Page 162 of You've Got Hate Mail
I shift a glance at Lav. “You okay with staying and learning about chemistry for a while longer?”
I expect the answer to be no, but Lav merely nods.
“You’re sure?” I press.
“If I listen good, Dori will make me a hamburger with spaghetti and meatballs on it for dinner, then an ice cream cone with a brownie on it for dessert, then get me a fruit basket because every girl deserves a fruit basket.”
Yeah. She’s feeling better.
“Epic,” Dori says to her. “Let’s cook.”
“Be good and have fun,” I say to my daughter. Then I nod to Dori. “Thanks.”
She grins again. “Take all the time you need.”
I’m halfway back to my house, taking the path through the grape fields, before I realize I don’t feel guilty for asking for the help.
That I’m not in hyper-responsibility mode.
And I’m oddly okay with that.
Somehow, sometime in the last month, I’ve not only remembered, but come to embrace what this place is about.
Community and family.
I’m smiling as I walk through my front door.
But when I head out after a fast shower and quick change and giving the cat her evening meal to knock on Cricket’s door—from the outside, like a proper date, even though this isnota date—I notice something else about myself too.
I’m nervous.
Afraid that I’ll do this wrong. Whether it’s casual or serious, that I’m fucking it up.
The way I sometimes felt like I fucked up Ava’s life by getting her pregnant.
I look down at the chicken, who’s made a home for herself beside the patio. “Is she ready?” I ask.
The Cluckinator doesn’t answer. Just gives me a tilted-head look, then goes back to eating the orange pulp that Cricket must’ve left out for her in the makeshift coop that I put together for her while Lav was napping this week.
Last thing I need is for my girls—ahem, for my daughter and friend—to get their hearts broken if a predator got to the chicken.
Shit.
Did Cricket text me back when I told her to be ready in thirty minutes?
I didn’t even look.
Does she know I’m ready to take her out tonight?
Does she still want to go?
She sent her message an hour before I saw it, so maybe?—
The door swings open, and there she is.
Cricket, in jeans and a soft olive-green shirt with wide straps and some kind of embroidery along the neckline.
Her eyes are smokier, her lips pinker, and two small diamonds sparkle from her ears.
