Page 64 of Hot Mess
“Everything,” she said, making a sweeping gesture to indicate her whole house, “in my home, is my business, hon.”
“Nice try. Let’s get to work.” I got up and headed over as she opened the bakery box; I’d eaten a few wedges on the way over, but there were a bunch left.
“What’s this?”
“Lemon wedges.”
“Hmm. You know the only empty calories I appreciate are the ones in alcohol form…”
“Uh-huh. If you don’t want them, I can share them with someone else—”
Summer smacked my hand away as I reached for the box. “Don’t you dare.” She picked up a wedge and took a bite. “Mmmmm. That’s delicious. Who made these?” She peeked at the label on the box.
“Local bakery,” I said casually.
She narrowed her eyes at me as she enjoyed her lemon wedge. “Since when do you pick up bakery treats for me on your way over here?”
“I don’t,” I said. “Share them with your friends. I assume you have company coming.”
“I always have company coming.”
“Then let’s get to work while we can.”
She pointed at the silver tray on the counter. “Phone.”
I sighed and slipped my phone out of my pocket, turned it to silent and put it on the tray. She put hers on the tray, too.
“We’re not gangsters,” I informed her as she poured us both a coffee. “We can bring our phones into a meeting.”
“Nope. Not competing with all the bimbettes on your social media apps. The vortex requires your full attention.”
* * *
Two minutes later, I was reclined in the metaphorical vortex. Also known as Summer’s music room and the place where our musical minds met.
Feet up, lighter out, joint in hand.
Summer stood before me with a vinyl record held behind her back. It was her turn to pick the album, which was always a crap shoot. Could be terrifying, could be brilliant.
I lit the joint and took a drag.
“You ready?” she asked, really milking the moment. “It’s a good one…”
“Romance me. What year are we talking?”
“Nineteen ninety-two.”
“Hmm. Dodgy decade for music.”
She laughed.
“Genre? If you say happy hardcore, I’m gonna slit my wrists.”
“Alternative metal,” she said. “Don’t peek.” She turned and slipped the record out of its sleeve, throwing me a dirty look over her shoulder.
“Totally can’t see,” I said, closing my eyes as she put the record on the turntable.
I smiled as the opening of “Land of Sunshine” hit me.
