Page 13 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
“I don’t know, but if so it suits you. See you tomorrow, Ginger," he says in his warm voice that makes my heart trip.
“It’s Sunny. Now look who has Nanny Brain.” I laugh and give him a little wave. I’m a little stung, but not exactly surprised that he can’t remember my name. “See you tomorrow.”
Iwalk into my condo fifteen minutes later to find Mercer draped across our couch in the dark, with the original Micah Watson/Anders Beck movie playing at full volume. The windows are rattling.
“Why is it so loud?” I shout above the sound of roaring, fire-breathing creatures duking it out.
“Exposure therapy,” she shouts back, eyes glued to the screen.
I can’t live like this. I swipe up the remote and turn down the volume. “Exposure therapy for who?”
“For you, so you can act normal around Micah.” There’s an unspoken “duh” in her tone.
“I think it might work better if I watch it with you.” I shoot her a knowing look, “Keep pretending you aren’t Team Micah. You almost pull it off. Speaking of, did you see him today?”
I flip on the lights, grateful to be back in familiar, comfortable territory. I’m also ready to put a dent in the bag of Rainier cherries I put in the fridge a few days ago. I’m hungry for fruit. I turn toward our olive green refrigerator, which is original to our condo’s 1970s construction. Those old appliances are just built different. That fridge will probably outlive me. It’s the only thing in the condo that hasn’t been updated, so it makes a funny contrast with our subway tile backsplash and wide plank hickory floors.
“Girl, what did you do?” Mercer’s shocked voice follows me into the kitchen.
“What?” I pull my cherries out of the fridge to find that the bag is almost empty. “Did you eat my cherries? And stop dodging my question. Did you see Micah Watson today or not?”
“Yeah, I saw him for like a second before his golf cart almost ran me into the bushes, thanks for your concern. And yeah I ate your cherries. They were delish.” She boosts herself to sit on the kitchen counter. “What did you do to your hair?”
“You turd! I was looking forward to those cherries all day.” I should’ve hidden them somewhere Mercer would never find them,like inside a box of baby spinach or with the cleaning supplies. I nibble into one of the last juicy cherries. “Imogen and I put some stuff in my hair that’s supposed to get the smell out.” I remember I haven’t seen her all day and add, “I ran through a cloud of skunk this morning and I still need to rinse it out. Anyway, what did Micah look like today?” I pluck the stem off another cherry and sigh dreamily. “Ugh. I still can’t believe you’re having Micah Watson sightings at Nizhóní. So unreal.”
She ignores my question and commentary. “First of all, that’s why I don’t run. Second of all, I think whatever you put on your hair did something to it.” She’s biting back a grin that makes my stomach drop.
I dart to the mirror by our front door. I’m so confused by what I see that I run to my bathroom where the light is better. Maybe it’s just the lighting in the living room. And the kitchen.
I flip the light switch and gasp. There are two women in the mirror. My blonde-haired best friend whose mouth is turned down in a worried frown, but the twinkle in her eyes tells a different story. The other woman in the mirror looks like my horrified twin, except her hair is orange. Dayglow orange. A little bit of chestnut brown hair shows through where Imogen didn't apply the anti-skunk paste thoroughly.
"I'm… I'm a Cheeto."
"Dude, it's not that bad."
"Well, it's not good!" I shriek.
"We'll fix it before anyone sees it."
Oh, no.
I think back on the past hour and every interaction I had with Anders. I remember his constant, endearing grin that I figured was just well-practiced, meaningless flirtation.
It was not flirtation.
Oh, nooooo.
At least I never ran into Micah Watson, despite the fact that I took the long way to my car and walked extra slowly past his suite tonight. I look at Mercer. I have no words. My eyes well with tears. “That’s why he called me Ginger.”
“Who called you that? Anders?” She rolls her eyes. Mercer has zero tolerance for baloney from men, even famous, rich, hunky ones. “How original.”
I nod miserably.
“How about this? I’ll run to the store and get a box of dark brown hair dye. While I’m gone, you wash that junk out of your hair and remember that he’s just a guy and in ten years none of this will matter.” She squeezes me in a side hug, “Okay, Ed?”
“Ed?”
“Ed Sheeran,” she cackles at me. “Go wash your hair.”
