Page 119 of Can't Always Get What You Want

SOS!

I launch off the couch, my body moving before my brain can catch up with it. I race to my bedroom like a tornado, yanking open the closet doors and digging through piles of clean laundry I never got around to folding.

I hate laundry…

My hands move on autopilot—sweatpants? Joggers? No,jeans.Hoodie? Wait—no, too warm.

Hair?

Still a mess.

Ugh, it's a damn disaster.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror affixed to the wall, running a brush through my tangled bun, trying to lookpresentablewithout looking like I triedtoo hard.

We all know this is a delicate art.

If Luca is sick. Or hurting—even if he won’t say it out loud—I would like to be there. I NEED TO BE THERE FOR MY MAN! and don’t care if he looks like hell or smells like barf and Gatorade!

Hear me roar!

I want to be the one who shows up for him.

I am bringing loyalty, a newfound emotional stability, and possibly—Pedialyte.

Grabbing my keys from the table next to my front door, I shove my phone in my jeans pocket. I am a woman on a rescue mission. No cape, just high-key anxiety and determination.

I go to my location app and pull up my last location—his house—poke on the address and let the navigator guide me.

It takes forever.

Every slow driver in the universe decidedtodayis a great day to leisurely tour the city at twelve miles per hour!

UGHHHHH!

By the time I pull up to Luca’s place, my fingers are tapping anxiously against the steering wheel and I barely remember putting the car in park before yanking the keys out of the ignition.

I don’t even give myself a second to second-guess showing up at his place unannounced.

I just beeline up the walkway to the door—which, thank the lord above—is unlocked.

The place is quiet.

“Hello?”

I pause, listening for signs of life. No obnoxious video games blaring. No TV. No men’s voices.

No dog.

Nothing.

Okay. Phew. Thank God his roommates aren’t home. Don’t appear to be, anyway…

When I reach his bedroom door, my hand hovers over theknob. My heart is still pounding. What if he’s asleep? What if he’s mid-vomit? What if he’s actually dying and this is my last chance to be like,I like you I really, really like you.

I suck in a breath, turn the handle, and?—

Luca is lying in the middle of his bed like a prince. Shirtless. Arms folded behind his head. Watching TV like he’s not the reason I practically drove here in emotional distress with electrolytes in my purse and murder in my heart.

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