Seth (Damage Control 3)
Not sure what I want. It still bugs me, though, and it gets worse when I text him ask if we could talk, and he says he has his whole weekend booked with rehearsals and studying.
The whole weekend? Jeez. I stare at the text message, not sure how to react—how I’m supposed to react. As a friend, a buddy, I should send back a “no problem” and a smiley face.
Am I really his girlfriend? Sometimes I’m not sure. Is it supposed to be like this?
Biting my lip, I send off a “have fun” and put my cell down. Take stock of things. It’s Friday. Almost the weekend.
Fred may be studying, but I have time on my hands. I’m a college student. I’m supposed to go to parties and to bars and have fun.
No idea how to do that.
I shoot off a text to Cassie, asking for ideas, and she invites me to a street party downtown tonight.
This girl parties even when she’s down. Or maybe because she’s down? Either way, I say why the heck not?
I’ve worked hard this week to set my life back on track. I might as well party on this Friday night.
And not think of Fred. Or Seth. Or the death of my ballet dream.
Or Mom’s ballet dream. I don’t even know anymore. My heart isn’t as heavy as I thought it would be. I want to have some good fun, maybe meet new people. Literally let my hair down. Feels as if I’ve had it pulled back in this conservative bun for all my life.
Ballerina rules are going out the window. Time to learn to enjoy freedom. Loosen up. Learn new things.
The fact the street party isn’t far from Seth’s place has nothing to do with my decision to join in.
None at all.
Chapter Eleven
Seth
“So your mom was gone for two years, and now she’d back from the dead? What the fuck, man?”
Micah is pacing my tiny living room, waving his bottle of beer about. I sit back and watch him. It feels damn good having someone else speak the thoughts that have been spinning around in my head for this past week.
Fucking bad week that was. Without Manon. With job interviews falling through and calling job ads only to find out the positions had been filled. With potential roommates calling but never actually showing up, and my landlord calling every day to remind me I owe him money. With my little cash close to running out, and no solution I can think of.
Damn, I need a break.
“Yeah, my mom.” I swallow the rest of my lukewarm beer and slam the bottle on the low table. “And she wanted me to bail her out.”
“Jesus Christ.” Micah comes around the sofa and plants himself in the chair across from me. “She’s got some balls.”
“Yeah.” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, survey the line of bottles. “I think we need more beer.”
“Just… what exactly happened?” Micah is still nursing his beer. “When was the last time you saw her, man? Why did you think she was dead?”
Fuck. He’s going straight into dangerous territory.
“Long story,” I say, “and I’m kinda tired.”
“What, is that code for I’m-not-gonna-talk-about-this-so-fuck-off?”
“More or less.”
Micah laughs. He’s a good guy. The golden boy of Damage Control. Not because of the hair. It’s his heart. One hundred percent, twenty-four carat gold. He’s so kind he’s still beating himself up over not believing Jesse when the shit went down with Cassie at Asher’s wedding—over believing Jesse was cheating on his girl. For Micah, that’s serious.
“You can trust me,” he says, and I know I can.