Page 21 of Love Lessons
He shrugs. “I honestly have no idea. But I stay out of stores, and shopping is a damn drag, so I avoid it. The end.”
Since I’m still holding his threadbare T-shirt, I quickly turn it inside out. When I run my finger over one of the shoulder seams, it’s as soft as a baby’s blanket. “No wonder you wear your clothes until they fall apart. Do you have to use a particular laundry soap?”
He looks annoyed at me now. “I buy the kind that’s fragrance free. Don’t think too much about it, honestly.” He reaches over and finally reclaims his shirt. He flips it around and puts it on again.
I grab the new shirt off the chair where he’s draped it and squint at it. “I can’t believe I made you try on a shirt that caused you to practicallybreak out in hives. So much for being a good neighbor.”
He smirks at me. “Get over it. I told you not to bother.”
“Yeah, you did. And I didn’t listen.” I pick up my barber’s kit, embarrassed. “Sorry, Ian. I’ll let you get on with your day.”
“Vera, hey,” he says. “Don’t feel bad about this.”
But I’m already gone.
SEVEN
Don’t Throw Shade on a Woman’s Luggage
IAN
I’m cuttingboards on the sidewalk. A mountain of boards.
The PR guy is standing beside me watching me work. “These need to be more even,” he says.
“Yessir.”
I cut another board, and the saw is loud. It sounds like the jeering of an angry crowd.
But the moment I flip the saw off, somebody gives me a shove from behind. “Hey, asshole. You can’t do that here. It’s too loud.”
“Fuck you. Get off me.” Anger zips through my veins like fire, and I try to shake him loose. “I’m not fighting you.”
“Pussy. Limp dick.”
I turn around, and he’s right there on the sidewalk—Davis Deutsch, the rookie from Boston. He’s smirking at me. “Come on,” he says. “Swing.”
Dread pools in my gut, and the crowd is jeering already. Fight! Fight!
He grabs my sweater. And I haven’t got a choice, have I? I swing, but don’t connect. He swings, and I dodge.
The kid isn’t good at this. I know I’m going to win, and it won’t take long.
But the dread doesn’t ease—not as I take a mediocre punch so I can set up my own.
Every time it unfolds the same way—I hit him once with a glancing blow. But my second punch lands on his body… and sails right through. His body pops with the force of a broken bottle. It shatters. My fist is covered in blood.
When I look down at him, all that’s left is his head. It’s staring up at me in shock. “What did you do?”
* * *
Gasping,I sit up in bed. Or at least I try to. The sheets are tangled around my bare legs, and I’m sweaty despite the AC running full blast.
Goddamn dream. Almost every fucking night it’s there. For what—three months now?
I flop down onto my pillow and try to slow my heart rate. The dream doesn’t make any sense. It never has. It’s like my brain is so full of bullshit that it’s taunting me.
After a few minutes of self-recrimination, I notice that the sky is pretty bright outside my windows. I grab my phone and find it’s already nine o’clock.
