Page 63 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
“Well, that’s what your dad is working on.” I peek over Immy’s head to Johan. “The hotel couldn’t find the reservation Oliver booked. Anders is figuring it out.”
Johan’s wrinkled forehead gathers into a frown. “Uh-oh.”
I’m learning that Anders gets his chattiness from his mother. The sound of the clock ticking makes me wonder if Tillie will reappear because even Immy is uncharacteristically quiet this evening.
“Hi, hi!” Tillie flutters into the room like I summoned her, wearing a floral mumu over a thick pair of sweatpants. It also looks like she’s doing heatless curls tonight. There’s a long, foam rod woveninto her gray-blonde locks. “Oh, I’m glad you’re still here, Sunny! I was worried I’d miss you!”
“Woman, what are you wearing?” Johan mutters.
“Pajamas.” She nibbles on a chocolate ball. When her husband shakes his head she adds, “It’s supposed to get down into the teens again tonight. Where is my boy?”
“He’s outside making a call. They lost my reservation, I guess,” I say with a cringe.
“Oh no! Well, you can just stay with us. We have plenty of room. Here, I’ll show you where you can put your things.”
“Sleepover!” Immy cheers.
The two co-conspirators start toward the hallway before I can stop them, only pausing when Anders walks in. He’s looking red-faced, either from anger or the cold. It’s hard to tell.
“Ollie never made the reservation. I’ve tried a few places, and there’s nothing comparable open for tonight. I called everywhere.” He runs a hand down his face, scratching his scruffy jaw. “I’m sorry, Sunny. I can’t believe—”
“We worked it all out,” Tillie cuts in. “She’s staying here.”
Anders eyebrows raise and he looks at me with a question in his eyes. We’ve crossed a few lines in the last few weeks, but spending the weekend with his family would be a monumental one. Is he uncomfortable with this?
I shrug at him.It’s your call, I try to communicate telepathically. I don’t have much of a choice. It’s either this or the nearest Motel 6.
His blue eyes search mine.I’m down if you are, he seems to say.
I nod. “Only if you’re all okay with it. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“Impossible. We have more than enough room. Anders’ brothers won’t be here until tomorrow.”
Anders coughs to hide a curse. “Josh and Liam are coming?”
“Language!” Tillie swats the back of his head. “Of course they're coming. I told them you were finally coming home and we plannedit. I texted you about it. I’m sure I did.” She fiddles with the foam rod in her hair. I just met her, and I know this story is fishy. She loops her soft arm through mine. “Here, I’ll show you to Anders’ room—”
“No!” Anders' startled voice stops her. “We can’t put her in there, Mom.”
“Oh, no no no. I couldn’t. Where will he sleep?” I agree, though Tillie ignores both of us. We’re already halfway up the creaky wood staircase, with Anders and Immy following closely behind. “I can sleep on the couch. Really.”
Tillie ignores me and her son's many protests, swinging open the door to his room ceremoniously. If I had pictured the childhood bedroom of Anders Beck—and I haven’t—this would not be it. I fight unsuccessfully to stifle my laughter as I take in my surroundings.
A bunk bed lines one wall, and covering every square inch of wall space there are dozens and dozens of posters.
Of Mariah Carey.
It’s not a single poster, tastefully hidden in the back of his closet behind his clothing like a sane person. No. There are many, many posters, from every Mariah era. It’s so many posters that it detracts from the fact that there is an actual twin bunk bed in this grown man’s bedroom. Maybe I’ve been listening to too much true crime, but it reminds me of one of those stories where they find a serial killer’s lair covered in photos of the victims. I would be nervous except it’s so freaking hilarious.
Obviously, I know what I have to do.
I take a quick selfie, making sure to include as many posters as possible. I type a text Mercer right away with the caption: “Well well well...”
“Gimme that.” He grabs my phone before I can push send, holding it just out of my reach. “Let me remind you that you have a poster—”
“No! Anders!” He wouldn’t bring that up in front of his mom. I just met her. I need her to like me. He knows that. I jump for my phone, like that will stop him.
“...ofMicah Watsonhidden in your closet!” he exclaims with triumph.
