Page 27 of Presley's Christmas Catch
It works. “He had a bad day, and we’re friends.”
“Exactly. He had a bad day, and he turned toyou.”
“Technically, he went to Thanksgiving Dinner with Lincoln first.”
Mom sticks a finger into the romcom book she was reading when I came over. She and Aunt Shannon shared their love of romcoms, and they constantly passed books back and forth. I wonder how many of her books she gave to Mom. Probably most of them.
“You can’t stay in this friendship afraid of what will happen if you say something,” she says. “Friendships like this don’t last forever. One of you is going to meet someone and then what youhave now is gone anyway.” She picks the book up and waves it at me, like this is all the evidence I need.
“Are you giving me advice from a romance book?” Ironic, considering the quotes I keep spouting to Brock. I thought of one today for him, from book five when Elysande says, “The one with hope is always brighter than one without, even when that hope falls through.”
“Who better to give advice than someone who researches love regularly?”
She has a point. She has a lot of good points, actually. I’m falling for Brock. Hard.
The only thing holding me back is fear that he doesn’t feel the same way and knowing that if he doesn’t, I’ll lose something precious. That’s hard to swallow, but also not a good reason to hold me back.
Part of me wants more time to figure this out, but I’ve known Brock since June. He could meet someone else any day, and everything we have will go up in smoke. He might still text me about TOK, but it won’t be like it is now.
I stand up. “Well, I’m going home.” I pick up the collector’s edition and put it carefully inside my bag. I’m going to stop and buy a display case for it on the way home.
“There’s leftover banana cream pie,” Mom says. I don’t know why she didn’t lead with this when I walked in the door. Pie would have helped a lot of the nerves still pinging through me like tiny kickers are having punting practice in my stomach. I put my bag back down.
“Okay, I’ll stay for a little pie.”
Presley:YOU WILL NEVER BELIEVE WHAT I HAVE TO TELL YOU.
Brock:Please don’t yell at me, Granny Presley. I don’t have the bandwidth for it today.
Brock:And if this shouting is about you finishing book 10, saveit. I finished it this morning and then listened to book 11 on 3x speed. Just got done. BOOM.
Presley:Okay, now who’s the grandparent?
Brock:
Presley:I can’t believe this. I’m so tempted to call that cheating and say it’s not actually reading, but people who say that about audiobooks are trolls, so fine.
Presley:MY NEWS IS STILL BETTER AND WARRANTS SHOUTING.
Presley:Also I need to Facetime you. Can I? This needs to be SEEN.
Brock:How about I check it out in person? Just flew in for a meeting. Want to grab dinner?
CHAPTER 11
BROCK
Something I like about Presley is that she lets me be dramatic. When I sent her a text that I was in town, she didn’t demand answers right that second. She let me drop my bomb in flair and said, “When and where?”
We end up deciding she’ll pick up tacos from a food truck nearby and meet at a park a few blocks from her apartment. She’s wearing a hoodie, beanie, and jeans, because while sixty-five degrees is practically summer weather to my Wyoming-boy heart, Presley is a California girl. After the last couple days I’ve had, I want to sit out and enjoy the sun, and she said she was happy to indulge me.
She waves when she meets my eye and hurries toward the picnic table I’m sitting at. I rise to greet her. She sets the food bags on the table and then wraps her arms around my middle, just like she did a couple days ago.
Something about this woman’s hugs calm me to the core. I’ve been buzzing with energy since the game on Thursday, but both times she’s hugged me have quieted that buzz to a whisper in my brain.
“You have a meeting?” she asks when she pulls back, but she keeps her hands at my waist, clutching the sides of my long-sleeved shirt like she’ll force me to answer now that she’s got me in her sights.
I smile and sigh at the same time. The last couple days have been hard, even the moments my agent assured me plenty of teams would want me. There was still an insecurity in all of it that wouldn’t let me settle. The niggling thought in my brain that I might be good, great even, at what I do, but my speaking out to the media at the worst possible times outweighs it all. That I was too much of a liability.
