Page 40 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
She taps her index finger on her chin and her eyes flit to the ceiling. “My mom, I guess.”
“Nope. Next.” Like I need her no-boys-allowed mom grilling me. Sarah seems nice, but I’d like to start out on her good side.
“I’m serious.” She holds a hand out for my phone. “The others will tease me without mercy. They’re also rats, so they’ll wait to do it when you’re not around.” She types the number and presses the phone to her ear.
We wait in silence while the phone rings, but the call goes to voicemail. “She’s not answering. Maybe… Mercer? Or Indie? Indie would probably pick up.”
I shrug. “Whatever it takes to get us out of this closet.”
Indie picks up, and after some solid teasing and laughter, promises to come open the door. She’s definitely letting us sweat it out in here, because no less than eight minutes later we hear footsteps onthe stairs—a lot of footsteps. It sounds like Indie invited a herd of cows into Sunny’s bedroom. Awesome. There are a lot of whispering and hushed giggles coming through the door. The knob rattles and the door swings open.
On the other side of the door, Sunny’s room is crowded with her entire family—Indie, Joe, Sarah, Willow, Sage, Goldie, Mercer, with Imogen holding Sarah’s hand. Her face says she is excited to catch her dad doing something silly. It’s a lot of bodies in a tiny bedroom, and every one of them is grinning at us.
“Well, well, well,” Mercer crows, in a tone that sounds eerily similar to mine. If I didn’t know my parents so well, I’d swear we share DNA.
The rest of the family is chuckling and dishing out pot shots over the top of each other. My face is on fire. I can’t even look at Sarah. I can’t handle another disappointed mother in my life. I would pose for a horde of paparazzi in my boxer shorts over this. Why do I feel so exposed?
A quiet, forgotten voice in the back of my mind answers,You’re being your old self again.
Nuh-uh, I tell the voice.We were just fooling around in here. It’s no big deal. Nothing serious. Never serious.
Exactly, the voice taunts.
No. This is different. She’s not just a pretty face—a distractingly pretty face. She’s more.
But are you really taking her to meet your family, Indiana Jones?the voice goads, sounding an awful lot like Oliver. Great, now he’s worming into my subconscious.
“Mind your beeswax!” I spit out. Audibly. Using my idiot vocal chords.
Every face swings my direction and I laugh, like I wasn’t just having a conversation with myself that ended in an argument. Mind your beeswax?! Sunny’s old lady-isms are rubbing off on me.
I push out a dramatic sigh. “Not you. Me. Being locked in a closet messes with a guy’s head.” I chuckle. “Anyway, who wants to see what I brought for Sunny’s birthday?”
15. Sunny and the Big, Pink Drama Queen
Iam freaking out. No one would know, because I’m laughing and following my family down the stairs like it’s any other day.
But it’s not any other day.
I just spent ten luscious, toe-curling minutes making out with Anders Beck in my closet. What is this dreamy parallel universe I’ve slipped into? For the record, the man kisses like it’s a competitive sport and he’s the world champion. It was just… heaven. Until my family caught us. I will be teased about this until the end of time. Mercer definitely clocked my beard-burned cheeks and pointed it out in her less-than-subtle way. I’m trying to be cool and it’s not going well. What’s new?
Anders leads us through the front door, toward my mother’s circular driveway. I’m bringing up the rear with Imogen, whose tiny hand found mine on our way down the stairs. I just speed-changed into my favorite old sweatpants, so I'm glad the downpour has stopped for now—though it left the air sweet with the smell of wet earth and creosote. Storms in the desert can be unpredictable, but this one felt like the universe’s way of pushing me into a closet with Anders, like a little birthday gift from above. I can’t stop smiling about it.
At the end of the driveway, behind my siblings’ line of cars, a bubble gum pink Jeep catches my eye. Anders leads us in that direction.
“Jeeping Beauty!” Imogen squeals, dragging me toward the Jeep. “Dad! How did it get here?”
“I had James bring it from home for you and Sunny to drive.” Anders grins at me. “This gift is just a loaner, but I thought it would be a lot more fun for you and Immy than the barbiturate-with-wheels you've been riding around in.”
Imogen is bubbling with excitement. “Yeah, our Jeep is so fun. We take her in the mountains by our house when my dad doesn’t have to work. She’s mine. My dad named her Jeeping Beauty ‘cause he tells me I’m Sleeping Beauty. Get it?” — she drags in a huge breath — “And ‘cause it’s pink.”
“That’s a good name.” I smile down at her.
Now that I’m standing closer, I spot the words “Jeeping Beauty” painted on the fender in scrolling cursive, barely visible in the dark. I don’t know anything about these vehicles, but I can tell this one is older and has been well restored. The paint is custom and shiny, the tires are big and knobby, and it doesn’t have a cover. Top? Whatever you call the part that keeps the wind from destroying your hair—this Jeep doesn’t have it.
Anders says under his breath, “It was either this, or a purple Jeep named Rapunzel. I prefer the pink.”
It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but I think he’s blushing. While my family circles the vehicle, peeking inside and gushing about this over-the-top gift, Anders stands close to me—probably too close—and murmurs, “So… I gotta be honest. Immy told me you said your life is boring.” He holds his hands up in surrender at my glare. “Her word. This isn’t a big deal, I just wanted to give you some fun.” He scuffs his shoes across the gravel at our feet. Is he nervous? “So, what do you think? Fun?”
