Page 15 of Make Me Want it Too

“You’re just still disappointed I wasn’t a girl, and you want someone to go shopping and have spa dates with.”

“Is that so bad?” she asks, laughing.

In the background my dad’s voice says, “Darling, they’re starting pre-boarding.”

“Oh, honey, I have to go. I’ll call when we touch down. We’re staying a few nights in New York before we come home.”

Of course they are.

“Okay, Mom. Tell Dad I say hi.”

She yells at Dad that I say hi, her voice muffled like she’s holding her hand over the speaker.

“Dad says hi back.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

It’s been a week and tonight’s the first night she’s spent down from the loft. Bex came over and all three of the girls are watching a movie on the couch, snuggling under blankets and eating junk food. I try to stay out of their way, tiptoeing around the kitchen to not draw attention to myself and secluding myself in my room.

But they’re watching a sad movie and she’s been crying off and on the whole time, so I’ve been fighting the urge to go out there and turn it off all night.

And I can’t help but overhear when she says her ice cream is all gone, her voice with the tell-tale wobble.

Bex offers her wine. She declines. Then come the hiccups and sobs.

I pull out my phone and order three tubs of the cookie dough ice cream she’s been eating. The delivery cost, fees, and tip end up being twice as much as the ice cream, but I don’t care. It arrives in less than half an hour.

I give instructions to the delivery person not to knock or buzz the door, so he doesn’t startle the girls. As soon as I get the delivery confirmation text, I sneak out and get the bags. But when I give her the exact ice cream she’s crying over, she cries harder.

It’s almost enough to give up.

On day nine, I make a big breakfast again before she has to go in for her shift at the hospital. The works. Maybe there weren’t enough options last time. Maybe there just wasn’t the right thing.

Bacon, eggs, toast, muffins, bagels, fruit, sausage, hashbrowns, fruit and yogurt parfaits with homemade granola—fine, I just dumped oats on a sheet pan and drizzled them with some honey, melted butter, and cinnamon, but I’m counting it. I made Belgian waffles for Livvy because those are her favorite, and I even squeezed the fucking orange juice this time.

Macy comes out, all bright-eyed and beautiful again in purple scrubs. She glances over the yogurt parfaits I made and the way my heart does a little jump for joy is—pathetic, probably. I hold my breath as she reaches for one. If she compliments my homemade granola, I’ll consider my whole week made.

Her hand snakes right past the parfait and she snags a banana. Then she fills up her coffee and adds the same one, two count of vanilla creamer. She takes a strawberry yogurt and stuffs a few granola bars into her pockets.

And then she’s gone.

Again.

That night I’m lounging on the couch, scrolling on my phone. I have more than a few texts and DMs from girls I’ve left on read. That’s not typically like me. It’s not really been a conscious decision. I simply haven’t wanted to hang out with or even chat with anyone else. Not while Macy’s staying here.

She’s occupied all my thoughts lately.

It’s not even that I have my sights on her. I’m not trying to swoop in and seduce her now that she’s single or anything. I just want to hang out with her.

I’ve secretly hoped we could go back to where we left off at that first party before she met Spencer. Before she became stand-offish toward me. Before, I’m sure, he fed her all his one-sided stories about me. He’s never liked me.

But that was wishful thinking.

Noah and Livvy are working at his tattoo shop. It’s almost nine and I’ve been alone all night. I hate being alone.

Fuck it.

I start typing a message back to Ashlynne—we’ve gone out a couple times and she’s good company—when Macy walks in the door.

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