"You don't like her?"
She motions a little. "I like the jazzy vibe, but she's a little… self-destructive, you know?"
Of course, but Sienna doesn't. She really doesn't understand Amy Winehouse's impulse to destroy her life, her relationship, herself.
Sienna is a healthy, functional person.
I'm not.
How could I begin to explain it?
Sometimes you hate yourself so deeply you're driven to destroy yourself.
It's alcohol and sex for me.
Other people cut themselves or starve themselves or drug themselves.
Or do stupid shit that burns every bridge around them.
Sienna's eyes flit to me.
She asked a question.
I didn't answer. "Your sister doesn't mind?"
"I think she likes the pain. After Ty left the first time, she was miserable, but she couldn't admit it to herself. She couldn't admit she missed him."
And she hated herself for it.
Sienna doesn't see it. It's completely beyond her understanding.
And I don't know how to explain it. Not with words and not with musical choices.
I need to get the fuck away from this subject.
I turn to Sienna. "Play something you like."
"There's no way you'll like what I like."
"I watched Ninety Day Fiancée."
"And you hated it!"
"I still watched it."
She smiles.
My shoulders ease. My stomach settles. I'm not here to dwell in my fucked-up choices. I'm here to plan my best friend's bachelor party.
What's it matter that I can't stop staring at her long legs? Or picturing her shorts on the floor? Or envisioning her coming on my hand?
I have self-control.
I do.
"Okay. Fine. But I'm playing the entire album." She shakes her head no way you'll like it, but she stills picks something on her cell.
A peppy pop song fills the room. "Lily Allen?"
She nods.
"You two love your British pop stars."
Her laugh is soft. "Is that why you recognize her?"
"I don't live under a rock."
"So you do know who Billie Eilish is?" She laughs. "Ty can never remember. Indie is always explaining it to him. The pop star with the green hair, with the song—"
"About blowing some arsehole who doesn't appreciate her?"
Her cheeks flush. "Uh, the snaps. She likes them. And the whisper singing." Her eyes travel down my body. "Is that what the song's about?"
"It's art. Open to interpretation."
"You like art?"
"Who doesn't like art?"
She motions it's okay.
"Not everything can be as good as Ninety Day Fiancée."
She laughs. "It's a great show. I don't know why you can't appreciate its brilliance."
"Must be some deficiency I have."
She motions to the speaker. "Do you know what this one is about too?"
"This song? No. But there is one about her wishing her boyfriend was a better lay."
"Did I really miss that? Damn, maybe I should be a lyrics person."
"What kind of person are you?"
"I don't know. Indie sits on the couch, listening to an album on repeat, turning over every word. I listen to the song, enjoy it, listen to the next." Her eyes meet mine. "You're a lyrics person, aren't you?"
"I appreciate them."
"Don't tell me you're sitting in your bedroom, crying to sad songs all night?" she asks.
"Only half the night."
"Really?"
"Sometimes."
"Why?"
"Why do you listen to this?"
"Because I like it. It feels right."
"Exactly," I say.
She bites her lip. "So you… what kind of sad songs are we talking here? Amy?"
"Sometimes."
"Adele?"
"Are you going to name British musicians?"
"Until I run out." She nods. "Uh, Muse."
"They're sad?"
"Coldplay! The song where the guy is on the beach in black and white."
"No, not Coldplay," I say.
"Thank god." She studies me for a long moment, deciding whether or not to keep naming artists. She must decide to stop, because she motions to the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"
"Are you going to offer Cabernet?"
"If you brought some." She pulls the fridge open. "I have coffee, water, diet, ginger ale."
"And the cheap vodka?"
"Very cheap." She taps the freezer door. "It's under two bags of peas."
"You're hiding it?"
"I'm not supposed to drink during soccer season."
"You're not following that advice."
"I know." Her expression fills with guilt for a second, then she shakes it off. "But how often does my sister get married? And I'm not drinking on school nights, so…"
"It's Sunday."
She frowns busted.
"You don't have to convince me."
"You sure?" She motions to my face. "I see judgment."
"I'm surprised."
She raises a brow.
"You text me every Saturday with your run time."
"I do."
"Three times a week over the summer."
"I want to beat you."
"You want to win," I say. "Always."
"And now I'm giving up my competitive advantage by showing up with a hangover?"
"Are you?"
"I don't drink before games. I promise."
"You really don't have to convince me, Sienna."
"I kind of feel like I do." She moves into the kitchen, pours two glasses of water, brings one to me. "I choose Indie over soccer."
My fingers brush hers as I take the cup. "It's not wrong to prioritize family."
"I got scholarships to a few Division One schools. Full rides. I'm a star player."
"Not to brag?"
"To brag a little." She half-smiles. "But I went to a Division Three school to stay close to her."