Sweet (Landry Family 6)

I think about it. Am I mad? Not really. Should I be? Maybe.

“Want anything else to drink?” she asks as she climbs off the chair wedged between the sofa and the wall. “I need another water.”

“Nope. I’m good.”

She walks across the tiny living room and into the even smaller kitchen. Then she pulls a drink from the freakishly small refrigerator that somehow meets her needs.

“What can you keep in there? A water bottle and cheese stick?” I ask.

She laughs and flops back on the chair, her legs dangling over the side. “Basically. But it beats going back to my parents’ house and admitting that moving in with Josh was a bad idea. That’s a lot of crow to eat.”

It is a lot of crow to eat. Kinsley’s parents never liked Josh, so when Kinsley said she was moving in with her boyfriend after only two months, they weren’t happy at all. Josh the Jerk, as he’s now known, was an even worse roommate than Marcie. And a douche for dumping Kinsley about six months after she moved in.

The sun begins to set, casting shadows across the walls of Kinsley’s apartment. We spent the day looking for apartments and making appointments to see them. All in all, it was fun.

“You know, I’m not mad,” I say, having had a moment to think it through. “I think I’m more worried about Marcie than anything. Like what was she doing with the money I was giving her for rent? Is she in some kind of trouble? Did I miss a sign somewhere?” I pause. “Will I ever know?”

“I get that. It’s a good take on it. A very Paige take on it.” She smiles. “And how can you be mad when you get to stay with Nate?”

She flops her head back as if she’s going to replay a dramatic movie scene but bops her head on the wall instead. We both laugh.

“How’s that going?” she asks.

“Fine. I mean, do I lie awake at night and listen for him? Yes. Am I waiting to catch him fresh out of the shower with a towel around his waist? Also yes.” I giggle. “But, no, things are going fine. I got there super late last night, as you know, and I felt a little bad about that once I got there.”

“I kept telling you to leave the bookstore! How many times did I text you that?”

I roll my eyes. “I know. I know. I just … internally, I’m not quite the confident bitch that I lead people to believe.”

Kinsley eats another handful of popcorn, her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“So you basically thought twice about stripping down in his office and inviting yourself to his house and felt a little embarrassed by that? I mean, that tracks.”

“Don’t put it like that. Damn.” I laugh. “That makes me sound like a hussy.”

“You are a hussy.”

“I’m a virgin, Kins. I can’t be a hussy. It’s the exact opposite of the definition.”

She furrows her brow. “There’s a definition for hussy?”

“There has to be. It’s a word.”

“Huh. I guess you’re right. It’s just funny to think that you can look up a word like that and find an actual definition. Like somebody, somewhere had to sit down and type it out.”

I stretch out, wiggling my toes, and yawn.

I could curl up and close my eyes and fall asleep. All I’d need is a blanket. But if I do that, I’ll be up in a couple of hours because my neck is tweaked from the couch, and then I’d have to roll into Nate’s late. Again.

Yeah. No, thanks.

“Did you sign up for classes this semester?” I ask Kinsley.

“Yeah. Get this—I have biology, a bio lab, chemistry, a chem lab, a math class, and a physical therapy class of some sort. I’m going to die.”

“You know, I like to be optimistic about most things but yeah. I think you might die.”

She whimpers. “Why did I take three years off between high school and college? What a mistake that was.”

“Well, I didn’t go straight there either. So …”

She grins. “What classes did you end up getting? I know you were debating how many hours to carry this semester.”

I stand, afraid of getting too cozy, and stretch again.

“I ended up with twelve hours, which is just enough,” I say. “I promised my parents I’d go full time because they seem to think I’d take half of the classes, screw off the other hours of the day, and then end up thirty with no degree and no job.”

“Because they know you.”

“Maybe.” I smile. “I really think it’s because Maddox partied his way through school, and they’re worried I’ll follow suit. Even though I don’t party.”

As if summoned by the use of his name, my phone chirps with a text alert. I look at the screen.

Maddox: What’s the password to Mom’s Amazon account?