to me.
I know some people brag about living their life without regrets. How ridiculous. We all have regrets. Some of us just deny them better than others. I keep mine in the Closet of Regret, along with the afore-mentioned cuckoo clock, a fresh fruit juicer, and a pair of pink roller skates.
Shayla opened my bedroom door and meandered in, eyes half-lidded.
“Timber,” she said before falling onto the bed next to me.
“Can you be heartbroken over someone you just met? Is that even valid?”
Face-down, she muttered into my blankets, “I’ll buy you a hug. Get ready.” She threw one heavy arm over my body.
I groaned and patted her head, enjoying the feel of her silky, black hair. Since she turned fifteen, she’s been using a shampoo for show horses. Apparently, it gives horses and humans a glossy mane and tail, and though the product never did anything for me, Shayla could be its spokesperson.
Actually, she could be the spokesperson for anything. She’s absolute gorgeousness, from the nail beds of her always-pedicured toes to her full, naturally-ruby-hued lips and her golden eyes. Her skin is like chocolate milk next to mine, and her smile is dazzling, which distracts people from her secret shame, which is her unusually large feet. She claims to wear a size ten shoe, but if you catch hold of one of her new pairs, before she’s filed away or peeled off the size, you’ll find the number eleven.
“Shayla, I dreamed about your grandmother, Clever. She was dancing in her ruffled skirt, doing those high kicks.”
She chuckled and gave me a back pat. My father and her mother are cousins, which makes us some type of cousins, though she came from the fun side of the family. She insists I got lucky on the brains side, but she’s as smart as anyone I know.
“Hit the shower and I’ll get the coffee on,” she said. “That workshop starts in one hour and Dottie gets pissed if people come late.”
What workshop? I was about to suggest that Shayla was dreaming and talking in her sleep, but I remembered glimpsing a confirmation email about a workshop.
“Nooooooooo,” I cried.
Shayla rolled to her side and opened one golden eye, looking like a smug dragon. “You’re more fun after a glass or two of red, and I’m rather charming, if I do say so myself.”
“So, we’re going to a workshop in one hour? Rolling sushi?” My mouth watered at the idea of cool cucumber slices.
Shayla laughed. Her voice flat with irony, she said, “Yeah. Rolling sushi.”
“I want sushi.”
“There’s no sushi. We’re going to learn how to be captivating, and have men wrapped around our fingers.”
“I’d rather have sushi.”
“Sushi doesn’t give hand jobs in the back of fancy cars while a chauffeur drives you around.”
I cleared my throat and pulled myself up to sit. “I guess I didn’t hold back any details last night, did I? Oh, the pain of the bare-assed truth in the morning light.”
She patted my knee. “Don’t be so dramatic. You met a hot actor, and he turned out to be a twatwaffle, and now you’ll go to this workshop and move on with your life.”
“Some life.”
We both glanced around my room, at the stacks of books on my dresser and on the floor.
“Peaches, are there any books left in the actual bookstore?” she teased.
“What did I pay for this non-sushi workshop?”
“It’s non-refundable.” She jumped up from my bed and started browsing through a stack of books. “This looks good.” She flipped to the end to read the last page, as she always does. It makes me want to tackle her to the ground when she peeks at the ending, and I swear she does it half the time just to antagonize me.
I rolled out of bed and took myself to the bathroom for a hot shower and a big glass of water.
As agonizing as the workshop sounded, it was something to do, to keep my mind off Dalton Deangelo. As I washed my hair, I thought about his bumpy abdominal muscles, and how some other girl would be enjoying them.
I know some people brag about living their life without regrets. How ridiculous. We all have regrets. Some of us just deny them better than others. I keep mine in the Closet of Regret, along with the afore-mentioned cuckoo clock, a fresh fruit juicer, and a pair of pink roller skates.
Shayla opened my bedroom door and meandered in, eyes half-lidded.
“Timber,” she said before falling onto the bed next to me.
“Can you be heartbroken over someone you just met? Is that even valid?”
Face-down, she muttered into my blankets, “I’ll buy you a hug. Get ready.” She threw one heavy arm over my body.
I groaned and patted her head, enjoying the feel of her silky, black hair. Since she turned fifteen, she’s been using a shampoo for show horses. Apparently, it gives horses and humans a glossy mane and tail, and though the product never did anything for me, Shayla could be its spokesperson.
Actually, she could be the spokesperson for anything. She’s absolute gorgeousness, from the nail beds of her always-pedicured toes to her full, naturally-ruby-hued lips and her golden eyes. Her skin is like chocolate milk next to mine, and her smile is dazzling, which distracts people from her secret shame, which is her unusually large feet. She claims to wear a size ten shoe, but if you catch hold of one of her new pairs, before she’s filed away or peeled off the size, you’ll find the number eleven.
“Shayla, I dreamed about your grandmother, Clever. She was dancing in her ruffled skirt, doing those high kicks.”
She chuckled and gave me a back pat. My father and her mother are cousins, which makes us some type of cousins, though she came from the fun side of the family. She insists I got lucky on the brains side, but she’s as smart as anyone I know.
“Hit the shower and I’ll get the coffee on,” she said. “That workshop starts in one hour and Dottie gets pissed if people come late.”
What workshop? I was about to suggest that Shayla was dreaming and talking in her sleep, but I remembered glimpsing a confirmation email about a workshop.
“Nooooooooo,” I cried.
Shayla rolled to her side and opened one golden eye, looking like a smug dragon. “You’re more fun after a glass or two of red, and I’m rather charming, if I do say so myself.”
“So, we’re going to a workshop in one hour? Rolling sushi?” My mouth watered at the idea of cool cucumber slices.
Shayla laughed. Her voice flat with irony, she said, “Yeah. Rolling sushi.”
“I want sushi.”
“There’s no sushi. We’re going to learn how to be captivating, and have men wrapped around our fingers.”
“I’d rather have sushi.”
“Sushi doesn’t give hand jobs in the back of fancy cars while a chauffeur drives you around.”
I cleared my throat and pulled myself up to sit. “I guess I didn’t hold back any details last night, did I? Oh, the pain of the bare-assed truth in the morning light.”
She patted my knee. “Don’t be so dramatic. You met a hot actor, and he turned out to be a twatwaffle, and now you’ll go to this workshop and move on with your life.”
“Some life.”
We both glanced around my room, at the stacks of books on my dresser and on the floor.
“Peaches, are there any books left in the actual bookstore?” she teased.
“What did I pay for this non-sushi workshop?”
“It’s non-refundable.” She jumped up from my bed and started browsing through a stack of books. “This looks good.” She flipped to the end to read the last page, as she always does. It makes me want to tackle her to the ground when she peeks at the ending, and I swear she does it half the time just to antagonize me.
I rolled out of bed and took myself to the bathroom for a hot shower and a big glass of water.
As agonizing as the workshop sounded, it was something to do, to keep my mind off Dalton Deangelo. As I washed my hair, I thought about his bumpy abdominal muscles, and how some other girl would be enjoying them.
Similar Books
