“And what do heroes do?”
I choke out a laugh. “They kick ass.”
“That’s right. And you will, too.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m only telling you the truth, Bails. I love you, and I believe in you. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
“I know. I love you back.” I take a deep breath and change the subject. “This hotel is insane. I’ve got a shower big enough to fit all four of us, and a separate tub with jets.”
“What? That’s nuts. I’ve never been in a jetted tub.”
“Me either. And the bed is like three times the size of mine at the apartment. And impossibly soft. Like sleeping on a cloud.”
“Dang, I’m jealous. You said you’re downtown Chicago, right? I Googled it, and that hotel is at least five hundred bucks a night.”
“Good lord, you’re kidding,” I choke.
“Nope. Riggs must be loaded. Paying for the luxury and the convenience, I guess.”
I snort. “Rich people convenience. Like heated bathroom floor tiles.”
“And no-slam cabinet doors.”
“Endless supplies of hot water.”
“Nightlight wall outlets.”
“Self-cleaning ovens.”
“Spoons that don’t bend when you try to dig into your pint of ice cream straight from the freezer.” She laughs and adds, “Freezers that get your ice cream cold enough to bend cheap spoons.”
“How about this one: fog-proof bathroom mirrors.”
“Wait. That’s a thing?”
“Shit you not, V, this bathroom mirror does not fog. I ran the shower on scalding for like an hour last night. The edges fogged, but the middle stayed clear.”
“It’s bewitched.” She giggles. I thought the same thing. “Kelley’s parents don’t even have those.”
“I bet Dr. and Mr. Hernandez do, though.” Can’t tell it from his constant bouncing, but Jesse’s family is hella boujee.
“They probably do,” Ivy says on another giggle.
I sigh, feeling loads better. This girl. I don’t know what I would do without her.
“Thanks for talking me down, Ivy Bean.”
“Anytime, Bailey Bear.” I know she means it. “What are you doing for the rest of tonight?”
“Ordering a thirty-dollar burger from room service and rage dancing until it gets here. Then passing out until tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a plan. Talk tomorrow night?”
“Yeah. Love you. Tell Kelley I said hi.”
“I will! Love you back. Knock ‘em dead tomorrow. Byeeee,” she sings, and then the line goes dead.
I order room service—the burger is actually twenty-six dollars, not thirty—change into some sleep shorts and a tank, and turn on my “Fuck This Day” playlist. Then, popping in my earbuds, I dance.