Page 56 of Better Than the Movies
“Okay, well, good ni—”
“Your turn.”
“Huh?”
“Flash your lights. It’s my turn to know where you are.”
Fair was fair. I leaned over and flicked on my desk lamp, wondering if he was going to walk over to the window in order to be able to see up to my room.
“So that’s your room, huh?”
Apparently yes. “It is.”
Could he see me? I didn’t think so—my beanbag was pretty low—but I still felt exposed.
“Wow.” He let out a low whistle. “Not gonna lie, there’ssomething about knowing that that is where Mrs. Potato Head sleeps. I mean, damn, you know?”
I leaned forward and waved into the darkness. “Damn, indeed. Good night, dipshit.”
He gave me a deep, rumbly chuckle but didn’t say anything about the wave. “Good night, Elizabeth.”
Instead of going back to bed, I went over to my dresser and grabbed the pink photo album. Talking about happy endings and staring out at my mom’s favorite bushes had given me the mom-feels.
Although, latelyeverythinghad been giving me those.
I spent the next hour looking at pictures of my mother; her wedding photos, shots of her holding me when I was a baby, and the funny surprise takes my dad liked to snap when she hadn’t been expecting them.
When I got to the photos from one of the neighborhood picnics, I squinted and smiled at the group shot. My mom had been dressed in a paisley sundress and pearls, while everyone else looked like shoeless summer slobs. So on-brand for her, right?
My eyes scanned to the front row, where we kiddos—probably age seven at the time—looked eerily similar to our current selves. Not in appearance, but in expression. The twins were looking away from the camera with their mouths wide open, clearly up to something. Michael was smiling like a perfect little model, and I was beaming at him instead of looking at the photographer. Joss was making an adorable little smirk, and Wes—of course—had his tongue all the way out.
Something about that photo album made me feel good about the present, but I was getting too tired to analyze it. Also my Potato Head nose was aching. I put away the pictures, shut off the light, plugged my phone in, and went back to bed. But just before I fell asleep, I got one more message.
Wes: Make sure you add “Someone Like You” to the Wes and Liz playlist.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else.”
—The Wedding Date
“Good morning, sunshine.”
I grunted and went straight for the Keurig. I adored my father, but the sight of his bright-eyed, smiling face peeking out from behind the newspaper at the breakfast table was just a little too much. My eyes didn’t want to be open, and I definitely didn’t want to engage in chipper morning conversation after being up all night with a throbbing nose.
“How’s the honker?”
I smiled—that’s what Wes had called it—and hit the button that made the water warm. “Sore, but I’ll survive.”
“You work today?”
“Yup—I’m the lucky opener.”
He closed the paper and started folding it. “Did you fill out the dorm paperwork I sent to your email?”
Crap.“I forgot. I’ll do it today.”
“You have to stop putting it off. If you’re old enough to go tocollege on the other side of the country, you’re old enough to fill out a few forms.”
