The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(80)

“Margot, don’t be a dick,” Teague replies.

Forget trying not to cry.

Now I’m trying not to laugh too.

I think I’ve found myself a hero.





Chapter 27


Phoebe


I have the best cat on the entire planet.

He doesn’t do tricks, but he does hit the litter box, and he’s content to sit in my lap while we binge the three episodes of Lola’s Tiny House that I downloaded to my tablet when I was at school before my shift at the shelter.

He’s also an excellent distraction from thinking about missing New York and Giuseppe, my massage therapist, and yes, I miss him enough to remember his name.

But Elmo’s not quite enough to distract me from questioning where I fit in the world.

In New York, I knew I wouldn’t get married for love. I knew I used people. I knew I broke other people’s moral codes to get ahead, and I didn’t care.

It was what was expected to fit in. As a Lightly, I very much fit into that part of my society.

Here?

Here, I care. Here, I have regrets for things I’ve done. Here, it matters to me that a cat might judge me for my character. It matters to me that my algebra tutor is struggling with having a crush on a boy who she’s afraid “won’t like someone like me.” It matters to me that the not-so-cranky lumberjack who just knew which cat to hand me was so very, very kind the entire time he was at the shelter with us but still left with nothing more than a gentle squeeze to my shoulder and a “Good job, Ms. Lightly.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask Elmo.

He looks up at me and makes the most adorable meow I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

And then he settles back in the midst of my crossed legs, activates his little vibrating purr box like if he doesn’t purr he’ll die, and turns his attention to my tablet screen once more, and I realize I’ve missed half this episode.

I could turn the volume up or even go play it on the projector Gigi had installed in the cafeteria for our twice-weekly viewings of Pink Gold. Carter’s out somewhere, or possibly he’s gone into hibernation after not sleeping for the first few weeks we were here.

Tavi keeps disappearing. Probably going to wherever her secret Wi-Fi server is located, and yes, I know she has one. I keep hearing around town that her socials are all updated with pictures of her running in front of the Ferris wheel, or doing yoga by the lake, or drinking weird vegan smoothies in front of a bunch of trees that look Tickled Pinkish, or cutting vegetables in Shiloh and Ridhi’s kitchen—the one in their house, not the café’s kitchen—which is easily the most gorgeous kitchen I’ve ever seen.

I don’t even cook, and I have kitchen envy.

Tavi has other new pictures and videos, too, from Italy and Sweden and Argentina. I’ve seen her every day, so I know she’s posting content she’s had saved up, but I also know she has to be negotiating with Gigi to get back out to her travels so the exotic half of her vegan-lifestyle brand doesn’t dry up.

If Gigi’s in the school tonight, I don’t want to know. She’s picked the art room on the third floor as her bedroom, and her butler is staying in the classroom across the hall from her.

None of the rest of us go to the third floor.

Ever.

I don’t ask what anyone else’s reasons are, but mine revolve around Bridget whispering to me during tutoring the other day that Niles told Anya that he’s been Gigi’s secret boyfriend for years, and he took the job as her butler so he could be closer to her.

It makes me both sad and happy for them.

Happy, because why shouldn’t people be with the people who make them happy?

But also sad, because wherever Niles came from, he clearly doesn’t have the pedigree he needs for Gigi to claim him in public.

I don’t know where Dad is, either—it’s too late for him to be obsessively mowing the grass on the old football field like he’s done for the past four days—but I know Mom was planning to “have mommy time,” which is code for pop a Xanax and sleep off this nightmare.

The Pink Box has started stocking random new tarot decks twice a week.

Pretty sure they’re getting them off eBay and marking the price up, since it’s a given that Mom will insist she needs them.

Mad respect to the proprietors.

But it all means that Elmo and I are totally alone.

Bridget’s stayed with Teague every single night since Friday night, which I know mostly because I’ve been that lame, desperate woman who’s taken up evening walks around the town for exercise as an excuse to see if he’s free and available to service my lady parts.

I try to force my attention back to the show, but it’s hard to watch Lola navigate tiny-house living without thinking of Teague’s tree house.

Teague’s tree house makes Lola’s tiny house look like a dump. Maybe it’s because Lola’s house is blinged out with designer everything, clearly the producers’ method of making more advertising dollars, and Teague’s house is comfortable almost in an old-money kind of way—buy classy quality once, and you’ll never have to buy it again.

Or maybe it’s that Lola films in her tiny house, and Teague lives in his tree house, and it’s the people that make the home.

And maybe I need to quit fantasizing about him.