Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(17)

We split a massive pile of designer tortilla chips with spinach and queso, and everything’s sort of okay for a minute. Mom and Wells are talking about work, so I pull out my phone. I’ve missed a few texts.

From Anna: Ugh, so Morgan’s REALLY upset.

From Garrett: You should totally wear this today. Laughing-crying emoji. He’s attached a picture of a girl wearing what appears to be a helmet cut out of a soccer ball. With holes on the sides. And pigtails. Through the holes.

Obviously happening, I reply.

Then I turn back to Anna’s text. I guess I’m kind of at a loss. Like, I don’t want to be a negligent friend, but I don’t know how to help Morgan if I can’t even talk to her. I think I hate the concept of needing space. What it really means is that the person’s mad at you, or hates you, or doesn’t give a shit about you. They just don’t want to admit it. Like my dad. That’s just how he put it. He needed space from my mom. And now here we are, almost seven years later, at a steakhouse with fucking Wells.

Show her the video where the dog’s owner dresses like Gumby, I write finally.

GENIUS, Anna replies.

“Sweetie, put your phone away, please. We’re in a restaurant.”

“Seriously?” I point my chin toward Wells. “He’s literally on his phone right now.”

Mom narrows her eyes. “He’s confirming his tee time.”

“Oh, right. So it’s like a golf emergency.”

“Leah.”

“I mean, clearly, it’s so urgent, or he wouldn’t be—gasp—on his phone in a restaurant.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she hisses, leaning toward me. “It’s his birthday.”

I shrug and press my lips together like I don’t give any shits at all, but there’s this tug in my chest. Because birthdays are sort of sacred, and maybe I really am an asshole. I’d been thinking of Wells as the interloper, busting in on my Mom brunch with his tiny ears and his Daughtry love. But maybe I’m the one crashing the party.

Wells ends the call, turns to Mom, and starts babbling about handicaps on the birdie par or some other golfy bullshit. I let my eyes drift shut.

I mean, parents sometimes date people. I know this. Moms are technically human beings, and human beings are allowed to have romantic lives. But I have this feeling, suddenly, that I’m on a too-fast treadmill—like things are moving so quickly, I might slide off the back end. I never imagined I could be bumped out of my own family. I feel knocked down.

I feel demoted.

And the thought makes me so tired, I can barely sit upright. Like, even the thought of walking to the car feels like prepping for a marathon. And it’s barely past noon. All I want is to collapse on my bed. Possibly with music. Definitely not with real pants on.

I can’t go to the game. Not feeling the way I feel right now. I can’t deal with Garrett and his try-hard, dudebro act. Like, we all know you’re secretly a dreamy-eyed piano kid, so stop pretending to be a douchebag. And stop messing with my head. Either flirt with me or don’t. Either be cute or not.

I don’t know. I don’t have the energy for Garrett. That probably makes me a jerk, and I should clearly text him an excuse, but I don’t even know what I’d say. Sorry to miss the game, Garrett. Turns out, you’re confusing and annoying and I kind of can’t deal with your face. I just can’t. Not today.

Mom asks me, hours later, if I need a ride to the game.

I say no.

Then I ignore six texts in a row, all from Garrett.





8


I DESTROY THINGS IN MY dreams.

I scream and argue until everyone hates me, then I wake up in tears from how real it feels. Sunday morning is like that. I sit up in bed, feeling battered and alone. And the first thing I see are those six missed texts from Garrett.

Hey, you up there somewhere? I don’t see you!

Yo, are you in the parking lot or something Where are you?

Ok Greenfeld and I are heading to WaHo with Spier and everyone. You should come!

Oh man, I don’t know how I missed you today. I feel bad.

Oh well, I hope you enjoyed the game anyway. Next time, stick around okay lol. Are you going to the play tomorrow?

Holy shit. I’m the worst.

Garrett thinks I was there. At the game, in the bleachers, probably wearing a homemade soccer ball helmet. As opposed to moping around my bedroom, ignoring his texts.

I am such a dick. Like, I’m an actual flaccid penis of a person.

And now I want to lock myself in my room all over again, but I can’t miss the last performance of the play. I’m not that big of an asshole. I don’t even mind the idea of hanging out with Garrett, in theory. But I don’t want to face him. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s apologies. I don’t like getting them. I really don’t like making them.

I think it’s unavoidable.

I dress myself carefully, like I’m going into battle. I feel stronger when I look cute. I zip into my universe dress—the greatest thrift store find of my entire life. It’s cotton, blue and black, sprinkled with stars and galaxies across my chest. My boobs are literally out of this world. Then I muss up my hair so it’s just a little wavy and spend twenty minutes giving myself flawless winged eyeliner. It makes my eyes look super green in a way that almost catches me off guard.