Page 123 of Talk Nerdy To Me
“Don’t lash out at his career, Britt. Telling my dad to never sign him is a little cruel. I know your emotions are probably—”
“I want to help his career. Not hurt it,” I tell her, really confused about why she thinks I’d do something like that.
Harley now looks confused.
“He won’t let Tag call in any favors,” Bo tells me like she’s warning me. “This is also a bad idea.”
“It’ll probably piss him off more,” Harley says, essentially echoing Bo.
I put the phone on speaker so they can hear each other and not have to say similar things unless they find it pertinent.
“We’re no longer sexual partners or friends, so it doesn’t really matter if he’s mad at me.”
“Horrible idea,” Harley tells me.
“I agree with her, Britt.”
“It doesn’t really matter at this point,” I explain to them as I step out while the rain has slacked and go to unlock my door.
Harley follows me in, and Bo finally makes a sound that resembles one of defeat.
“I’ll call him. As the daughter of a stubborn, oblivious, somewhat selfish artist with a really big heart, can I give you some advice?”
“Please,” I tell her as I start pulling out packing boxes and handing some off to Harley.
“If you’re actually trying to help his career, take me with you to see my father and let me guide the conversation. He’s a complicated man, and you’re about as good with conflict as I am.”
“There’s a reason he hasn’t signed him yet, isn’t there?”
“Knowing Dad, there’s a long list of reasons. He’s a very critical man of others, but he doesn’t realize it. I’ll guide the conversation, and then you do what you do best.”
“Recite factoids on relevant topics?” I guess. It’s my one crowd pleaser with our group and helps keep tensions down when they try to rise.
Bo makes a small sound of amusement. “No. You just be you. He’s in town for another week, but I’ll make sure he meets us tomorrow for lunch. I’ll text you the place.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“I’m glad you called,” she tells me softly before hanging up.
Harley has finished making some boxes and she gives me a pointed look.
“Meddling is never good,” she assures me.
“We’re not together, so there’s nothing at risk,” I remind her as I head to the bathroom to pack up all his things.
I snatch several things, tossing them all into the box. As I grab up his toothbrush, I stop. I’m not sure why the tears spring to my eyes or why the pain starts in my chest again, or why my hand starts to shake the blurrier my vision gets.
It’s just a toothbrush.
It’s an irrational, completely unhygienic, and disturbingly unhealthy reaction, but I grab a zipper baggie and put his toothbrush in it before stashing it under the sink. I’ll throw it away later.
