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“She’s kicking me off the show.”
“You’re kidding,” Will says. “She can’t do that.”
“That’s what I say. I’m going to review my contract tomorrow. But here’s the good news. She called me about an hour ago. She didn’t leave a message, but I think it’s to tell me that I’m back on the show.”
Will doesn’t say anything.
“What? You don’t think that’s why she called?”
“Maybe she called to tell you she was sorry about having to take you off the show?”
I snicker. “You really don’t know Tara, do you? Believe me, she wouldn’t waste her breath on an apology. No, I really think she’s reconsidered. Or maybe some new marketing intel came in. No matter how notorious I am right now, maybe she’s decided she just can’t pass up on the publicity. Who knows with her?”
“I hope so,” says Will, but he still sounds skeptical. “Is that why you called? To tell me about Tara?”
“Actually … okay, don’t get mad, but I’m watching last night’s episode of America’s Most Vicious Criminals.”
“That’s it. I’m coming over right now.”
I laugh nervously because he sounds serious. “I’m in my pajamas.”
“I’m your best friend. I’ve seen you in your pajamas before.”
True. Except I want to be more than best friends. Maybe Will is right. He should come over now. It would be the perfect time to tell him how I feel about him. I glance down at my pajama top. A ketchup stain stares back at me. I’ve just wolfed down a huge burger and two orders of fries (minus the ones I gave Paco) plus a chocolate milkshake. I’m so bloated I could explode. At this point, I fear my own muffin top.
An image of Grace with her smooth blond hair and tight skinny jeans pops into my head, and any idea of asking Will to come over goes out the window. When I tell Will that I’m in love with him, I’ll be nervous enough as it is. I need to look my best. Or at least I need to look somewhat tidy.
“I don’t think you should come over. I’m not feeling so great.”
“Are you sick?” he asks, sounding concerned.
“Not exactly. But I’m pretty tired.” Which isn’t a lie.
“Not tired enough to watch TV, apparently.”
“Don’t pout just because I’m watching America’s Most Vicious Criminals without you.”
“So why did you call exactly?”
“Well … the murder weapon was a knife.”
“Ah.” Will knows how much I hate these kinds of episodes. Gunshot wounds? No problem. A knock on the head? Piece of cake. But there’s something especially gruesome about knife wounds.
“Lucy, are you scared?”
“No. Well. Kind of. More like grossed out.”
“But you don’t want me to come over?”
“I thought you could talk me through it over the phone.”
He chuckles. “Okay, I’ll talk you through it. Number one, turn off the TV. Number two, go to bed.”
Sounds reasonable.
We say our goodbyes, and the next thing I know, Paco is whimpering in my ear. I open my eyes. I’m slumped down on my living room couch.