Dream On(49)

And I just took it out on Mercedes.

Not that she doesn’t deserve it a teeny, tiny bit—Lord knows she’s been a thorn in my paw since day one—but if she’s telling the truth and Andréa asked her to fill in for me, not the other way around, then she’s right, it’s not her fault.

Petty isn’t a good look on anyone. Next time I see her, I’ll extend an olive branch.

I just hope I don’t forget.





“Are you sure this is the right place?” Marcus asks from the back seat when Brie turns onto an unmarked industrial road across from the empty parking lot next to the Browns stadium.

I reread Devin’s directions on my phone. “I think so.”

“It’s not where I’d choose to throw a party, that’s for sure,” Brie mutters.

We bounce over a set of train tracks and drive past a series of long, low warehouses and stacks of rusted shipping containers until we reach a wide-open area filled with parked cars. The round white towers of a concrete plant rise in the distance roughly a hundred yards away. Beyond the towers, the blue-gray water of Lake Erie glints in the early evening light, countless boats bobbing on its surface.

Brie circles around, and I spot what must be the party. Down a hill from where the cars are parked, dozens of people dressed in their red, white, and blue finest dot a wide expanse of grass abutting the shore. Lawn chairs, blankets, and coolers are set up in clumps, and several people are playing cornhole farther down. Higher up on the hill, a long table is set out with containers of food covered in aluminum foil.

“I take it back. This is pretty sweet,” she says.

We park at the edge of the lot and unpack our blankets and supplies. Brie grunts as she attempts to lift a cooler full of hard seltzers and beer out of her trunk.

Marcus takes it from her. “Here, let me carry that for you.” He offers her a shy smile.

To my shock, the apples of her cheeks flush pink. “Uh, sure. Thanks, Marcus.”

“Anytime. I’ll find us a spot.” Hoisting the cooler, he strides off in the direction of the party with a definite strut in his step. I swing my small blue daypack onto my back, grab the paper grocery bag full of snacks from the back seat, and shut the door.

“What’s going on with you and Marcus?” I ask Brie as soon as he’s out of earshot.

Looping a messenger bag over her head, she gathers a thick folded blanket to her chest and closes the trunk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Pi.”

“Seriously? You’re pulling pi on me?”

Lifting my eyebrows, I tap my toe.

“Uh, fine. We’ve been texting more lately since he came to my panel. I know what you’re thinking, but we’re just friends. Honestly!”

“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think Marcus wants to be your friend. I think he wants to get into your shorts.”

Brie snorts. “Please.”

“You really haven’t noticed the way he looks at you?”

“It’s called polite eye contact.”

“Um, no. It’s called he can’t keep his eyes off you. Like you’re a Popsicle on a hot summer day, and he’s desperate to lick you up before you melt.”

“Sheesh, graphic much?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Well, I don’t see him that way.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not dating at the moment.”

“Still not over Sara?”

“No, I’m totally over her. We broke up months ago. I’m just… taking some me time right now.”

Brie’s a serial monogamist. Before Sara, it was Taylor. Before Taylor, it was Christopher. Each time she gets into a serious relationship, she’s all in—she falls hard and fast, diving headlong into what she hopes will be the end-all, be-all of lifetime loves. Eventually, when the relationship sours or fizzles out, she’s left feeling banged up and alone. This is probably a good thing for her, this “me time.” The fact she’s been single for six whole months is a miracle.

I nod, and we begin walking. “Fair enough, but whenever you’re done with ‘me time,’ there’s a perfectly adorable landlord-slash-bar manager who would love nothing better than to whisper sweet nothings in your ear… and ride the Brie-train to O-town.”

“You’re bad.” She elbows me in the arm, but I don’t miss the way she grins.

Even though the sun hangs low in the sky, the temperatures are still in the upper seventies, and I’m grateful I decided to wear a sports bra under my casual blue-and-white-striped romper. Pausing at the edge of the party, I scan the crowd of people until I spot Devin. He’s talking to an older man wearing khaki shorts, a red polo, and loafers. Judging by his gray-streaked hair and the bone structure that’s nearly identical to Devin’s—same sharp nose, high cheekbones, and striking jawline—he must be Devin’s dad.

I swallow. Meeting his dad is a big step. One I have mixed feelings about, although I’d never tell Devin that. He was so excited when I said yes to his invitation I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was starting to have second thoughts. Formal parent introductions usually only happen after a couple has been dating seriously—and exclusively—for a while. Months, not weeks. So far, Devin and I are neither serious nor exclusive, although that certainly seems to be where things are headed.