Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

Putting my car in reverse, I pull out of the lot and onto the street and head to the left. Disappointment flickers when I don’t see him in my rearview mirror.

A loud ring belts from my bag. Stopping at a stop sign at the end of the block, I fish around until it vibrates in my hand. “Hey, Delaney.”

“I was just checking on you. Making sure those Gibson boys didn’t have you for breakfast . . . although I can’t say that would be a bad thing necessarily.”

Sighing happily into the phone, I pull away from the stop sign. “I think we had a breakthrough today.”

“Tell me more,” she laughs.

“I don’t know what happened. He was mad as hell that I was at church and even madder that I went with Peck over to their Nana’s for dinner.”

“You little rebel!”

“It’s not like that.”

“Yes, it is. You flaunted that right in his face like a good girl.”

I roll my eyes hard as I take a left on the road to take me to Merom. “Hardly. I told Nana I’d go and then Peck was insistent and I kind of wanted to give him an opportunity to say whatever he had to say. He did come out to get me yesterday,” I shrug.

“Peck’s hot. He can insist whatever he wants with me and I’ll play along.”

Laughing, I picture Peck with his hands in dishwater as Walker and I left Nana’s. “He’s hot if you like that tall, lanky, blond, loves-his-grandma kind of thing.”

“I do. Sign me up,” she giggles. “So back to Walker. What happened with him?”

“I’m not sure . . .” Taking a deep breath, letting the spicy signature of his cologne soothe me, I work out how to explain something I don’t really understand. “I don’t know what happened, Delaney. We went outside and I told him I was tired of the way he’s so hot and cold. There was a treehouse . . .”

“And you got hot and dirty in the treehouse, didn’t you, you little minx?” she rushes. “I didn’t know you had it in you, but damn it, I’m so proud.”

“I didn’t have sex with him in his childhood treehouse,” I laugh. “He kissed me and whatever it is that drives him to be so wishy-washy came roaring back. But he communicated that with words and not scowls per usual.”

“What do you think it is? Guys go gaga over you, Sienna. I can’t take you anywhere without at least one date offer. I think it’s so odd that he fights himself about you.”

It’s the exact same question that’s been rolling around in my brain for days now. A question I wish I had an answer for.

“Maybe he’s had his heart broken,” I offer. “Maybe he didn’t like me at first.”

“Nah, it’s more than that. It has to be, doesn’t it?”

Shrugging, my buzz from the afternoon evaporating like a puddle of water in the desert, I sigh. “I don’t know, Delaney. Maybe I’ll figure it out after a shower and pie.”

“Okay. I gotta go anyway,” she says, reading my need to stop talking about it. “Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

My phone lands on the passenger seat with a thud.

WHY DIDN’T I THINK of this before?

A dog would cure not all, but a lot of my problems.

They’re loyal. Don’t complain about anything as long as you feed them and give them some attention. They don’t ask for much or have unrealistic expectations and when you let them out to piss, they always come back.

“Yeah, but so does Peck.” Running a hand through my hair still wet from the shower, I pad through the dark house until I hit the kitchen. The light comes on, shining brightly across the room that I need to remodel first. When I get to it.

The thought irks me and I shove it out of my mind and focus on the good. It’s not often I have good to even think about, and today is about as good as it can get. Sienna’s beautiful face takes the place of the dingy linoleum in my mind’s eye and I find myself grinning as I take out a mug and pour a glass of root beer from a two-liter bottle.

There’s no ice because I forgot to buy it on my way home from Nana’s, and I’m too lazy to go back to the gas station to get it. It’s times like these that make me think I should just sell this place on the edge of town and move to a city that at least has a grocery store.

Sipping the room temperature pop, I lean against the counter. For a moment, I consider packing all my shit. I think about what it would be like to start all over again in a new space, maybe even a new zip code, and just leaving everything behind. I only consider it for a second, though, because I know as much as I tell myself it’s what I should do, I can’t.