Some Sort of Crazy (Happy Crazy Love, #2)(6)

“So what’s up? Did you drunk dial me again?” In the mirror, I noticed my cheeks had gone pink.

“I’m perfectly sober, thank you.”

“Then why are you calling me at four in the morning?”

“I’m bored with the girl blowing me.”

“Oh my God.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please tell me there is not actually a girl blowing you right now.” It wasn’t totally out of the question—Miles wrote an insanely popular blog called Sex and the Single Guy as well as articles for men’s magazines, pieces with titles like “Should You Bang the Boss’s Daughter? A Flowchart” and “Butt Stuff for Beginners: A Field Guide.” Occasionally he wrote about topics other than sex, but his brand was built on his devil-may-care, hipster playboy approach to life. And that approach included a lot of banging, butt stuff, and blowjobs.

“No, I’m just teasing you.”

“Good.”

“She’s tied up in the basement now.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“You heading to work?”

I sighed. “Yes. I should be there already.”

“I’m in town.”

“You are?” I turned around and leaned against the vanity. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Miles in person—maybe two years ago? He’d gone to college and grad school out East somewhere and then moved around a bunch, but he hadn’t come back up here very often. Last time we’d spoken, he was living in Detroit. “To your family’s place?”

“Yeah. You busy later?”

I had to think for a second—today was Thursday, which meant Dan had his tennis league after work and I swam at the gym, but after that we always met up for dinner. We hadn’t really seen much of each other this week. Could I break a standing date—for Miles—without causing tension? “I’m not sure,” I hedged. “What time?”

“Whenever.”

“Let me check on something. I’ll text you this afternoon.”

“Good. I’ll have another round with Svetlana here, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Svetlana?”

“Yeah, she’s Ukrainian, some kind of acrobat. I don’t know what the f*ck she’s saying half the time, but goddamn she’s flexible. Maybe I’ll send you a pic.”

“NO.” He’d done that before, and I’d had to quickly delete the pic before Dan discovered it. “Don’t you dare. I’m hanging up.”

I ended the call and quickly finished getting ready for work. On the ten-minute drive to Coffee Darling, the small shop I’d opened downtown three years ago, I reminisced about those us-against-the-world summers when Miles and I had been close. His family’s property bordered my family’s cherry farm, and for as long as I can remember I’d looked forward to those eight weeks we’d have together while his family visited from their home outside Chicago. An only child, he was a year older than me, but about five years less mature, and growing up in a house with only sisters, I’d liked the idea of hanging out with a boy.

And unlike my bookworm sister Jillian or pageant queen Skylar, I’d loved nothing more as a kid than running around outside and getting dirty, climbing trees, swimming in his family’s pool or the bay. As grade schoolers, we’d played pirates or spies or zombies. As pre-teens, we’d had swimming races and fishing contests and went to the county fair together, gorging on sticky carnival food and riding the Zipper or Round Up until we were sick and dizzy. And the weird thing was, as close as we were all those summers, we never talked during the school year. But when he arrived in late June for vacation, it was like we’d never been apart.

Things changed a little the summer after he turned sixteen, when he was suddenly tall and deep-voiced, and his body had acquired the muscular curves and lines of a grown man’s. His face had changed too—it was more angular, stronger in the jaw and cheekbone, fuller at the mouth. Miles is so handsome, isn’t he? my mother would remark. I’d rolled my eyes, because she wasn’t the only female who’d noticed. Miles was suddenly every girl’s crush, a role he relished, hooking up with every pretty girl with a pulse, including a bunch of my friends.

Secretly I agreed with my mother—Miles was handsome, but his ego didn’t need any boosting from me. When we hung out as teenagers, I endured his dirty, juvenile sense of humor and turned up my nose at his flirting, letting him know I was not impressed. Then I fell in love with Dan, which Miles did not understand at all—not only did he think Dan was an ass, but he thought relationships in general were stupid and told me repeatedly that I was missing out on all the fun.

As I pulled up behind the shop and parked my car, I recalled his last summer up here, after he’d graduated high school. He’d been moody and distant toward the end, not like himself at all. When I’d asked, he’d just said he had a lot on his mind, what with leaving for college in only a few weeks.

On his last night in town, he came over to say goodbye, and the memory of that hot, humid night returned to me with startling clarity. For several seconds, I held my breath, remembering how he’d come to my window in the middle of the night, how the wet heat blanketed my skin when I went outside to talk to him, how the air crackled with the electricity of an approaching summer storm. Nine years had passed, but I remembered every single word he’d uttered there in the dark, could still hear the low, raw sound of his voice, the thunder rolling softly in the distance. I’d never told anyone about that night, nor had Miles and I ever talked about it again. Not that anything had happened…