Page 63 of All In
I twirled a lock of hair around my finger. “I guess so. I think so. I think it’s what I need to do. To settle somewhere that’s mine.”
“Permanence.”
“Exactly. And it feels right to be here and not in Vegas,” I said. “I thought about it. Tried to picture myself back there, and I just can’t.” I hunched my shoulders. “I hope it doesn’t upset Beverly too much.”
“She’ll understand,” he said.
I bit my lip. “In other news…I have a date on Friday.”
The silence stretched out taut. I checked my phone to see if we’d been disconnected. “Teddy?”
“I’m here.”
“Yeah, I just… I think there might be the tiniest shred of a possibility I’m ready for it.” I laughed nervously. “Won’t know until I find out.”
“Guess not.”
He sounded flat. Bored. It didn’t seem to faze him, about the house or the date.
Because we’re friends.
I yawned loudly. “I’m tired. Buying a house wears a gal out. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here. ‘Night.”
“Goodnight, Teddy,” I said, but he’d already hung up.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Over the next week, I kept up my routine, same as always. The alarm went off, my hand snaked out to shut it off and I had three seconds of peace before reality slammed into me. Only now the first thought wasKacey’s not coming back from New Orleans.
Followed by:And she’s got a date on Friday.
I didn’t know which was worse.
The date. The date is definitely fucking worse.
I didn’t begrudge her any ‘Big Somethings.’ She needed to do what was best for her, to heal and move on.
But she’s going on a fucking date.
I got to work that day in a pissy mood. No one was manning the front desk, so I picked up Vivian’s Magic-8 Ball. I shook it hard, silently asking the black-and-white blur:Will it end with Kacey throwing a drink in his face and never seeing him again?
I watched intently as the blue triangle righted itself.
Ask again later.
Not what I was hoping for, but I’d take it. I headed back to my station. Zelda and Edgar were already at theirs.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “Can I get your opinion on something?”
They gathered around as I opened my portfolio and laid out some ink and watercolor sketches on my tattoo chair. I’d been working on them since the last time I was in New Orleans, trying to keep my mind occupied.
“What’s this?” Edgar said, picking up my sketch of an African savannah, spare with only the black silhouettes of two giraffes on the right side, a soaring ibis on the other, with a boiling, heat-wavered sun in reds and orange indistinctly rendered along the back. “This is cool shit, bro.”
“I fucking love this,” Zelda said, inspecting a black ink sketch of a sugar skull in profile, with bright reds, blues, and yellows shaded through it. She peered up at me. “It looks unfinished. But it is finished, isn’t it?”
