Page 7 of Sunshine
“Oh, you know Mona.” I shrug noncommittally, thinking back on the months since I returned to Aster Springs and wondering how many hours my mom has spent running her small-town dive bar, The Slippery Tipple, and how many she’s spent with me. If it weren’t for the fact that I pour drinks and serve wings there a few nights a week, I might never see her at all. “The business takes up a lot of her energy these days.”
“I can relate.” Dylan inhales and straightens his spine like he’s gathering strength. “Okay. If we’re going to do this, there’s still one person who needs to sign off on it before we start.”
“Izzy,” I guess.
Dylan gives me a surprised nod, and I warm at the way respect for his daughter comes so naturally to him. But when his gaze lingers on my face, tracing the tendrils of hair against my cheeks, the shape of my mouth, the hollow in my throat, I remind myself not to read into every word he says. Every move he makes. I don’t want to be back where I started: unable to sleep because I’m too busy over-analyzing all the ways he looked at me that day.
I tighten my legs around the napkins marked with his messy scrawl and think about Dylan’s handwriting on my thighs…
Maybe avoiding him all these months wasn’t such a great idea. My tolerance is way down. Exposure therapy. That’s what I need. Maybe then I won’t get caught up in fantasies every time he looks my way.
“I’ll talk to her over breakfast tomorrow,” he says. “Explain how it’ll work. And if she’s on board, we can start on Monday?”
“I can do that. No problem.”
Goosebumps race across my forearms, and I shove my hands into the opposite sleeves of my hoodie to rub them away. I know deep down that Dylan is not the man for me. I’ve always known it. I’m flighty, unpredictable, and used to going it alone. He’s responsible, dependable, and a man of his word. Family is themost important thing in the world to him, which is why he works his ass off at the ranch and refuses to be anything less than the best father he can be. I’m his little sister’s pain-in-the-ass best friend, and if it wasn’t for Daisy, Dylan would never even know I exist.
So, it’s no big deal that I promised my bestie I’d never complicate our friendship by falling for her brother. Daisy was—still is—my ride or die, and Dylan was only ever a teenage dream. But as Dylan holds my gaze across the table and my heart performs somersaults wild enough for an Olympic gymnast, I wonder why that old memory comes to mind now.
three
Poppy
Late the next morningat my mom’s apartment, while I’m scarfing my third bowl of cereal for the day, my phone chimes and Dylan’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe at a trail of milk that dribbles down my chin and drop my bowl and spoon in my rush to get to my messages.
Dylan
Izzy’s in. See you Monday at seven-thirty.
I read the text again while my stomach dips and swirls, and then I feel ridiculous. It’s just Dylan. He’s sent me messages before. Not since I was a teenager, sure, but it’s not like this is a big deal.
I hear myself snort, a performance of casualness for an audience of exactly zero, and then roll my eyes.
Get a grip, Penelope. It’s not like he sent you a freaking love letter.
I set my phone aside and scoop up the last of my Lucky Charms just as the door to my mother’s bedroom swings open. Her soft, generous curves are wrapped in a floral satin robe, her vibrant red curls are piled atop her head, and her polished toes are bare. When she spots me sitting at the tiny round table in the apartment’s eat-in kitchen, she quickly closes the door behind her—a reliable indicator that there’s someone in her bed.
Mona glides over and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Good morning, honey.”
“Barely,” I say with a nod at the time on my phone.
She glances at the old clock on the kitchen wall, the hands reading eleven a.m., and gives it an unconcerned wave on her way to the kitchen. “The bar doesn’t open for another hour. I’ve got time. And if I’m a few minutes late today, it’ll be worth it.”
“Gross,” I protest.
“You don’t want to hear any more?” Mona asks with feigned surprise.
“I heard enough last night.”
Her eyes widen. “You did not. Did you?”
I dip my chin to hide a grin, and she throws a dishcloth at my head. “You rat.”
I wait while she fixes herself a big cup of coffee and then takes a seat opposite me. Her soft robe falls open as she crosses her pale legs, and I admire how pretty and confident she is, even in her mid-fifties.
Mona Golightly was never like other mothers, as much as I wished she would be. My mom ran away from home when she was sixteen, leaving behind a strict Irish Catholic upbringing in search of adventure, and ended up in Aster Springs. My father was a businessman who passed through town one weekend, and I was the result of a one-night stand. While I know Mona did her best and I never went without, I spent a lot of time alone or with the Davenports.
She was in her mid-twenties when she had me, so age isn’t the reason she behaves more like an older sister than my parent, but I can read between the lines. She never wanted kids.
