Page 30 of For The Weekend
What I know of Sandy is that she paves her little boy’s way in gold and makes sure she’s there to get him out of any trouble he finds himself in. I’m not about to bring this twenty-two-year-old to my cousin’s wedding, sociopath or not.
“Do not talk to Sandy. I am not taking him to the wedding.”
“Well, who are you taking?”Sheis the condescending one.Sheis the dramatic one. And I’m so tired of being her punching bag, the words are out of my mouth before I’ve even thought of them.
“I’m taking my boyfriend,” I blurt, then immediately slap my hand over my mouth.
“Your boyfriend?” A chair scrapes on her end of the phone call like she’s pushed away from a table. “You didn’t tell me you have a boyfriend.”
I flap my hand at Leonard like he can help me as I flounder to come up with an excuse. He stares at me blankly, so I say, “It’s really new.”
“Since when?”
“Since…a few days ago,” I answer, waving desperately at Leonard.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” my mother asks, but before I need to answer, my savior shouts right next to my ear.
“Eloise! I need you!”
I jerk away from Leonard, rubbing at my ringing ear. “Sorry, gotta go, Mom. Talk later.”
“You—”
“Bye!” I pocket my cell phone and face Leonard. “Next time, not so close.” I stick my finger into my ear. “I think you popped my eardrum.”
“Go get some first aid,” he says, motioning to the door, and I hug him.
“You’re the best.”
He grunts, patting my back. “No, but I know meddlesome mothers. Go. When you come back, I’ll head out.”
Chapter 9
Eloise
Iall but sprint out of the bakery’s front door and crash into Clara. “I’m so sorry.”
She holds her hands up, pretending at being disoriented for a moment before smiling. “God, girl, what are you doing?”
“Panicking.”
“Yes, I can see that. About what?”
“I need a date.”
“Ohh.” She lights up like a Fourth of July firework display and cracks her knuckles. “Yesssss.”
“No, it’s bad.”
“Foryou. Not forme. I love this for me.”
I sulk and push past her to Stone Ink, throwing the door open. “Sloane!”
“It’s too early for you to be screeching,” she says, completely undaunted in her work of inking the ribs of a young woman with a bird and flower. At least, that’s what it will be. It looks like she’s just started, with only the black outline done.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell the woman, hands pressed to my heart. “But I just did something very stupid, and I need to talk to my best friend about it,” I finish, motioning to Sloane.
“I totally get it,” the woman on the table says with a wince. “Spill it.”
