life.”
“Don’t start that—“ He begins, but out the corner of my eye, I see Gram coming back.
“Can we not completely ruin the rest of tonight?” I plead in a harsh whisper. “At least for her?”
His expression is conflicted—like he absolutely wants to spend the night telling me how dumb he thinks I am for going with Lucas—but finally, the moment before Gram slips back into her seat, he scratches his fingers through his blonde hair and shrugs. “For what it’s worth, Sienna, I love you, too.”
“Everything is going to be alright. I’m going to be alright. It’s a music tour, not a wedding.”
Because I spend the night unable to sleep, I nearly miss my flight. As I go through the security checkpoint, I try to remember whether I parked my old Mercury sedan in short or long term parking, and it’s not until I’ve boarded my first flight that I realize I left the bag containing the majority of my shoes sitting in Gram’s foyer.
During my layover in Phoenix, I text Seth asking him to check on my car (since he has the spare key) and to send my shoes as soon I get a good address to receive overnight mail.
While I wait for him to respond, I get a Facebook alert. It’s a new message from Tori, one of my closest friends, and my old roommate from my time spent in Los Angeles.
Victoria Abrams: Wait, did I just wake up to read that your ass will be here tonight and tomorrow night? I’m squealing in anticipation, but I’ve got to admit, I’m kind of worried. What’s going on? You’re not taking your job back on Echo Falls, are you?
During my sleeplessness last night, I contacted Tori to let her know I’d be in town for the next 48 hours since Your Toxic Sequel’s tour will kick off in Pomona tomorrow night. I didn’t mention Lucas or my agreement to go with the band, but it would be an ass move to go to L.A. without seeing her.
I take a sip of my lukewarm caramel macchiato and message her back.
Sienna Jensen: Everything is good, I promise. I’m coming to town to see Lucas.
Just like Kylie always does when we’re messaging back and forth, Tori takes forever to respond. When the IM comes through, it’s just one sentence that I know she wrote and rewrote several times.
Victoria Abrams: Is this about that “Ten Days” song that’s all over the radio?
I twist my lips to the side. Of course, Tori would have already heard the song—her daily commute is a bastard, so she blasts music to keep her road rage down. Before I can respond to her question, my phone rings.
“Morning, Victoria,” I answer.
She sounds out of breath when she comes on the line. “So, the song was about you?”
“Yeah, it was.”
The woman sitting next to me grunts and shuffles around in her seat noisily before covering her face with a purple and gold LSU throw blanket. I give her a hard look, even though she probably can’t see it.
“Hold on for a second, Tori.” Grabbing my purse, carryon bag, and my cold coffee, I shuffle to a gate with fewer people. Once I find a secluded spot, I drop my stuff by my chair and put the phone to my ear. “You still there?”
“There’s no way you’re getting rid of me right now.” She’s still breathless, and when I glance at the top of my screen at the time, I see why. It’s 8:05 in Los Angeles, meaning that she’s getting ready for work. She’s got less than an hour to be inside of her cubicle. “Okay . . . are you with Lucas Wolfe?”
It’s blunt and completely to the point, and I can almost hear the words left unsaid: Are you back with Lucas after the way he treated you five months ago?
Bending at the waist, I place my forearms on my knees and glare down at the rounded toes of my yellow ballet flats. “We’re going to give it a try,” I say at last. Tori’s quiet and I can picture what she’s doing right now: she’s half-dressed and sitting on the edge of the microsuede loveseat in the apartment we once shared, nodding her head (which is
“Don’t start that—“ He begins, but out the corner of my eye, I see Gram coming back.
“Can we not completely ruin the rest of tonight?” I plead in a harsh whisper. “At least for her?”
His expression is conflicted—like he absolutely wants to spend the night telling me how dumb he thinks I am for going with Lucas—but finally, the moment before Gram slips back into her seat, he scratches his fingers through his blonde hair and shrugs. “For what it’s worth, Sienna, I love you, too.”
“Everything is going to be alright. I’m going to be alright. It’s a music tour, not a wedding.”
Because I spend the night unable to sleep, I nearly miss my flight. As I go through the security checkpoint, I try to remember whether I parked my old Mercury sedan in short or long term parking, and it’s not until I’ve boarded my first flight that I realize I left the bag containing the majority of my shoes sitting in Gram’s foyer.
During my layover in Phoenix, I text Seth asking him to check on my car (since he has the spare key) and to send my shoes as soon I get a good address to receive overnight mail.
While I wait for him to respond, I get a Facebook alert. It’s a new message from Tori, one of my closest friends, and my old roommate from my time spent in Los Angeles.
Victoria Abrams: Wait, did I just wake up to read that your ass will be here tonight and tomorrow night? I’m squealing in anticipation, but I’ve got to admit, I’m kind of worried. What’s going on? You’re not taking your job back on Echo Falls, are you?
During my sleeplessness last night, I contacted Tori to let her know I’d be in town for the next 48 hours since Your Toxic Sequel’s tour will kick off in Pomona tomorrow night. I didn’t mention Lucas or my agreement to go with the band, but it would be an ass move to go to L.A. without seeing her.
I take a sip of my lukewarm caramel macchiato and message her back.
Sienna Jensen: Everything is good, I promise. I’m coming to town to see Lucas.
Just like Kylie always does when we’re messaging back and forth, Tori takes forever to respond. When the IM comes through, it’s just one sentence that I know she wrote and rewrote several times.
Victoria Abrams: Is this about that “Ten Days” song that’s all over the radio?
I twist my lips to the side. Of course, Tori would have already heard the song—her daily commute is a bastard, so she blasts music to keep her road rage down. Before I can respond to her question, my phone rings.
“Morning, Victoria,” I answer.
She sounds out of breath when she comes on the line. “So, the song was about you?”
“Yeah, it was.”
The woman sitting next to me grunts and shuffles around in her seat noisily before covering her face with a purple and gold LSU throw blanket. I give her a hard look, even though she probably can’t see it.
“Hold on for a second, Tori.” Grabbing my purse, carryon bag, and my cold coffee, I shuffle to a gate with fewer people. Once I find a secluded spot, I drop my stuff by my chair and put the phone to my ear. “You still there?”
“There’s no way you’re getting rid of me right now.” She’s still breathless, and when I glance at the top of my screen at the time, I see why. It’s 8:05 in Los Angeles, meaning that she’s getting ready for work. She’s got less than an hour to be inside of her cubicle. “Okay . . . are you with Lucas Wolfe?”
It’s blunt and completely to the point, and I can almost hear the words left unsaid: Are you back with Lucas after the way he treated you five months ago?
Bending at the waist, I place my forearms on my knees and glare down at the rounded toes of my yellow ballet flats. “We’re going to give it a try,” I say at last. Tori’s quiet and I can picture what she’s doing right now: she’s half-dressed and sitting on the edge of the microsuede loveseat in the apartment we once shared, nodding her head (which is
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