Page 46 of The Sidekick

“I know it sounds bad.”

“It sounds shit.”

“I just wanted her so bad, man,” he grits his teeth in frustration.

“Ok. Did you use your words and tell her that? Before or even after you messed around?” I ask like he’s a toddler with his first emotional dilemma.

“No.” He looks pissed that I’m calling him out, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve watched my sisters get their hearts broken enough to recognize his behavior.

“Then she had no reason to stay when shit blew up. She was being used for sex.”

“No, she wasn’t!” He yells and advances on me threateningly.

I don’t back down as he approaches. “Without words to back it up, how would she know?”

He freezes as his face turns remorseful, “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t been looking for her so I can tell her?”

“She may not come back, Max,” I inform him, and he winces as if I’ve gut-punched him. “That’s why you talk first and act second.”

“I can’t wait for you to lose your shit over someone so I can laugh in your face,” he replies with bitter relish.

It’s never going to happen.

Babygirl,

Please come home.

Yours,

Trevor

Chapter Eighteen

Tera

The next day, my only day off, I decide I deserve a treat for doing something on my list. It might be midnight, but I need some caffeine and chocolate, neither of which is in my place. I tightly grip my non-mace can as I make my way to my car. This neighborhood is sketchy, and I don’t want to take chances. I blame myself for what happens next.

I get into my car without checking the backseat and get scared spitless as a calm voice says, “Hi, Tera,” behind me.

I scream like I’m about to be murdered and then spray my handy can of fake mace all over him. As the silly string starts sputtering out, I realize I’ve just hosed down Shade with the sticky substance. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is open, so it’s filled with the stuff. I’ve never heard him talk, so I didn’t recognize the voice. It’s a flimsy excuse, but I’m sticking with it.

He spits it out calmly and asks, “Do you have some water so I can rinse the taste out?”

“Of course, I’m so sorry,” I fumble in the backseat for anything that could help. I end up handing him a quarter-filled bottle of soda.

“It’s all I have right now,” I wince in sympathy.

“All good. I did this to myself, really,” he mumbles and swishes it around in his mouth before he opens the door and spits it out.

“Why would you think it was a good idea to hide out in my car anyway?” I ask in exasperation.

I start it and begin my hunt for chocolate and possibly some alcohol now, too. Is it rude to gloat to Dr. Robinson about being wrong for not using my bank account? It took this jerk less than 24 hours to get to me. It’s a good thing I’m not hiding from the law or anything.

“I figured you would take one look at me and run for it. You’d have to come back for your car eventually. You wouldn’t let it get towed.”

“How would you know?” I ask suspiciously, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

“Because you freaked out about how people can track your last known location from being towed a year ago. So far, you’re working under the assumption that only I know where you are, and you’d be likely to come back for it if I left, thinking I was calling in backup. It’s not easy to rent or purchase a vehicle if you aren’t using any form of identification.”

---