Page 32 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Josie’s eyebrows draw together. “What the hell was going on in your head when you drew that?”
“I like it,” Natalie says.
“Where’s the actual list?” Hannah lifts the plates to Kiwi when she stops by our table.
I flip a few pages in, and the same mixture of symbols and drawings appears. “This is my list.”
“What’s your list?”
I set the book on the table in front of me, wide open. “I didn’t want anyone knowing my secrets. So, I made it a puzzle. A mix of stuff I was too scared to say out loud.”
I flip to another page, where a broken clock has flower petals instead of numbers.
“What’s this supposed to mean?” Natalie’s interest sounds sincere.
I can’t share every item on my list, but some are harmless.
“Stop waiting for the right time.”
There’s a pause. The weight of unspoken years presses on the table. I guess it wasn’t that harmless.
“Take your own advice and stop waiting for the right time and complete this bucket list now. Let me sit beside her.” Josie disappears under the table.
Hannah whelps when a loud slap hits her leg.
“Move over.” Josie’s voice is muffled.
“Pushing and slapping isn’t how you get what you want,” Hannah says, like she’s talking to her kids.
But she wiggles closer to Celi, who slides into Josie’s seat.
Josie climbs up beside me and takes my book. “Let’s see, what can we decipher?” She flips the page and taps a heart. “What does this one mean?”
I shake my head, sipping my second, or third—is this my fourth—margarita. I’ve lost count.
“I’m not translating for you.”
“Come on.”
“If you’re so invested, you figure them out.”
She grunts, flipping through the colorful and dark pages. She points to a motorcycle helmet next to a fluffy pink scarf and red lips in the visor. There’s also a leather jacket, spiked boots, and a twisted, daring look, complete with a skull ring, black nails, and smudged red lipstick.
I can guarantee right now, it’s not what she’s thinking.
“Wait. Were you already checking this off your list?” She stands up and hops over top of me, her feet smacking the floor.
Gripping my hand, she drags me to the hole in the wall to peek through at the bar next door.
“That ain’t a walkway,” Kiwi snarls. “You go in there, you better be able to run faster than I throw.”
My sisters press up behind me. Josie points at the rugged, broad-shouldered biker I’ve already had introductions with.
Dusty boots.
Leather vest.
Tattoos curling up his arms.
