Page 44 of Wild Love
“I’m sure he’s not ignoring you. Just—well, no, I’m here because he hired me.”
Her lips press together, and I rake a hand through my hair. My dad means well, but he’s fucking bossy sometimes, and we’ve butted heads many times.
“I hear what you’re saying, Senior. But Ford’s a big boy now, even though he sometimes acts like a little one, and if he requires your input, I’m sure he’ll ask. He’s a smart, responsible man, so we gotta trust him to make wise decisions. He’s not actually dumb, even though he’s pretty, ya know?”
I feel like my jaw is about to unhinge. Rosie stares down at the desk, twirling her finger, like she didn’t just pay me two compliments and jump to my defense all in one breath.
“Are you and Gemma going to be out here this summer? Sure would be nice to see you guys. Been too long. Plus, rockstars age one of two ways: Sting or Keith Richards. Which way are you headed? I’m curious.”
I hear my dad laugh through the phone. Not a single fucking boundary in Rosie’s mind. In her head, he’s not the world-famous guitarist from Full Stop. He’s the dad from down the road.
“You’re not as old as them? Well, shit. Isn’t it funny how, when you’re a kid, you view middle-aged people as super old?”
She nods and hums along with whatever he’s saying.
“Sounds good. I’ll let him know. Bye, Senior.” Then she places the phone back on the receiver and looks me straight in the eye. “You owe me one.”
I swallow roughly and nod. “Why’d you do that?”
She seems tired when her shoulders sag and her chin dips down. “Sometimes we need a minute to get our bearings before we have the big conversations, yeah?”
I’m not sure what to make of that. I’m not sure if we’re talking about her or me.
Or us?
I brush that thought away. There is no us. Except in a work capacity.
“Plus, I’m allowed to rag on you, but I don’t really like it when other people do it.”
That sentiment should satisfy me. After all, she and I are nothing more than coworkers and reluctant friends. Or at least that’s all weshouldbe.
It’s with that rule in my head that I round my desk only to stop when the sound of paper tearing fills the quiet office.A quick glance up confirms that Rosie is striding toward me, diary in one hand, ripped page in the other. She drops it on my desk and taps her fingers on the sheet twice before she says, “I owed you one,” and then spins on her heel back to her desk.
I watch her walk away, fingers itching to reach for the page. And when I do, I’m taken back to a day I remember well.
Dear Diary,
I’m having a bad day. Not as bad of a day as West. But it still feels pretty fucking bad to me.
I decided to take chemistry by correspondence this summer. Thought it would be cool to have a spare next year by getting ahead. And chem is hard. For some reason I thought doing it without all my other homework would make it easier. But I was wrong and now I realize that maybe I’m just a big, dumb masochist.
I failed my final. Failed the entire course. Had a big cry about it by myself. Partly because I’m disappointed in myself and partly because I’m dreading having to tell my parents because the report card requires their signature. I hate letting them down.
I almost did it too. Walked into the kitchen with the failing grade sheet in one hand and a pen in the other. Fully ready to apologize profusely for blowing it so badly.
Only to find them sitting at the table talking in very serious tones to West. There was a bag stuffed full of pot right in the middle of the table and Ford was standing in the corner looking like the human embodiment of a cringe.
I’m no chemistry genius. But I’m smart enough to piece together what was going on.
Still, my parents treated me like a baby. Asked Ford to take me out of the house because I “didn’t need to hear about this stuff.” And he’s such a goody two-shoes that he just nodded and obeyed.
We sat on the dock in an uncompanionable silence. Him waiting for West, and me waiting for my parents. I guess he got bored because he finally asked me about the paper in my hand. And I was feeling just sorry enough for myself that I decided—fuck it, I’ll just tell him. I’ve got nothing to lose.
So I did.
I expected him to make fun of me. God knows he probably hasn’t failed a single class in his life. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he took the pen and paper and forged my mom’s signature with alarming accuracy before sliding the sheet back across the dock toward me.
I just sat there staring at him like the slack-jawed idiot that I am while he gazedout over the lake looking debonair and intelligent.
