Page 31 of Darcy
“It’s you!” he cries.
I chuckle. “So it is.”
Malik’s drawn a stick version of me with googly eyes and a pompom drum kit, being showered in glitter from somewhere above. Beside me, Dodger is screaming into a matching pompom microphone, and the others are there too, their names messily scrawled beneath them and their fuzzy pipe-cleaner guitars.
“Looking good,” I praise.
Destiny presses a kiss to his chubby cheek and puts him down. “Go find your dad,” she says, shooing him away with a soft smile.
The moment Malik is out of sight, she frowns into the camera. “Mikey says there’s a man lingering outside the playground at his kindergarten,” she mutters. “I thought you got them to back off, Ethan?”
The bubbles of laughter die in my throat, falling like rocks to the pit of my stomach. “I did. I’ll try again.”
“You do that.” She scowls at me. “Or I’ll go down there myself.”
“Destiny.” I groan.
I don’t doubt for a second that my fierce baby sister will, and that’s the problem.
“Don’t you ‘Destiny’ me,” she retorts. “That’s my boy they’ve threatened twice now.”
I rub my eyes, nodding. “I know. I’ll take care of it.”
“Make sure you do,” she growls.
Then, in true, temperamental baby sister style, she hangs up on me.
I look down at my phone, debating whether or not I should call Arlo.
No. He’s wanted to meet Darcy for years. I’ll give him one hour. Sixty minutes to assuage his curiosity before I drag him back to reality. I’m not sure if that’s more cruel than putting a stop to it straight away, but itdoesneed to stop.
Darcy deserves better than a noose around her neck.
Twelve
Darcy
Ikeep a tight rein on my emotions as I go through the process of booking myself into the hotel, paying out the ass for a room that should’ve been taken care of—thanks, Slate—and making sure to use a fake name to prevent any more mystery cancellations. I chuck my suitcase in my room and head back down the stairs, resolving to buy myself an amazing breakfast to make up for my crappy morning.
Only for it all to fall apart as I walk straight into Arlo, waiting by the hotel doors.
“I’m not an addict,” he begins, following me onto the sidewalk when I refuse to look at him. “I know what it looks like, but I swear to you, I kicked that habit.”
“So Miguel just happens to give you packets of what? Baby powder?” I raise a brow. “Like I said, it’s your life. I’m not judging how you spend it.”
Arlo grabs my hand, pulling me to a stop. “He slipped me drugs, but I’m asking you to trust me. I didn’t take them. I’m off that shit. I have been for years.”
He’s asking for my trust, all while carefully steering around the topic of what I saw. I raise a single brow, daring him to give me a good, solid reason to believe him.
“Come to breakfast with me,” he begs. “Slate’s trying to mess with things—that’s just what he does—but we’ve never met in person before. I’d hate for you to walk away after years of friendship because we gave you a stupid first impression.”
I look down at where our hands are joined, then up into his sunglasses, annoyed at how hard they make it to read him. My heart—which various terrible break ups have proved isnotthe best when it comes to common sense—gives a little pang. Shoving that stupid flutter aside, I try my best to think with my head.
One day, when I’m old and grey, will I regret not letting the gorgeous guitarist take me for breakfast?
Probably. Ugh.
“Fine,” I reluctantly agree. “But just breakfast. And I’m not moving in with you.”
