Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(20)

“No,” I say, flabbergasted at the offer. “Everyone hates moving. I’ll just be cleaning tomorrow mostly anyway.”

He heads to the door. “I’m a great cleaning guy. Okay, that’s not true.” He chuckles. “But you have to let me help, or else I’ll feel really …”

“Guilty. You’ll feel guilty.” I fist pump in the air. “Thank your nana for turning the tides my way.”

He pulls the door open and laughs. “Vine Street. Just passed Gone with the Wind. Right?”

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, following him a couple of steps out of the apartment.

He faces me head-on. It doesn’t feel awkward like it can sometimes when a guy is leaving after dinner. It feels like I’ve known him forever. Yet when I think about it, I really know nothing about him. I have the comfort level with Peck to ask him whatever I want—for him to offer to help me move—but have all these questions I’m curious to have answered.

So odd.

And so great too.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says softly. “It was delicious, and I look forward to eating more of it tomorrow.”

With a final simple smile, he turns the corner and is gone. And even though I’m now on my own for the evening, I don’t feel alone. My heart is full, and my soul is … content.

If this is any indication of what it’s like to be around Navie and her friends—potentially my friends—I just might be okay.





Eight





Peck



“There it is,” I say, passing the house with the balcony.

I pull up Dylan’s driveway and hop out of the truck. My boots dig into the soft lawn on the side of the gravel driveway leading up to a cute little house. It’s pale blue with dark blue shutters that could use a good coat of paint. There are flower bushes—roses, maybe—underneath the front windows, but they’ve seen better days.

Despite needing a little sprucing up, the place isn’t bad. The roof looks solid. The windows look like they’re in good shape, and it even has a small attached garage.

Dylan’s car is pulled up to the open garage door.

“Hello?” I call out.

Taking a quick gander around, I don’t see her.

I stand in the middle of the driveway and breathe in the clean air in hopes it settles me a bit. I’ve fought myself all morning not to get here too early. After I drank my coffee slowly, I took the longest shower of my life, then checked on Nana, left Vincent a voicemail, and did a quick scope of Crank to ensure Walker didn’t need me.

Not that it would’ve mattered if he did. It just killed time.

Leaving early last night was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because Nana royally screwed up her meds. If I hadn’t shown up, lord knows what would’ve happened. It was bad, too, because I kept wondering if it would be kosher to show back up at Navie’s.

Dylan is just … cool. Easy to talk to. Pretty to look at. Funny as hell. Wanting to spend more time with her isn’t the craziest thing I’ve ever had to justify.

I head up the driveway and enter the garage.

“Dylan?”

The bay where you’d logically park a car is half-filled with trash. Flies buzz the white and black bags that are piled mostly on the far side. I head farther into the room and climb two block stairs and give a door a little knock.

“Who is it?” her voice calls from the other side.

“Peck.”

“Come in,” she says.

The handle is loose as I twist it. The hinges squeal as I push the door open and enter the kitchen.

Dylan is standing at a bar that separates the kitchen from an eating area. Her bright pink shirt and yellow sunglasses tucked in the front don’t match the frown on her face.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”

She gives me a sound that I wouldn’t quite call a laugh. “Peck … This place is …”

I look around. The kitchen is old but workable. The flooring is intact but outdated. The ceiling sports popcorn from the seventies, but many houses here do.

“It’s solid. And we can fix anything you don’t like,” I offer.

Biting her bottom lip, she nods. “Go look in there.” She motions toward a doorway across from her.

I take a peek inside.

Animal hair is thick on the floor—so thick, in fact, that it almost makes a second carpet. There’s fur on top of a dresser that was left behind. The unmistakable odor of cat piss is present, and I’m sure it’d be worse if the window wasn’t open.

“Yeah …” I turn to face Dylan. “That’s rough.”

“It’s like that in the laundry room, and the living room isn’t much better.” Her shoulders fall. “I’m allergic to cats. Like, allergic-allergic. Like, allergic like I shouldn’t be in here at all, probably.”

“What happens to you? You aren’t going to die or anything, right?”

Her lips twist almost into a smile. “No. I’m not gonna die. But I probably will break out into hives, and my lips will blow up like balloons.”

There’s fear in her eyes that’s overkill over a bunch of swollen lips.

“Let’s go outside,” I say.