“Just scary is good enough. Your picture will do the swearing for you.” Brendan shakes his head at the mass of black and gray wings, interspersed with razor-sharp beaks and the occasional splashes of red, covering his daughter’s paper.
“Is that blood?” I ask, unable to repress a snort of amusement when Chloe says—
“Yes. Seagulls like blood with their bread. Human blood.”
“They do not,” Brendan says, sounding tired. “You got pecked one time, baby, and it didn’t bleed. It was an accident. The birds were just excited to be fed.”
“Guess you won’t be feeding the seagulls again any time soon.” I grin at him as he rolls his eyes.
He steps away, running a hand over his sweat-damp hair. “No, we won’t. I thought it would be fun, but they ended up mobbing us on the pier this morning, and Chloe got scared. I don’t think she would have cried, but she was still a little off after leaving school early yesterday.”
“Yeah, about that,” I say softly, not wanting Chloe to hear. “I think she faked it somehow, man. She was very perky for someone who was supposed to be running a 102-degree fever. She made me play ten rounds of Exploding Kittens and beat my butt every time, and when I took her temperature at your place it was only 99 degrees.”
He sighs heavily. “Yeah. I know. She hates her new school. She wants to go back to the place where she went to kindergarten, but they don’t have a good afterschool program or art every day or any money for music or sports or much of anything else. The private school is better. Hopefully she’ll see that once she makes new friends and gets settled in.”
I’m about to suggest he chat with Libby about why Chloe’s having a hard time—who better to give advice than a teacher who loves her kids as much as Libby does—when my phone dings in my locker, and like Pavlov’s dog I start to salivate.
I know what those dings are. They’re Libby sexts, flooding into my phone in a naughty stream of wonderful wickedness. I know I should wait until the game is over to read them—we’re up by five points, and though I doubt I’ll see as much ice time in the third, Coach could always decide to send me out more if things get hairy in the final period—but I can’t help myself.
I spin my combination and grab my phone from the top shelf. But instead of Sext Goddess offerings, I see the following from Laura—
I hope you’re proud of yourself. Libby bailed on the suite seat and decided to watch the game from a sports bar. Alone, I’m guessing.
So instead of meeting new people, and maybe finding a guy who would be able to see how absolutely amazing she is, she’s by herself, waiting for you to get finished playing so she can meet up for a meaningless hookup. And yes, I know all about your “arrangement.” She told me yesterday.
But if you think that Libby is the type who can have a no-strings-attached fling and then go back to being friends, you are clearly insane.
She’s always had a soft spot for you, and I saw the way she looked at you yesterday. She’s falling for you, Justin. Hell, maybe she’s already fallen. Maybe it’s too late to keep from breaking her sweet heart, and if it is, I swear I will never speak to you again.
Because if you break her heart you’re going to break mine, too.
She’s not just my sister, she’s my best friend. I know her better than anyone, even you. I know that she feels things more deeply than normal people, that she cares so much it’s painful sometimes, and that she has always struggled to fit in. But that’s not because there’s something wrong with her. It’s because there’s something wrong with a world that expects us to pretend we’re not at the mercy of our fears and our feelings and our need for love and acceptance and all the other things that make us vulnerable and human.
But the people who feel big feelings are the best of us.
Libby is one of the best of us.
So make this right, Justin. If you can. Call it off before it’s too late, or let her down so easy she feels like she’s landing on a bed stuffed with the wooly fluff of baby angel sheep. Even if our friendship means nothing to you, I know Libby does.
Do right by her. Please.
And if you see me after the game, don’t try to talk to me. I’m going to be with Chloe, and I refuse to lose my temper in front of her, but I’m not ready to talk to you in person without raising my voice.
I curse as I toss the phone back onto the shelf, then I immediately turn to Brendan and apologize.
“It’s okay. I don’t think Chloe can hear anything but the echoes of seagull screams right now. What’s up?”