From the Jump(82)

“I guess,” I say, squinting at it. The shop is closed and dark. The streetlight barely illuminates it enough to see the outline of the window’s contents. “What’s going on, Phoebes? Are you not telling me something?”

“What?” She slows, blinking at me with feigned confusion. She’s making her innocent face. I’ve seen her use it hundreds of times, for professors and parents and bosses. She can’t possibly believe it would work on me.

I reach for her hand. “You can talk to me, you know. If you want to.”

She nods but says nothing, and I feel a pang of hurt, knowing her silence doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be said. I can’t push her, though, not when I’m keeping secrets of my own. Still, it stings. She and I have spent more time together in the last few weeks than we have since college. If she’s holding things back from me now, I can only assume she’s been doing the same for years and I was simply too out of touch to realize it.

“I just wanted to get back,” Phoebe blurts out, her hand tensing in mine. “I was having fun with Seth, but I couldn’t stop thinking about getting back.”

“Back to what?” I stop and turn toward her, but she tugs me forward, not meeting my eyes.

“Mac,” she says, her gaze fixed on the Studio Sounds sign in the distance. A bulb on it is has shorted, and it’s begun to flicker erratically. “It always comes back to Mac.”

My breath catches at her confession, and my heart floods with conflicting emotions for her. Mac loves her—it’s so obvious. But does he love her enough?

“You—”

She cuts me off. “I can’t talk about it. If I do, it will be real, and everything will change. Because I can’t keep spending all of my time with him if you make me admit that it’s preventing me from moving on.”

“But what if he—”

She cuts me off again. “He broke up with me once. How could I ever trust he wouldn’t do it again?”

“I don’t think he’d—”

“Liv.” She says my name so plaintively, I break off, despite my determination to finally complete a sentence.

“Seth did have a bit of a sheepdog quality,” I say, giving in.

“Right?” She exhales a relieved laugh and squeezes my hand. “I kept wanting to chuck a bread roll from the basket, just to see if he’d run and fetch it.”



* * *



—

Like last week, Studio Sounds is teeming with bodies. Unlike last week, Deiss is upstairs, mingling with the concertgoers. I spot him the moment I walk in, despite the throng of people between us. He’s leaning against a wall, his head tilted back as he listens to someone in the group around him. In a crowd of restless energy, his stillness stands out. Anyone walking in would know immediately this is his store. Or they’d assume he’s the guy they came to see onstage. I can’t take my eyes off him.

We push our way inside, and Phoebe squeals when Mac appears from nowhere and lifts her off the ground. Deiss looks up, and his smile flashes white against the darkness of his stubble. I grin back, my stomach fluttering.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Simone says from behind me.

My back tightens, and I turn slowly to face her. It’s a bizarre reaction given she’s one of my oldest, dearest friends.

“Hi, Simone,” I say, attempting to move past it. I can’t let this come between us. Even if I have broken the pact, I still believe in the motivation behind it.

“I assume that’s still going on then?” She gestures toward Deiss, and I nod. “A whole week. It must be love.”

“Practically soul mates.” I match her sardonic tone, but my cheeks heat at the sentiment, betraying me.

“Oh, Liv.” The anger seeps from her face, and for a moment, she looks like the Simone I’ve always known. When she speaks again, her voice is pitying. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I say unconvincingly. “It was a joke.”

“You have another week.” She doesn’t say it meanly. Her hand reaches for my arm consolingly. “Two, tops. You’ve known him for as long as I have. You must have noticed the pattern.”

“My aunt has a shark pattern for cross-stitch.” Mac turns around, spinning Phoebe with him. He shuffles closer, pushing Phoebe forward, his arms wrapped around her waist. “She’s going to put it on a pillow and give it to me for Christmas.”

“Like a throw pillow?” I ask, grateful for the interruption.

“I guess,” Mac says. “She just said pillow.”

“You know you can’t have cross-stitched decor in your apartment, right?” Phoebe twists to look up at him. “Girls are going to assume you live with your grandmother and run for the door.”

“Sharks are the best,” Mac says, looking flummoxed. “You like them, right? You said you did when we were looking for them in Africa.”

Phoebe’s eyes soften. “Yeah, they’re pretty cool.”

“Then who cares if it looks like I live with my grandma,” Mac says. “We’ll be happy to have it when we’re watching TV. You always say my chest is too hard to lie on.”

Phoebe grins softly, and I feel the urge to hug Mac. I’ve known him for so long that it’s easy to pretend he’s the same guy I met back in school. He’s not, though. He’s changing, just like the rest of us. The guy he used to be was reckless and only thought about himself. For all his flaws, those things aren’t true anymore. There’s nobody Mac thinks about more than Phoebe.