved each other like they do, but really? They’re standing in my doorway, making out like teenagers.
“Um.” I choke. “Um, please?” Then I realize I haven’t actually asked them to do anything. (The struggle is so, so real.) I try again, much louder, in the sternest voice I can muster. “Mom, Dad, can you please exit the doorway and find your own secluded area of the house to…suck face?”
They stop and look at me, my dad wrapping his hand around my mom’s. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he says.
I raise my eyes to the heavens and close my door on them.
“Young lady,” my mom starts, but then she breaks out in a giggle.
I lean against the door. It eases my worried heart to see them like this, as they usually are: totally in love, my mom happy, my dad there to catch her if she loses it again. I wonder, for the millionth time, how my parents can love each other like newlyweds after twenty-five years of marriage. It’s like our own personal fairy tale; I’m constantly telling my sisters and Tom that we are the product of true love.
Thing You Should Know About Me #395: I’m a hopeless romantic. Any book with a love story in it is more likely to grab my attention. I love weddings so much that I crave them. I cry during most romantic movies. I even have my favorite engagement ring picked out at the local jewelry store. (Who am I kidding? I have an entire Pinterest board full of similar rings. My future man will surely get the hint.) I look back at my closed door one more time, smiling to myself. I almost peek outside to make sure they’ve gone, but I think better of it. Then I pull on my pajamas and collapse onto the bed in a sudden wave of exhaustion.
I’m asleep before I remember to turn out the light.
Chapter 4