Page 287 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Turning to me, his tight lips keep his mouth from moving and saying something that will upset me.
“You are mad.” My head drops, weighing down my shoulders.
I let a beat pass before stepping toward him.
I’m not mad,he signs.But it feels shit to know someone has filled a space that used to be mine.
“Mom set me up on a date, I—” I stop talking when Ambrose’s hands move again.
Three months ago.
“You weren’t here. I had no one to talk to.”
You tell him our secrets?
“No. I talk about other things, and he nods along.”
A silent laugh leaves Ambrose.Do you hear yourself? I’ve known the guy for twenty minutes, and I already know you could do better.
“And who is that exactly?”
It really doesn’t matter anymore. Not if he’s what you want. But he hasn’t looked at you once all night. He’s looked at the shit on his plate and me, like I’m some kind of freak show. I bet that guy couldn’t even tell you what you’re wearing tonight. You deserve someone who’ll see you, but like I said, if he’s what you want?—”
“And if he isn’t?”
Then Mom will be very disappointed.Turning away from me, Ambrose climbs another step. He freezes there, on a newer carpet that’s soft beneath his feet, and turns back around.Does he stay over?
“No.”
A deep, relieved breath expands his chest.
“So, I’ll see you in my dome later?”
There’s a pause, then a…Maybe.
CHAPTER 67
Dollie—age sixteen
Iback away on the sofa in the music room, my favorite spot offering as little comfort as Duggan, who sits at my side. The cushions dent under my weight and Shane’s as he moves with me. Stretched-out fingers invade what I see as my personal bubble of space, and a coating of sweat sits on my brow because of it.
Unable to take it anymore, I twist my head away. “Come on, Shane, enough.”
Looking back his way, his fingers don’t stop waving in my face. His body looms closer than ever, his shadow pressing me down as I lean away.
“Enough.” I push at his chest with gentle fingers, and he bats my hand away with much harsher force, before returning to pester my face.
“I’m a scary clown.” He laughs.
How can he think that’s funny?
“Enough,” I say, my voice louder. “You know how I feel about them. This isn’t a joke to me.”
I’d made the mistake of telling him what happened to my mother’s face in the dining room.
“I’m only teasing you.” He yanks me into a hug I don’t want. I’m plastered to his chest when he adds, “I just want a bit of attention from you. It’s been different tonight. We’ve spent more time with your parents than usual, and we don’t talk as much then.”
“That’s on you. You’re the quiet one.”
