Page 23 of Hate You, Maybe
“Don’t be an idiot,” Jo scoffs.
“Never,” I protest.
Sayla mumbles, “Always.”
“I loved your production ofFiddler on the Rooflast spring,” Jo says. “Also? You’re definitely pretty.”
“Thanks.” Sayla smiles at me smugly. “I’m so sorry your brother’s an idiot.”
Jo busts out a snort. “I like her already, Dex.”
“Well, she hates me, so don’t get too attached.”
“In her defense,” Jo says, “youareannoying.”
Sayla puffs out a laugh. “Vindication.”
“Hey.” I smirk. “Kendal and Landry like me.”
“I think Mom still pays them an allowance for that,” Jo quips.
“Okay.” I chuckle. “Now Ireallyhave to go.”
“All right, but good luck, you two,” Jo says. “Don’t kill each other.”
“No promises,” Sayla says under her breath.
After the call, we both get quiet for a while, me concentrating on the road, and Sayla focused on her play. The GPS directs us closer to the mountain pass we’ll have to take to get to the retreat, and eventually, my peripheral vision tells me Sayla’s not reading anymore.
She hasn’t turned a page in that play in at least five minutes.
“You feeling all right? Getting carsick?” I shoot her a cringe of sympathy. “I never was able to read in the car.”
Sayla glances up. Hikes a brow.
“Before you make some kind of stereotypical crack, yes, I read, Kroft. And not justSports Illustrated.”
“I’ve heard the articles in their swimsuit edition are excellent,” she says. “But I wasn’t questioning your reading skills. And I’m not carsick.” She shifts her gaze back out the windshield to the tree-lined road in front of us. “I was just thinking about your sister. Jo. She’s really funny.”
I bob my head. “All my sisters are.”
“Sounds like your family’s close.”
I puff a breath. “Understatement of the century.”
“Must be nice.”
“It is. Mostly.”
A furrow forms between her brows. “Mostly?”
I take a moment to debate whether or not to revealanything more. On the one hand, Sayla’s not exactly a friend. Why would I want to be honest with her? Then again, her opinion of me can’t get any worse, so I’ve probably got nothing to lose. And maybe she’ll actually understand me a little better.
“I love my family. A lot,” I say. “They’re great people. But there’s also this lingering pressure with us to be … I don’t know,” I hedge. “Relentlessly optimistic?”
“Relentlessly optimistic,” Sayla repeats. “What does that even mean?”
“It means I grew up with a big sign in our kitchen that readsHappiness is a Choice.” I shrug. “And that sounds good, but choosing anything besides happiness was never an option, you know? It’s exhausting sometimes.”
