Page 81 of I Do With You

“Dinner’s ready!” He sets the pan down and turns, finding us on the couch looking at him like we did when he busted us drinking his beers when we were seventeen. “There’s my girl!” he says with a tentative grin, the reminder of us being a two-for-one deal extra sweet, given the last few weeks of drama. It only takes him a heartbeat longer to fully admit to himself that we’re up to something. “Lorie! Help! They’re plotting again.”

Mom pops out from the bedroom. “Plotting what?”

“Hope finally got her head out of her ass,” Joy announces. She holds her arm out, taking a bow. “You’re welcome.”

“Really?” Mom asks, looking hopeful.

“Sean the Asshole sent her a plane ticket for tomorrow and a meet location in LA,” Joy answers Mom for me. Then, to me, she adds, “You want to not know what today or tomorrow holds? Go get him, sis. It sounds like he would definitely be an adventure.”

Her eyes dance with the pointed tease, and Dad’s gaze narrows. “What does that mean?”

Joy didn’t tell them. She did all that research and has known Ben’s secret but kept it safe. For me. I throw myself into her arms, hugging her tightly. “Thank you.”

“Wait, I have one question first,” Dad says. “I’ve seen how torn up you’ve been. You don’t have to tell us why if you don’t want to, but is what he did worth what you’re going through?” I start to answer, and he holds up a finger, not done. “If so, fine. Go through it because the pain will eventually get better. But if not, you’re wasting days when you could be working things out. Build wisely on solid ground, and it’ll be your foundation for a happy life,” he says, bastardizing his own saying. “So is whatever mistake he made worth it?”

I blink, not expecting Dad to be so ... deep. I mean, he’s not a superficial guy. But he’s not known for long monologues on love, either, which is essentially what he just said, in his own way.

“What if we both messed upandthe ground’s not solid?” I ask, sticking with his metaphor.

“Then till it up, take out all the rocks and crap, add some fertilizer, and replant.”

“Since when did you become a gardener?” Mom teases, sidling up to him and curling into his side.

“Since that daughter of yours became full of shit,” he tells Mom, planting a kiss on the top of her head. To me, he says, “Sack up and go, girl. I like that kid, and he loves you.” That’s the poetry I’m used to from him, but Dad’s blessing means more to me than he’ll ever know.

“Oh my God! I have to pack!” I shout.

“After dinner,” Dad decrees. “I’ve been working on this pork all day.”

The plane ride is uneventful, but once I land, I’m not sure where to go, and I have several hours until the show tonight. But when I walk out, there’s a guy holding a sign that says my name.

“Um, I think that’s me?” I say, pointing to the sign.

“Baggage claim?” he answers. When I shake my head, gesturing to my rolling carry-on bag, he seems surprised.Should I have brought more?I have no idea. But he takes it from my hand and starts walking. Unsure what else to do, I follow him.

“I don’t know where I’m going.”

“I’ve got your itinerary, Miss Barlowe.”

Apparently, Sean’s thought of everything, because the driver drops me off at a hotel, informing me that he’ll return at exactly eight thirty. I approach the front desk hesitantly, but the clerk efficiently checks me in for the reservation I apparently have. Key card in hand, I go to the eighth floor and find my room. It’s nice, nothing fancy, but at LA prices, I can only imagine how expensive it is.

I’ve never been to a club like the Cobra Room, and certainly never to a concert like this, so I take my time getting ready—showering, fixing my hair and makeup, and ordering room service on what I’m assuming is Sean’s card. I pull on Ben’s Midnight Destruction T-shirt, freshly washed so it doesn’t smell like I’ve been sleeping in it for two weeks straight, a pair of black jeans, and low-heeled black booties. I stare at myself in the mirror. “Okay, girl, let’s do this. You’ve got some groveling to do. But so does he.”

I nod to my reflection and head down to the lobby, my key card securely tucked away inside one back pocket and my phone in the other. The driver’s returned as promised, and he drops me off directly in frontof the club, which has an awning emblazoned with a gold cobra. “I’ll see you later?” I ask him.

“No, I don’t have a scheduled pickup for you. Would you like to arrange that?”

I blink. “Uh, no? That’s okay. I’m gonna trust there’s another plan for after the concert, I guess.”

The driver looks at me, truly seeing me for the first time—I think. “Here,” he says, handing me his card. “Call if you need a ride.”

When I get out, I suddenly feel very out of place. I join the line of people waiting to get in, scanning my surroundings. There are people in suits and fancy cocktail dresses and others in all black, with chains, piercings, fishnet tights, and platformed heavy boots with dozens of buckles. There’s quantifiably more black eyeliner here than in an entire Sephora store. Yet here I stand, in my cute little booties, unripped jeans, and pink lip gloss.

Which one of these is not like the others?

“Cool shirt,” someone calls out, and I scan the line to see who spoke. I find a woman a few people ahead of me with neon-red hair and chains going from her nose piercings to her ears, effectively framing her high cheekbones. She points at me.

I hold it out, looking down at it. “Thanks. A friend gave it to me.”

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