Page 64 of Crazy for this Girl

“And your best friend.”

“And a jerk,” I repeat through a weak scowl.

“Yeah, but I’m your jerk. And you’re my little obsessive Tone Deaf.”

“Oh, really? How’s that?”

“You won’t even divorce me for another woman to marry. You know, with everything you got, that it’s me. You’ll never leave. I’ve seeped into your brain cells and you can’t operate with my presence.”

This dummy.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and begins to walk us toward the front door. “I want ice cream, too.”

“Oh, my God. Isn’t my presence enough?”

“Yeah, but I’ve already seen you. And I’ll get to see you when I’m downing my birthday snacks.”

“Add on that you’re selfish, too. The list is gettin’ a little long here, Cal.”

“Yeah…but you love me anyway.”

“Laynee! Last warning to get down here for dinner!”

LAYNEE: Gotta go. Mom burnt dinner and wants me to go choke on it.

CAL: LOL. What did she try to make this time?

LAYNEE: Chicken, I think. Pray for me. This might be my last day on Earth.

CAL: You need to teach Jonah the Heimlich.

LAYNEE: Seriously, I think I need to. In case Dad chokes when I’m in college, then he’ll be all set.

CAL: Text me when you get back.

LAYNEE: Will do.

Tossing my phone to my mattress, I stride unhurriedly downstairs and into the dining room where Mom is actually wearing an apron like Susie Homemaker.

She must see my confused look because she smiles. “I think we should have home cooked meals every night.”

“We practically do every night,” I reply, meeting Dad’s eyes, who doesn’t look thrilled at all about the fact Mom’s wanting to cook more. Normally, Dad comes to the rescue at meals so we’re able to eat.

“Well, this is an important dinner.” She places a bowl of mashed potatoes that don’t look too bad in front of me before Jonah suddenly hits me in the thigh from underneath the table, seizing my immediate attention.

“This isn’t going to be good, Lay.”

I give him a perplexed look. “What—”

“We wanted to talk to you about graduation,” Mom interjects, taking a seat at the other side of the table. “You only have three months left.”

I lift my shoulders because here we go again. If I had a dollar for every time she was overly invested in my future, I wouldn’t need to go to college. “What about it?”

Mom points to the chicken, and I pick up the plate to hand over to her. “You remember your Aunt Sharon?”

I shake my head. “Should I?”

“Beatrice, she hasn’t seen Sharon since she was a toddler,” Dad gripes, spooning some canned green beans on his plate. “This isn’t—“

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