“That he is. But he’s a bachelor, so isn’t it to be expected?”
I roll my eyes at her sneaky way of imparting information to our conversation.
Libby and I are more different than we are alike. I have dark hair, and she has light. I’ve worked my behind off since I got my worker’s permit in high school at fifteen. Libby, on the other hand, has never held an actual job. The biggest difference between us, though, is this: I’m a pragmatic, and she’s a romantic.
It’s not that I don’t believe in that kind of love, that level of it. I do. I want to. It’s a lovely concept, and I’ve even tried my hand at it a time or two. But it’s hard to buy into an idea—to a way of thinking—when everyone you’ve ever tried to love hasn’t loved you back.
Some of them haven’t even tried. Others were supposed to love me, like my parents, but if what they demonstrated was love, then that’s not something I want.
It has occurred to me that maybe I’m the problem. I’m the common denominator in my relationships, after all.
But any way you cut it, these types of situations don’t work out for me. I’ve not given up on it … but I’ve given up on it. It takes too much effort that will ultimately end in heartbreak to be worth the risk. Besides, I’m good on my own. It’s less stressful to only have to worry about myself.
“How’s San Diego?” I ask, pulling the blanket tighter around me. I wiggle my right foot out of the side. “Is it all sand and sun and spicy margaritas?”
Her laugh is hollow and more than a touch sarcastic. “I’m sad to say that I wouldn’t know. You’d have to, you know, go to the beach or to dinner to know that.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Me either.” She sighs. “Ted has been working in San Diego for, what? Five months? Six? And he loves it here. It’s all he talks about. He’s been dying for me to join him so he could show me around. Now I’m here and he working all night and sleeping all day.”
I shrug. It’s weird to me, for sure. But as soon as I open my mouth to say as much, I rethink it. It’s possible my opinion is tainted by the fact that I’m not on Team Ted. Even if I’m right, it’s not going to help Libby for me to plant seeds in her head. So, I recalculate.
“Maybe he’s tired,” I say. “He has been working a lot, right?”
“Yeah. I’ve barely talked to him the last two weeks. But he seemed so excited in a Ted kind of way for me to get here.” She pauses. “Maybe my expectations were too high.”
“Or maybe he’s finally relaxed because you’re there and his ducks are in a row,” I offer, trying to help her stay positive. “Where are you now?”
“Sitting by the pool by myself.”
“At least there’s a pool.”
“I have a pool in Savannah.”
“That’s true.” I rest my head against a pillow with buttons sewn on it. I’m fairly certain it’s not for use but rather for decoration, but what Libby doesn’t know won’t hurt her. “Just try to relax and have fun. I mean, I’m here to take care of your plants—”
“Don’t you dare touch my plants!” she says with a laugh. “I mean it, Jaxi. I don’t want my little succulents to end up like the poinsettia you murdered at Christmas.”
My laughter rumbles through the air.
I close my eyes and think of the poor little poinsettia my boss at the hardware store got me for Christmas. It was an adorable sentiment from Mr. Kapowski. Unfortunately, I can barely keep myself alive most days, and that cute little red-petaled plant with weird gold glitter on it died before Christmas even came—much to Libby’s dismay. She forced me to post daily updates on its health on Instagram so she could monitor it. It was hysterical.
“Keep it up,” I tell her, “and I’ll love your plants to death while you’re gone. They’ll get water every day, baby.”
She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”
A smile lingers on my face. “You’re right. But only because you’re the only friend I have.”
She snorts, but she knows it’s true.
Libby and I lived down the street from each other for a handful of pre-teen years. She is the daughter of my stepdad’s brother, and we bonded quickly and easily over books we found in her grandmother’s attic and the fact that neither of us really fit in at school. It was the best time of my life. We called each other cousins, even though we weren’t genetically related.
“I’m your only friend by choice,” she says. “It’s not like you really try.”
“I do too. I mean, I …”
My voice drifts off as if it refuses to lie on my behalf.
Libby and I both know that she’s right.
I tried to make friends when I was younger, but other girls didn’t understand me. That or they didn’t want to.
In their defense, I am hard to love. I know that. My shield goes up as soon as a voice is raised. Beer cans thrown at your head hurt, but not as bad as the hateful words slurred with a venom emboldened by a vodka bottle. That’s easy pain compared to watching a new acquaintance you just brought home take in the shit show of your stepdad in a midday bender at four in the afternoon.
That’s a humiliation that never dies. It follows you year to year, in hushed locker room conversations, and in snappy comments made by passersby in the cafeteria.
Honestly, both of those are nothing compared to the devastation of looking at your mother in the midst of the chaos, silently pleading for her help, and having her tell you that the issue is you.
You are a burden. You are the problem.
That’s a lot of crap for a little girl to carry around.
It’s not a walk in the park for an adult, either.
“I know what you could do,” Libby says cheekily. “You could make friends with the boy next door.”
I roll my eyes and try to ignore the way my insides tighten at the thought.
“It’s kind of fate,” she says. “What are the odds that you broke into his house? It’s kismet, Jaxi.”
“It’s not fate. I’m just a dumbass. Besides, your whole giddiness right now is starting to make my stomach a little queasy.”
She scoffs. “That queasiness is probably from the testosterone you absorbed from being around him today.”
I close my eyes again. “Where do you come up with this? Have you had too much sun?”
A bird squawks in the background. “Oh, please. You’re not blind, deaf, or dumb.”
I shove my elbows into the pillows and sit up. “Nope, I’m not. But I am without a permanent residence, have very little in my savings, and my wound is a little fresh from the roller coaster of the last year.”
“So?”
“So, you think now is the time for me to make a play at the guy you’ve made out to be Bachelor of the Year?”
My face heats as I recall the tidbits of things that Libby has told me about Boone—things that I didn’t even realize I remembered.
Like how she watched him help an old man get his cat out of a tree. And how he took all of her freezer items and put them in his when their appliance fizzled out last summer and a new one couldn’t be delivered for three days. And how a lady two houses down mentioned to Libby that it was her first birthday alone in sixty years, and when Libby mentioned that to Boone, he insisted they take her to dinner. He went out and bought a cake that was entirely too big and a huge tub of ice cream.