Page 77 of Sidelined By Love

“You want to tell me why?”

Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I blink and see Zoe. She is my why.

Not that Todd needs to know that. “Not really.”

“But, man, you can’t just go off meeting with people like them without a plan. You need me in this meeting.”

“And I will loop you in if they’re on board. But first, I need to run an idea past them.”

Todd heaves a great sigh, and I can almost see him running his hand over his bald head. “Think about what you’re doing.”

I have. “Can you get me in touch with them? Give them my number. Have someone from the studio call me.”

“Sure. Yeah. No problem.” But his voice is a lot less assured. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“No promises.” I laugh at his groan and hang up as I navigate the dark roads home. Just as I pull into my driveway, the screen on my phone lights up. A call from a Santa Monica number.

Good job, Todd.

Twenty-three

Zoe

By the time Tuesday morning rolls around, I’m more eager than Bronco to get up. In fact, when I bounce out of bed, I knock him down his steps at the foot of the bed. His pathetic howl announces his abuse to the whole neighborhood, and I run for a treat in the kitchen to soothe his poor tortured heart.

“I’m sorry, buddy.” I squat down in front of him and give him a good ear scratch while he crunches on his bone-shaped snack. I’m either forgiven or completely forgotten, so I tiptoe into the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face, and do something with my hair.

In a few minutes, I’m not exactly camera ready. But at least I look alert, and I’ve plucked out whatever crusty was in the corner of my eye. Not to mention my breath smells a little better than a dying skunk. Then I pull my hair into a ponytail. It’s not slicked back, but it is reined in.

Definite improvement over every other morning I’ve met Grant on the front sidewalk.

And now I just need to pray he shows up.

If he doesn’t . . . well, I have an in with Chester. No way are they keeping me outside that gated community. Not until Grant hears me out. Not until I tell him the truth.

I hurry to change out of my mismatched plaid pajama pants and slip into a pair of black jeans. Nothing fancy. Just clean. Not pajama adjacent. I finish the look by pulling on an oversized silver sweatshirt with the Fourteeners purple mountain logo on it.

Maybe it’ll win me a few points with QB1.

Or at least enough points for me to explain that I’m an idiot, and I didn’t mean anything I said, and I want to be with him. And I’m not going back to LA.

And if he’s not kissing me by that point, I’m doing something terribly wrong.

But outside, I realize I’ve made a awful mistake. The kind that ends in hypothermia.

I should have put on my puffy red coat. Or at least a scarf and gloves. As it is, I have no way to keep my hands warm, so I tuck them under my armpits and hop from foot to foot. In my fuzzy purple slippers.

Because of course I forgot to slip on actual shoes. That would be too much to remember at 4:53 a.m.

I glance at the dark house. I could run back inside and get my coat and shoes. But what if I miss Grant? What if in the ninety seconds it takes me to grab those things, he and whatever quadruped he’s with today traverse the entire block and disappear around the corner?

Too risky.

So I bounce and dance and hop from the walkway to the lawn, my gaze jumping between the dark parts of the sidewalk and Bronco—who’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. To be fair, he might not be completely wrong.

I just know that what Nan said makes sense. My chance at freedom, at letting go of all of the stuff that’s been trailing me for weeks, is in the truth. In telling Grant the truth.

Even if he doesn’t feel the same?

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