Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(48)

“I’m so excited we’ll get to hang out next year,” she says, hugging us both.

My stomach flips a little. It still catches me off guard that this isn’t some random anomaly of a weekend. This is a preview of real life. These places, these people, this strange shot of freedom.

We arrive at Abby’s car, and Caitlin hugs us each again. “Stay in touch, okay?”

She helps us load our bags and leaves, and I’m alone with Abby all over again. I hover nervously near the trunk. “Do you want me to drive?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” But then she hesitates. “Unless you want to, I mean.”

“I don’t care.”

She looks at me.

“Abby, I really don’t care.”

She nods slowly. “Okay.” She smiles slightly. “I’ll drive. You relax.”

I settle into the passenger seat and cue up my playlist while Abby merges onto the highway. Definitely the moody playlist this time: Nick Drake and Driftwood Scarecrow and Sufjan Stevens. For almost twenty minutes, neither of us says a single word. Abby’s clearly in agony. She keeps opening and closing her mouth, eyes flicking toward me. I don’t think Abby Suso is capable of silence.

Sure enough, she breaks it before we’re even out of Watkinsville. “So, do you think you’ll try out for the band?”

“Probably not.”

“Really?” Her brow furrows. “Why not?”

“Because I’m a mediocre drummer.”

“Are you serious?”

I shrug. “I don’t even own a drum kit.”

“So you’ll get one.”

“I can’t afford one.”

Abby squeezes the steering wheel. “How much are they?”

“I don’t know. A couple hundred dollars.”

“Okay, so maybe you could get a job?” Immediately, she winces. “Ugh, that came out sounding really condescending. I don’t mean it like that.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. But yeah, I don’t have a car, so . . .”

“But next year. We’ll be so close to downtown Athens, or maybe there will be stuff on campus. I’m going to try to work next year.”

“Maybe.” I turn toward the window.

“Or,” she says, and there’s this shift in her voice. “Maybe you could make money with your drawings?”

“Mmm. I don’t think so.”

“I’m serious. Have you ever thought about putting some of them on the internet? Just to see what happens?”

“Abby, I’m on the internet.”

“You have an art blog?”

“I’ll text you the link if you want.”

“I want.” She grins. “Leah, this is perfect.”

“Well, it’s all fandom stuff. I don’t make money off of it.”

She pauses for a moment. “But what about taking commissions?”

It’s funny—I’ve thought about it. Sometimes I even get private messages asking about it. But I’ve never taken the idea all that seriously. It’s just hard to imagine someone could look at my shitty drawings and decide to give me real money.

“Or”—Abby glances at me—“you could set up an online store. Maybe you could upload some designs, and then people could order prints and phone cases and stuff.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I actually think you could make decent money, you know? And then you could spend it on a drum kit. It would be perfect.”

“I’m not sure why you care.”

Her face falls. “Because I do.”

God. I’m such an asshole. I know I am. Abby’s literally just trying to help. And her ideas aren’t even that terrible. I mean, how cool would it be to make money from my art? To actually be able to buy shit for once. Maybe I could even help my mom out after I graduate. It’s not like I’m opposed to what Abby is saying. I just feel like being bitchy to her.

Fucked up, I know. But that’s where we are.





21


WHEN I GET HOME, THERE’S a Nordstrom bag on my bed. My yellow dress. I know before I even look inside. My stomach twists as soon as I see it.

I FaceTime Mom at work. “What the hell is this?”

“Wow. That’s not the reaction I was expecting.”

“We can’t afford this.” My cheeks feel warm. “I’m returning it.”

“Leah.”

“We’re not spending two hundred and fifty dollars on a—”

She cuts me off. “Okay, first of all, it wasn’t two hundred and fifty dollars. It was on sale.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She flips her palms up. “Well, it’s true. It was ten percent off, and then I got another fifteen percent for joining their email list.”

“That’s still almost two hundred dollars.”

“Lee, this isn’t for you to worry about.”

“How can I not worry about it?” There’s a lump forming in my throat. Yet again. This is ridiculous. I’m not even a crier, but now I’m spending half my life on the verge of a breakdown.

“Leah, we’re fine. You know that, right?” She rubs the bridge of her nose. “I’ve got all that overtime from last month, and we’ve got another check coming in from your dad—”