Page 27 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
BANG! BANG! BANG! Now someone is pounding on the door, and I scramble to my feet, snatching my phone from the floor as I go.
I swipe to answer the call. “I’m fine, I’m fine… ” I reassure Joe as I swing open the door.
Oliver is on the other side of the door, his phone pressed to his ear. “Glad to hear it,” his clipped words echo through the phone in my hand. “What are you doing with Anders’ phone?”
My face burns as I pull the device away to inspect. It is definitely not mine. Somehow I have Anders’ phone and answered it. I slept with it. Why do I feel the need to confess? “I thought it was m-mine.”
His eyes scan my frame—from yesterday’s rumpled white blouse, to my sleep-worn jeans, to my bare feet. I drag my fingers through my bedhead and Oliver tracks the movement.
He quirks an eyebrow.
“I must've fallen asleep on the couch.”
Both eyebrows shoot to his hairline.
“I’ll get Anders.” I step past him toward the bedroom.
“Please. Allow me.”
He marches ahead and I scurry after him, feeling like a teenager caught in her boyfriend’s bedroom. It isn’t until we’re at the door that I realize I’ve made a horrible, horrible mistake. Or the best decision of my life. Time will tell.
Oliver yanks the covers off of Anders, revealing a man wearing absolutely nothing except the jeans he had on last night. He’s just miles of sculpted muscles, and I can’t pull my eyes away. His bare torso is perfection—like he was carved from solid marble by a sculptor who was asked to recreate the perfect male specimen. Every muscle from his chest, down his arms, to those swoon-worthy veins in his wrists and hands, is exquisite. He’s a work of art. He’s a Renaissance sculpture, if Renaissance sculptures had a tan and smirked when you ogled them while mentally waxing poetic.
Oops.
“You were due in make-up twenty minutes ago,” Oliver snaps. “Get up.”
I stare at my bare feet, but I’m tracking Anders’ every move in my periphery. He pulls a gray t-shirt over his head—pity—andstuffs his feet into his shoes. “Let’s go,” he claps his manager on the shoulder, “You can lecture me on the way there.”
He stops in front of me, standing between Oliver and me like a shield. He pulls a baseball hat over his messy hair while his sleepy eyes scan my face. His voice is low, “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you. You were so out, I didn’t have the heart.”
I shrink, hiding behind the solid wall that is Anders. “I think I’m in trouble,” my shaky voice whispers.
My heart is thumping. In school, I was the kid who turned in my work early and followed every rule. I stop at stop signs at one o’clock in the morning. I get nervous walking through the security screening at the airport because what if I accidentally have a bomb in my carry-on? I hate being in trouble. This isn’t me.
His bright blue eyes stare straight into mine. “I think I’m in trouble, too,” he says, and that crooked grin of his makes an appearance. “Different kind of trouble, but still... trouble.”
Then he and Oliver close the door behind them, leaving me to wonder what he meant.That man.
“You can do it, Immy.” I squeeze her sticky little hand in mine. “It’s not much farther.”
We’re hiking Aspiration Trail. Imogen left her painted rock alongside the path ten steps in and declared she had had enough nature, but I still need to leave my sunny-painted rock at the top of the hill. I’m determined to keep this kid off of screens today, and I keep missing my morning run because of Anders’ chaotic schedule. I miss those endorphins and the vitamin D. A little outside time will be good for both of us.
“I’m tired of walking,” she announces. Her jelly shoes aren’t helping the situation. They’re covered in dust, which is turning into sludge between her sweaty toes. But she insisted on them. She alsoinsisted on bringing Hairy, who is enthusiastic about every lizard and bird that darts in her line of sight. Her leash is wrapped five times around my left hand because she keeps lunging toward the bushes.
We’re surrounded by rocky cliffs and desert blossoms. The spring sun rose behind a thick layer of clouds, but it’s finally starting to warm the air, and birds are chirping. “I know you’re tired, but isn’t this a pretty morning, Immy? Let’s look for flowers while we walk. I bet we can find one in every color.”
She tugs her hand out of mine. “No. That’s boring.” She sits on a rock and folds her arms. Hairy mimics the stubborn pose, lying in the dirt with her paws crossed in front of her.
Dang Julie Andrews.
Her character made this look so easy inThe Sound of Music. How did she get seven children to run through the Austrian countryside, laughing and singing with her? I can’t even inspire one child to take a short walk up a singular hill.I’m sorry, Julie. It’s not your fault.
I sigh, pulling my rock out of my back pocket with my free hand. My sloppily painted rays of happy yellow sunshine do not match the sky or the general mood of my hiking companion. I place the rock in a grouping of other painted rocks in various stages of fading. One of the rocks reads, “Live Laugh Love” in purple cursive. I imagine myself picking it up and launching it into the desert with an echoing cackle. Instead, I take it and sit on the rock next to Imogen.
“Can you read this?” I show her the rock.
She sighs and I’m surprised when she sounds out the words live, laugh, and love—despite the fact that her tone conveys death, sadness, and infinite despair.
