Page 104 of Score
“We were taking the Thanksgiving break to think about it.” I shrug with deliberate nonchalance. “It’s not like it will be a serious relationship, but it could get messy, especially since we’re working together for the next few months.”
“You’ve always had a way of figuring out what you want,” Daddy says, smiling. “Maybe God will give you a sign.”
“So you saying God is thinking ’bout my hookups?” I laugh.
“I think He’s still involved in your life even if you don’t believe it. He has a way of showing us the way to go.”
“Like a sign?” I shake my head. “I’m not in the habit of looking for those.”
“You don’t have to look for signs,” he says, smiling in that way that used to reassure me when I was young, when I believed he could be counted on. “They have a way of finding you.”
THIRTY-TWO
Verity
“How about another slice of pecan sweet potato pie?” Aunt Roz yells from the kitchen. “Or some of this turkey? We got plenty. I could make you a sandwich.”
From my near-catatonic state on the couch, I groan.
“I can’t eat one more thing.” I rub my tight stomach, grimacing at the thought of putting anything else in my body. “Stop trying to feed me.”
Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text I hope I don’t come to regret.
Me:Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Bellamy. Hope you’re eating me.
When I reread the text and spot the typo, my grin melts immediately and I try to edit.
Why won’t this let me edit? Have I updated my software?
Shit.
Me:I meant I hope you’re eating ENOUGH FOR me. Not… the thing I said before.
I slap my forehead and pray he laughs. This is all so new. We haven’t even slept together and my stomach’s already packed with butterflies.
Though, it could be all that pie. My butterflies have indigestion.
Aunt Grace settles at the other end of the couch and pulls my feet into her lap, gently massaging my toes and soles.
“You sure you don’t want another slice?” she asks. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Thank you,” I say, choosing to take her concern as a compliment. “I’ve been exercising. It’s good for stress and helps manage my moods.”
“You still use that mood tracking app?” Aunt Grace frowns. “I’m sure you’re staying on top of your meds. And you’re in touch with Dr. Baynard, right?”
“Yes to it all.” With a long-suffering sigh, I pull my feet from her lap and stand. “We met a few weeks ago to make sure I don’t need to adjust my meds.”
Aunt Roz marches into the living room and sits on the couch beside her wife, summoned by talk of meds and moods.
“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Aunt Roz asks, drying her hands on a dish towel. “What’s going on?”
“I had a little downswing,” I reply stiffly. “No big. Dr. Baynard and I huddled and it’s all good. Happens this time of year. I just need to stick to my routines and coping strategies.”
“If you need anything,” Aunt Grace says, worry sketching a little dent between her brows. “You know we—”
“Oh, my God.” I split an exasperated look between the two of them. “I’ve worked really hard to build something as close to a normal life as possible for myself. You don’t have to look over my shoulder every five minutes to make sure I’m not crashing out.”
“We’re not,” Aunt Roz replies hastily. “We’re proud of you, but you know a downswing usually means there could be a—”
