Page 33 of The Pocket Pair

The little traitor.

“Oh, good,” Winnie says, pushing one box so the corners line up more exactly with the one below it. “Where?”

She can’t get upset when I’ve got a walrus-like mustache on my face, I think desperately. Then, infusing as much cheer and casualness into my voice as I can, I say, “Chevy offered up his guest room.”

You know the expression, it feels like someone walked over my grave? Well, as the mood in the room takes a sudden sharp turn, it feels like someone jumped up and down on my grave, then dug up my bones and ran them over with a train.

Winnie’s head turns toward me slowly. Almost unnaturally so. “You’re moving in with my brother?”

“Just the guest bedroom,” I say, as though there were any possible way I’d be moving into Chevy’s bedroom. “I mean, obviously not his room. Or his bed. Separate rooms and separate beds! Because he has a guest bedroom. And it’s empty because you moved out. Remember?” I clear my throat. “I’m sure you do.”

“Shut up,” Lindy hisses, and I do.

Kyoko stares between the three of us, clearly trying to discern why I’m babbling stupidly and why Winnie has an intense but unreadable expression on her face.

I mean, Winnie can’t be mad. That would be stupid. And selfish. And—

“Okay,” Winnie says, but her marker mustache seems to be twitching.

“Okay?” I ask, not sure if my ears are broken or just Winnie’s brain.

She opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Lindy yanks a pregnancy test from her purse. She holds it high in the air like it’s some kind of treasure.

Winnie, Kyoko, and I all gasp in unison. I could absolutely kiss Lindy for choosing this moment, providing a distraction and taking one for the team. The team, of course, being me. I’ll go ahead and forget about the part where she pretty much forced me to tell Winnie.

Mostly because I can’t wait to find out if she’s pregnant.

“I’m ready,” Lindy says. “Time to pee on a stick.”

CHAPTER 10

Val

In the fading evening light, I walk as quickly as I can in these heels to the gallery. For evening events, I usually trade my boring daytime khakis and blouse for an almost as boring black skirt or black pants and blouse. Once, I even borrowed a blazer from Mari when Mr. Silver suggested it.

A blazer. Even the word sets my teeth on edge. Blazers don’t deserve their name—which implies fire, action, maybe passion.

Definitely not a boring, stiff, shoulder-padded jacket that made me feel like I’m sixty-five, not nearing twenty-five. I follow a few fashion influencers on Instagram who are my age and can pull off wearing blazers. But I think it must be some kind of voodoo magic. Or a filter. Like the Blazer Chic filter.

Tonight, I’m doing some blazing of my own—like the actual meaning of the word, not the stuffy jacket. I opted to borrow a dress of Lindy’s that’s sleek, black, and shorter than anything I usually wear. But it looks good on me, and the little half-cape attached to the shoulders make me feel like a superhero.

It’s the dress equivalent of a power pose. I feel fierce and battle ready to say those two little words: I quit.

I mean, I already talked to Winnie about living with Chevy and that went fine. It wasn’t even too hard washing off my marker mustache. I am on a roll.

“Blazer this,” I say, channeling Aragorn as I go to push through the double doors into the gallery.

Except—and I should know this since I use this entrance on the daily—they’re pull doors. Not push.

Which means my Lord of the Rings inspired momentum sends me slamming face first into the glass.

So much for blazing. Let’s hope this isn’t a sign of things to come.

My eyes meet Mr. Silver’s through the door. I wait for disapproval, judgment, or—this one is far-fetched and comes from a very naïve part of my brain—concern.

None of the above. Just a total blank expression, like he’s a scantron test sheet without a single bubble filled in.

He does, however, hand me a bottle of glass cleaner and a microfiber rag the moment I pull the doors open.

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