Page 14 of Fluke
“I feel left out,” Banks says. “I want random texts too.”
“Want me to send them your phone number?”
He sighs. “No, because I don’t want octopus facts. I want car facts or something.”
“You don’t get to pick, it seems.”
Banks yawns. “I think I’m going to grab a shower.”
I pull my legs down and sit up in the recliner. “Time for you to go home then.”
“You have an extra bathroom upstairs that—”
“Go home.”
“Jess…”
I get to my feet and stretch. “I’ll tell you what. If you go home now and don’t come back, maybe I’ll hang out with you Saturday.”
“Really?” He stands. “Deal.” He turns toward the door. “I’ll go see what Dad’s doing.”
I shake my head and follow him to the doorway. As soon as he’s outside, I lock it behind him.
The house is quieter than I remember. Even with the television on, it feels empty. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had a people-filled day or because two of my brothers were just here. But, for whatever reason, I’m unsettled.
I gather the empty bottles from the evening and carry them into the kitchen. My mind wanders to the pretty,intelligentbrunette I crossed paths with today.
“You have to get a grip, Carmichael,” I say aloud. “You can’t sit around thinking about Pippa all night.”
Instead of focusing on another topic, all I can think of is how her eyes lit up when I whispered in her ear.
“Nope,” I say, adjusting myself and heading for my bedroom. “I’ll stand in the shower and think about her instead.”
4
PIPPA
“To the left,” I say, motioning with my hands. “No,your left, Kerissa. The other left.”
She drops the picture to her chest and looks at me over her shoulder. “This project is turning into a Beyoncé song.”
I snort.
My new apartment in Kismet Beach is everything I hoped it would be.
The balcony off the living room has a small glimpse of the ocean, but the building between us blocks much of the coastal wind. The walls are thick enough to block out my neighbors' sounds. And, best of all, it’s clean—and cheap.
Well, cheaper than every safe neighborhood in Lakely and available rental in Sunnydale.
“There has to be a hack for this,” Kerissa says, climbing off the sofa. She sets the piece of art I bought at Seachella a few years ago down on the coffee table. “There’s a hack for everything these days.”
“I wish there was a hack to losing weight.”
“It’s just mathematics—”
“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t start with it’s just addition and subtraction of calories in and out.”
“But … it is.”
