Page 87 of That's Too Pucking Bad

“I’m getting you something.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

She stops, crossing her arms. “You don’t have to buy me anything, you know.”

“I know.” I grin, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward a display case. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Her eyes widen as she takes in the jewelry, the designer bags, the shoes.

“Pick something,” I say.

She hesitates, biting her lip. “I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll pick for you.”

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t argue.

I end up getting her a necklace— something simple but elegant, with tiny diamonds that catch the light just enough to make her smile.

“Thank you,” she says softly as we leave the store.

I glance at her, my chest tightening at the way she’s looking at me. “You’re welcome. Now, let’s get out of here before I buy the whole damn store.”

Chapter 18

The house is quiet when I get home. I push the door open with my hip, balancing the bag of groceries in one arm. As soon as I step inside, the sound of my mom’s keys jangling reaches my ears.

“Hey, Mom,” I call out, heading to the kitchen to drop the bag on the counter.

She’s in her scrubs, tying her hair back into a loose ponytail. She looks up, giving me a once-over. “Where’ve you been all day? You didn’t answer my text.”

“Classes,” I lie smoothly, pulling out the milk. “Then I swung by Maya’s for a bit. How are things with you?”

Her brow arches, and she leans against the doorway, watching me like she doesn’t quite believe me. “Hospital’s been a madhouse.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s going on over there?”

“Dr. Benson finally retired— thank God. He was like ninety and barely knew how to hold a scalpel anymore. You should’ve seen the look on everyone’s faces when he announced it during rounds.” She chuckles, grabbing her purse from the counter.

“No way. I thought he’d die in that hospital.”

“Me too. But apparently, he’s moving to Florida. Can’t say I blame him.”

I grin, shutting the fridge. “Guess that’s the highlight of the week, huh?”

“Pretty much.” She checks her watch and sighs. “Alright, I have to go. Double shift tonight. Don’t wait up.”

I wave her off. “Be safe.”

She’s already halfway out the door, muttering something about coffee as she leaves.

I retreat to my room, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto the bed. My phone connects to the speaker, and soon Taylor Swift’s voice fills the space. I crank up the volume, humming along to the lyrics as I grab a hairbrush and use it as a makeshift mic.

It’s just me and Taylor, singing about bad exes and missed chances, when I hear a knock at the front door.

It’s faint, almost drowned out by the music, but it’s there.

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