“I’ll be fine,” I assured her.
“Who wants to be fine all the time?” She snorted, standing and grabbing her bag. “Be crazy. Have a fling. Get that asshat Harris out of your system for good. Nothing like a good romp between the sheets to make you forget the prick and move on. And who knows? Maybe you’ll meet the one.”
I sighed, not quite knowing what to do with this new Emerson. She had turned into the eternal optimist who believed in love and happily ever after.
But some of what she was saying had a kernel of truth. I’d just had a taste of what she was describing with Logan, and Harris’s memory was already dimmer. When I did think of Harris these days, it was with more clarity. The relationship hadn’t been working for a long time, but habit had kept me chained to him. And the fact that my parents loved the idea of us together.
Could a romp between the sheets with Logan exorcise my ex totally? Tempting. Too bad it couldn’t happen. Any other guy, maybe. But not Logan. It would be difficult to have a fling with Reece’s younger brother and keep it uncomplicated.
She pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “You staying here for the summer is going to be good for you.”
“Yeah?” I asked as she moved to the door.
“Yeah. Look. You’ve played the perfect girlfriend, the perfect daughter forever. Maybe you need to spend the summer and just find the perfect you.” She smiled at me to soften her words—as though she knew they stung. And they did.
I’d always viewed myself as strong, smart, and independent, but she’d just called me out. I was a fake—not nearly as independent as I had pretended to be. I could think of no reply.
“I’ll text you,” she said, her smile soft and encouraging.
I nodded, her words tumbling through me with a truth that I didn’t want to acknowledge. And yet she’d thrown them out there, forcing me to see them. “Bye.”
The door clicked shut after her. Alone in our empty suite, I fell back on the bare mattress and stared at the ceiling, confronting the idea of me being someone else this summer. A girl who didn’t have to worry about what her parents thought. A girl without a hovering boyfriend.
I could be anyone I wanted.
Chapter 7
I’D BEEN TO REECE’S apartment above Mulvaney’s once before. Pepper had cooked dinner and we’d played cards afterward to the quiet rumble of the bar below us.
The apartment felt like a barren shell compared to that night. They had left the bed, futon, kitchen table, and major appliances. Pepper mentioned they would be buying new stuff for their new place. Even with the basic furniture, all the little flourishes that had made it feel like a home were gone. The photographs and wall art. Reece’s bike in the corner. The books crammed into the bookcase. It felt like an echo of what it had been before.
The bar was a low murmur under my feet as I padded barefoot around the space, unpacking and hanging clothes, stopping occasionally to eat some of the fried pickles that the cook had forced on me as I passed through the kitchen to take the stairs up to the apartment. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to pack on the pounds living above Mulvaney’s kitchen—home of the famous Tijuana Fries, Death Burger, and Fried Pickle Chips with Chipotle Ranch Sauce.
Pepper had made sure I met all the staff earlier when I arrived this afternoon. Those who were on the clock anyway. Mike was the manager. Karla manned the food counter most nights, and the cook, a former cook in the navy, was—unsurprisingly—just Cook.
I’d seen Mike and Karla plenty of times when I hung out at Mulvaney’s—mostly back in the days when Pepper was prowling Mulvaney’s after first meeting Reece. Since Harris and I broke up, I hadn’t been here as often, figuring that any guys I met here wouldn’t be the kind I was interested in. Good, studious types that I could bring home to my parents didn’t hang out at bars. The next guy I brought home would have to be pretty spectacular, at least in my parents’ eyes, to replace Harris. Especially since Mom was still hung up on the idea of Harris and me.
It was after one in the morning when I finally finished arranging the apartment to my liking. I just couldn’t sleep until everything was put away and organized. Emerson called me anal. Granted she was a mess and wouldn’t know what to do with a hanger, but I had been raised to be tidy and organized. It was simply habit now. My mother was exacting. Clothes had to be color coordinated in the closet. Books in alphabetical order in my bookcase. Disorder and chaos was not tolerated. Again, I think it reminded her too much of my mess of a birth father.
Feeling grimy after putting everything away, I pulled my long hair up into a knot and took a shower, enjoying the fact that this shower was twice as big as the showers in the dorm. I let the warm spray of water beat down on my body and loosen my muscles. Once I was out of the shower, I slipped on panties and a soft tank top.
Still feeling a little restless, I curled up on the futon, pulling my fuzzy throw blanket over me, and watched some television.
After the second rerun of The Big Bang Theory, I turned off the TV and tossed out the remaining pickle chips. As I passed the couch, I noticed that I hadn’t put away everything. My guitar, still in its case, sat propped between the futon and the side table. I hesitated, staring at it with a funny tightness in my chest.
When I’d pulled it out of my dorm closet, I had almost forgotten its existence. I hadn’t left it at home because I was worried Mom would get rid of it. She had tried to cart it off to Goodwill a few times over the years, but I had stood my ground and insisted on keeping it. For some reason, she had always capitulated. Mostly, I think, because she never saw me pull it out and play it anymore. That would have concerned her and forced her hand. So I ignored it for many years. Forgotten like an old pair of shoes.
Sinking on the couch, I pulled it out of the case and brought the comforting weight of it across my lap, my fingers caressing the colorful blue-and-green-patterned strap before moving to the strings. I plucked one. The out-of-tune twang filled my ears, and my fingers instinctively went to the knobs, strumming strings and rotating the knobs until the sound was just right.
When I had it perfect, I played a few chords of “Landslide.” I smiled, losing myself in that part of me that I had buried for dead long ago. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t stop myself. For a moment, I let myself go. Surrendered to that part of me . . . the part of myself that reminded my mother so much of my father. The part that terrified her.