Page 87 of That's Too Pucking Bad
“I’m getting you something.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
She stops, crossing her arms. “You don’t have to buy me anything, you know.”
“I know.” I grin, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward a display case. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Her eyes widen as she takes in the jewelry, the designer bags, the shoes.
“Pick something,” I say.
She hesitates, biting her lip. “I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll pick for you.”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t argue.
I end up getting her a necklace— something simple but elegant, with tiny diamonds that catch the light just enough to make her smile.
“Thank you,” she says softly as we leave the store.
I glance at her, my chest tightening at the way she’s looking at me. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s get out of here before I buy the whole damn store.”
Chapter 18
The house is quiet when I get home. I push the door open with my hip, balancing the bag of groceries in one arm. As soon as I step inside, the sound of my mom’s keys jangling reaches my ears.
“Hey, Mom,” I call out, heading to the kitchen to drop the bag on the counter.
She’s in her scrubs, tying her hair back into a loose ponytail. She looks up, giving me a once-over. “Where’ve you been all day? You didn’t answer my text.”
“Classes,” I lie smoothly, pulling out the milk. “Then I swung by Maya’s for a bit. How are things with you?”
Her brow arches, and she leans against the doorway, watching me like she doesn’t quite believe me. “Hospital’s been a madhouse.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s going on over there?”
“Dr. Benson finally retired— thank God. He was like ninety and barely knew how to hold a scalpel anymore. You should’ve seen the look on everyone’s faces when he announced it during rounds.” She chuckles, grabbing her purse from the counter.
“No way. I thought he’d die in that hospital.”
“Me too. But apparently, he’s moving to Florida. Can’t say I blame him.”
I grin, shutting the fridge. “Guess that’s the highlight of the week, huh?”
“Pretty much.” She checks her watch and sighs. “Alright, I have to go. Double shift tonight. Don’t wait up.”
I wave her off. “Be safe.”
She’s already halfway out the door, muttering something about coffee as she leaves.
I retreat to my room, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto the bed. My phone connects to the speaker, and soon Taylor Swift’s voice fills the space. I crank up the volume, humming along to the lyrics as I grab a hairbrush and use it as a makeshift mic.
It’s just me and Taylor, singing about bad exes and missed chances, when I hear a knock at the front door.
It’s faint, almost drowned out by the music, but it’s there.
