Page 11 of Changed Plan

“We could try the bar in the hotel.”

“I didn’t even think about that. I guess I figured since it was inside the airport, it didn’t have anything other than hotel rooms.” She hesitates. “Maybe other people aren’t thinking about that option either.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

“But I’m not a guest at the hotel. Can you bring visitors into the bar?”

“It’s not a country club, Darby. You don’t have to be a hotel guest to use the bar or the restaurant.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She’s quiet as we walk to the hotel. I’m afraid she might think I was being rude instead of joking with the country club comment. Shit. Eventually, I’m going to stop fucking up with this woman.

“Hey, if I sounded like an asshole before, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No. I was thinking about what you said, but not because I’m mad. It’s a me thing. No worries.”

“Okay. I’m sorry if I made something worse.”

“You didn’t. I’ve never been to a country club, though, let alone been a member of one, so my misunderstanding about being able to use the bar was not based on that.”

“I promise I don’t always come across as a privileged dick.”

“Well, I’ve been told I have a chip on my shoulder. So, like I said, it’s a me thing.”

“And I’ve been told I can be a little out of touch sometimes. Tone deaf in my sister’s words.”

“I don’t think tone deaf applies here. We just met. You had no way of knowing I’d never been in a country club, right?”

“So, I wasn’t tone deaf until I used the phrase tone deaf. I’m hopeless. You should take mercy on me and teach me some social skills.”

“If you’re not a politician, you should consider it. You are very good at spinning the topic. But I can’t imagine you actually being tone deaf, by the way. You’re annoyingly optimistic, but you’re kind. Almost suspiciously kind.”

“Between you and me, I suspect my sister might use tone deaf as a catch-all phrase for anyone who doesn’t agree with her.”

That comment earns me another round of her sexy laugh. It wasn’t entirely fair to my sister, but I needed to make Darby laugh, and somehow, I felt certain that would do it. I know I don’t really know her, but I understand her sense of humor.

She slows and narrows her eyes at me. “How old is your sister?”

I grin. She’s perceptive. “Fourteen.”

“And full of righteous indignation, I bet.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“She sounds great.”

“Because she sounds like you at fourteen?”

“If I’d known the phrase tone deaf at that age, I’d have worn it out. Sometimes, I might’ve even used it correctly.”

“It’s good to know she’ll outgrow it.”

“I did not hear those words come out of my mouth.”

I want to share more about my sister, want to spill all my worries about what it’ll do to her to lose her mom at such a young age. We don’t know for sure how long Mom has left, but she’s definitely getting worse. Doctors always make everything sound grim, though, I remind myself.

Izzie won’t be an orphan. She’ll still have Dad. He’s mellowed some with age, definitely doesn’t seem like the same man who raised me most of the time. But I can’t start talking about any of this with Darby. Instead, I just say, “Knowing Izzie, she’ll probably turn out just fine.”

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