“So, what’s the question?”
I stopped walking. So did she.
I turned to face her. “How do I get her back?”
“You want my help?” Her eyes twinkled.
Did I? Hell, yeah, I did. Luna had promised to be there for me, and she was, but only as a friend. She knew I was sober, and she still wouldn’t let me touch her. Kiss her. Feel her.
I got it. I’d screwed up. And she needed to give me an incentive to keep away from the alcohol and everything else. Especially now, when Mom was gone. But hadn’t she heard her own words at the funeral? If you love someone, don’t set them free. Smother the fuck out of them until they realize they have no chance of escaping. Yup. That was the sentiment I was down with, a method I was willing to try.
“Yeah.” I stuck my fingers in my hair. “Yeah, I want your help, Dixie. That’s the test,” I added. “If you help me, you’re in.”
“And if Luna doesn’t respond to your advances?”
I knew she’d asked mainly to know where she stood, that it had nothing to do with Luna and me, but the idea of failing made me want to throw up.
“We’ll discuss it further if that happens.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t agree to this. I’m about to hand in my resignation. So whatever happens, I want you to promise me I can see you twice a week. Consensually,” she added, which made me want to laugh.
No more of her stalking ways.
“If you wanna meet up, I get to choose where we meet,” I clarified.
“That’s fine with me.” She nodded.
“And I get to tell you when and for how long. We’ll need to do things my way.” I stubbed a finger to my chest. “Because your way proved to suck, Dix. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“So what’s your Luna plan?” I asked, getting back to business.
With all due respect to my gaining a mother, I needed not to lose Luna first.
“Give me a little time to form the perfect plan. Meet you at my hotel at eight? We can order Chinese.”
“I hate Chinese,” I deadpanned.
“Sushi?”
“Sushi is Mom’s and my tradition. So, no.”
“Sorry.” Her face twisted in apology, like she was the one responsible for Mom not being here. “How about donuts?”
“Donuts?”
“Donuts will be our thing. You love donuts.”
I said nothing.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I know?” She grinned.
“Hmm, no. I’m alive, therefore I love donuts. Not exactly rocket science, dude. Carbs and sugar equal oral orgasms.”
“Right. Let me be more specific, then. Your favorite donut is pistachio and vanilla, and you’re partial to plain donuts, too.”
I hadn’t had any donuts in the last few months, so it couldn’t have been something she’d unraveled in one of her stalking sessions. “Now you’re being specific. And accurate. And creepy. How do you know that?”
Although I enjoyed donuts, I also enjoyed having a fucking six pack, and those two didn’t go together. True, I was too young and too active to get pudgy, but Dad and his friends said it’s about forming good habits, so you never find yourself looking sixty when you’re forty.
Anyway, this conversation didn’t majorly suck, so that was an improvement.
“Because when you were in my tummy, you were crazy for pistachio donuts.” She blushed.
I just stared, and continued staring at her, waiting for more.
“And milk. Oh, how you loved milk with your donuts.”
“I drink a gallon a day,” I confessed.
Fuck the haters. I had good, strong bones because of that shit. Also, Dixie was way more bearable than I gave her credit for.
“I indulged you, of course. I got us one every single day. First, I bought a whole thing of donuts in every flavor and took a bite of each. You kicked the holy Jesus out of me when I took a bite of the pistachio. So that’s what you and I had every afternoon. Pistachio donuts with a big glass of milk.”
“That’s…cool.”
“So, donuts and a plan?” She smiled.
“Donuts and a plan.” I nodded.
“There she is.”
I heard a whisper behind my back as I flipped through clothing items absentmindedly. The voice was female. High-pitched.
“Word around town is she broke up with Knight the week his mom died. Heartless, right? That’s after he’d taken care of her for years. He literally had no life other than her.”
“Insane,” another girl gasped.
Sometimes—more often than I cared to think about, actually—people assumed that if I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t hear, either. Or maybe I could hear, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to confront them. I never had. Never would, they assumed. Only today, as I hung out with Daria, her mother Melody, Emilia, and Edie, finding her the perfect engagement party dress, these girls were in for a rude awakening.
“Luna,” Edie called from the crème loveseat in front of the dressing rooms, cradling a glass of champagne next to the rest of the women. Daria was inside, trying on her fifth dress in the boutique. All of us tried our hardest to focus on the garments and not on the fact that we were faking the entire thing, ignoring the Rosie-colored elephant in the room, but I had to take a step back and pretend to look for something for myself so they wouldn’t see me cry. I missed Rosie terribly. More so every day.