Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
44
TOLD YOU SO
Aubrey
My friends don’t ask. They don’t have to. The second Dev and Ledger head off the ice to go and get changed, Trina grabs one arm. Ivy grabs the other.
“I have one question. Was I right?” Trina wiggles a naughty brow.
There’s no point denying it. “Yes.” I don’t grumble the admission. I lift my chin and own my choice, right there in the ice rink. “And you were right not only about that but also…” I fan my face. “Holy shit, so fucking good.” I smack her arm playfully. “Like, why did you keep it a secret from me for so long?” I ask, mock annoyed.
Ivy tosses her head back and laughs. “Right. We kept it sooo secret.”
Trina gives me the biggest told you so look. “You were banging them when we texted on Monday.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, picturing that moment when Ledger bent me over the bench in the woods.
Trina points. “Look at you. You’re blushing.”
“Well they fucked me alfresco.”
“Are you a pasta dish?” Ivy inquires.
“I felt pretty—what is the opposite of al dente?”
“Scotta. Overcooked,” Ivy says.
“Yes. That. I felt like a noodle. A spaghetti noodle. Is that normal?” I whisper. I mean, I don’t want the kids skating around the ice to hear us comparing notes on the effects of double dicking.
Trina bobs a shoulder. “Yes, but normal good. And then your new normal. And then you’re like…mama, my new normal rocks.”
“This week has been one huge new normal, then,” I say, already wistful for the new normal even before it ends.
“Or two huge new normals,” Trina whispers.
I smile and Ivy rolls her eyes, then quickly shifts, asking, “But what does this mean?”
I can’t stand thinking about Saturday. I know that’s what she’s asking, so I dodge the question. “It means I need to stretch tomorrow night. If you know what I mean.”
She doesn’t take the bait. “No. What does it mean for after?”
I sigh, feeling a little lonely as I think about after. “It means I wish this weren’t the honeymoon I was supposed to take with another guy.”
“What do I even say to her?” I ask Dev as we enter the venue before the Amelia Stone concert, making our way to the VIP door. Because the tickets are freaking VIP tickets.
Nerves jump around inside me. “What do people say to you after a game?” I hang back with Dev as our friends walk ahead, following a tour assistant. “What if I sound stupid? How many times a day does she hear people gush, I love your music?”
“Babe,” he says, gently. “Just tell her you like her music.”
“Is that what people say to you?”
“Yes, I make sweet music in the net,” he says, straight-faced.
“Seriously. What do you say when fans are all I love you,” I ask, feeling a little desperate. “Isn’t it boring?”
He stops, tugs me around a corner, gives me a serious look, full of understanding and vulnerability. “It’s not boring when someone tells you they love you.”
My heart sweeps up like an amusement park ride. I know he’s not saying those words to me, but still, I feel a little floaty. “It’s not?”
“I like meeting fans. It doesn’t get old,” he assures me.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course. And if she’s a dick, fuck her. Tell her you like her music because it’s what you want to say.” He taps my sternum as if transferring some of his courage to me. “Want to practice with me?”
I take a deep breath. “I love your music.”
His eyes sparkle with pride and maybe something else.
Something that scares me and thrills me.
Something that feels all right and all wrong at the same time. Possibility.
“Good.” He runs his hand down my cheek and adds, “Have fun, babe.”
“Am I babe now?” I ask.
“It felt right,” he says, like he doesn’t need any further justification for the nickname.
And really, he doesn’t.
I grab his hand, holding it tight for a second. “Thank you.”
We catch up to our friends, and I feel a little less jittery. Ledger shoots Dev an inquisitive look, but Dev just gives him a reassuring smile. Ledger nods in return. A wordless exchange, and yet they have their own language about me.
I’ve grown to understand them in just a few days too.
So much of this week has been out of sync with my regular life in San Francisco, which involves waking up for blowouts and balayage, for yoga and smoothie dates, for book club and volunteering at Little Friends.
For lazy Saturdays when I don’t get out of my sweats or my hoodies, when I binge books and TV shows. When I see my mom, or my brother or sister. When I fritter away the day.
That’s my regular life.
This is my temporary, supercharged, high-voltage one. But I’m going to enjoy it because I fucking deserve it.
The VIP experience doesn’t stop with the tickets and special seating. Amelia Stone’s stage manager shows us around backstage, including where the pop star does one of her whizz-bang costume changes. “That’s where she goes from the red sparkles to the jean shorts and cowboy boots, right?” I ask excitedly when the woman gestures to an area just offstage. I’ve watched countless videos from her tour this summer.