Page 18 of Coach
“You could,” she said, smiling. “But who else is going to remind you that you’re not a woodworking hermit with martyr syndrome?”
I didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need me to. She was right again. Damn it.
Stevie leaned forward, stealing a piece of my bacon and gave the half-built cabinet another look.
“You’ll figure it out,” she said. “You always do. Just don’t forget to eat while you’re proving it. While you’re at it, try leaving this fucking barn for five minutes. Go for a walk. See a movie. Find arandom dude and wet your whistle.”
“Wet my whistle? Who are you, Popeye?”
She snorted.
“I’m the girl who knows best, like your mother but with perkier boobs and cooler tats.”
I groaned. “Can we please not invoke the image of my mother and her sagging tits?”
She grinned. “Only if you get out a little.”
“Fine, fine. I have a delivery this weekend. Does that—”
“No!” she snapped. “Deliveries are work. You need to do something fun for a change.”
“Work is fun.”
“Said the guy headed for the nuthouse if he doesn’t pull his head out of his ass.”
“Gays like things up their—”
“Enough!” Stevie threw up a palm. “Just try. Okay?”
I grunted something unintelligible. It earned a quick nod and jingle of rings.
And just like that, she was gone. Back out the door, boots thudding on the steps, bag swinging at her side.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the piece in front of me, the sketch clutched in one hand, the half-eaten cookie in the other.
I hated when she was right . . . and shealwayswas.
I wasn’t a hermit, damn it.
I wasn’t.
Not really.
Not much.
Okay, fine, maybe a little.
Damn it, I wasn’t atotalhermit . . . but I was a lot like the frustrating faux Chinese masterpiece glaring down at me: a complete mess.
Chapter 7
Mateo
Iwas raised to believe that brunch was supposed to be a classy affair.
That’s also what Sisi had claimed when she made the reservation and demanded we all wear something that didn’t have holes in it, which I supposed counted as classy for two teachers, a lineman, and a nurse.
