Page 106 of Perfectly Grumpy

“No one knows. I started this book as a secret project. My parents were never supportive of things like writing as a career, and I quickly realized it was very uncool in their world for me to be a fantasy writer. But I decided this was the last summer I would work on it, take one last shot. I’ve been stuck for weeks on how to make it better and thought I’d use this summer to rewrite it.”

“And then my sister asked you to come to the reunion,” she says. “If I hadn’t gotten you involved as my boyfriend…”

“No.” I shake my head firmly, putting my hands on her arms gently. “I was glad to come as your boyfriend. I wanted to be here. You were the one who helped me see the ways to fix it. Every night after I read to you, I made little notes about changes, and then transferred those to the computer the next day.”

“And now those changes are gone?” she asks, looking as desperate as I feel.

“Maybe,” I say, rubbing my hand over my face as I try to think clearly. I need air, space to process this disaster before I do something rash. The rain is getting worse, pounding against the roof like I want to pound my fists against the wall. I head to the porch, watching it come down, and wonder what I should do.

Even if I confronted Bart now, he probably wouldn’t confess to me. It’s possible he could find the document and delete it, which could be calamitous, unless I can restore it from my backupbefore he deletes that copy too. There are so many ways this could go wrong.

Lauren joins me on the porch, staring at the downpour that’s rolling off the roof above us. Even though it’s only evening, the storm clouds have turned the sky an ominous charcoal gray, making it almost as dark as night. “So what’s our plan? Are we going to confront Bart tonight?”

“We might as well wait this storm out,” I say, turning to head back inside. “We can’t exactly march over there in this rain.”

As I shift my weight, my arm brushes the porch railing, catching on something sharp. I jerk back, but it’s too late. A rusted nail, sticking out from the railing, rips across my wrist, splitting it open in a nasty gash.

“Great,” I murmur, clamping a hand over the stinging wound.

“What happened?” Lauren asks, looking over at me.

“It’s just a scratch. I’m fine.” I try to angle my body away from her, but she’s already noticed the way I’m holding my injured arm.

“You are not fine. Let me see.”

I remove my hand as she looks at the cut, her fingers gentle as they cradle my wrist.

“Well, there goes your hand-modeling career,” she says flatly. “Looks like you need a bandage.” She leads me toward the small bathroom, flipping on the light as she rummages through the cabinet.

“It’s superficial,” I say, glancing at it. “Minimal bleeding. You know, ‘tis but a flesh wound.”

“You were sliced by a nail that’s probably older than both of us combined.”

“My tetanus shot is current,” I note.

“Tate,” she warns, “you’re getting a good cleaning, triple antibiotic ointment, and a bandage, whether or not you want it.”

“I’m just saying, statistically?—”

“Statistically,” she cuts in with a stubborn look, “I don’t care. Sit.” She points at the edge of the bathtub.

“I’m perfectly capable of cleaning it myself,” I say, sitting.

“And perfectly terrible at accepting help,” she replies with a small smirk.

I open my mouth to argue, then close it. “Fine.”

She kneels in front of me and dabs a wet cloth on my cut to soak up the blood.

It stings like mad and I hiss, jerking my arm back. “Okay, that’s good with the cleaning.”

“Not even close to good,” she says, squeezing antiseptic onto a cotton ball.

When she applies it, I flinch. “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

She points at the bottle. “Yes, my evil plan to assassinate you with dollar-store antiseptic has been revealed.”

“That bottle is probably thirty years old.”

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