Page 70 of Wild Eyes
“I thought she was doing better,” Rosie urges.
Tabitha sighs. “Same.”
I watch in silence, feeling like an interloper, who is intruding on a private moment I shouldn’t be privy to.
“And Milo?” Rosie’s face is pinched.
“He’s here. With me, for now. Almost three and running me ragged.”
“For now?”
“It’s complicated.” Tabitha lets out a melancholy laugh. “Erika made it complicated. Becauseof courseshe did.”
“Does it have to do with the big hunk of a man you donated to the bowling team?”
Tabitha’s teeth clench. “Rhys? He’s not a hunk. He’s an overgrown pain in my ass. I’d sooner donate him to the local crematorium than have him in town.”
Rosie whistles, and I stifle a laugh. It’s not a funny moment, but I amentertained by Tabitha’s creative insults.
“Tabby…a month? Why didn’t you say something? I would have helped.”
Her friend’s eyes drop again. “You’ve been blissed out on billionaire dick, Rosie. I didn’t want to burst that bubble. And you know Erika’s reputation in town.” Tabitha’s voice cracks andher shoulders curl down ever so slightly as she wipes at her nose again.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m the only person in the world who really loved her in spite of how she struggled. I wanted to grieve without having to hear people tell me that drug addicts overdose, so it shouldn’t really come as a surprise.” She says it like she’s not grieving anymore, but her body language gives her away.
When her hand flops down on the table beside me, I eye it up carefully. And then I decidefuck it. I cover the top of her small hand with my palm. She shoots me a sweet smile and edges closer, as if being near people who aren’t judging her is a comfort.
I can relate.
“I don’t want to turn tonight into a big, lame public boo-hoo. I’m being a normal twenty-seven-year-old tonight. The restaurant is covered, and my parents have Milo for a sleepover. So let’s turn our frowns upside down and drink too much rosé.”
Rosie and I exchange glances and then lift our glasses for another toast.
And as the glasses clink, Tabby adds, “And shit-talk Rhys because he’s the fuckin’ worst.”
I’m still holding Tabby’s hand as I watch the gears turn in Rosie’s head before an amused smirk forms on her lips.
“You know what we should do?”
Tabitha and I glance at each other and back at Rosie with a shrug.
“Drink this glass and then go shit-talk him in person.”
My heart thunders in my chest because if I’m piecing this together correctly…Rhys is on the bowling team. Bowling is tonight. And going there means seeing West. With his friends. In his element. Not in a quiet barn or around his kids. Somewhere busy and public.
Nerves build, but so does my anticipation.
And I realize I always look forward to seeing him.
When we walk into the dingy bowling alley, the place is humming. Music. Chatter. The loud thump of balls followed by the noisy clatter of pins falling.
But when the door slams shut behind us and heads turn, the noise drops several decibels.
My body heats and my stomach drops. Too many eyes land on me, and all my limbs seize, freezing me in place. No one has asked me anything, so I can’t make an ass of myself by struggling to speak my first language.
Instead, I’m reverting to my babyhood and feel like the ability to walk has fled me entirely.
Pretty challenging to be a performer with crippling anxiety. And just knowing that my life’s work is spiraling because of this newfound anxiety amplifies every feeling of failure.
