Needy Little Things(39)
“If this is you finally getting the courage to ask her out, I’m afraid you’re too late. She’s dating Jed. Speaking of, Jed stays on Instagram. He has a lot of followers. I’ll definitely get him to share some posts about Deja.”
“Thanks so much, Fitz. That’d be really helpful. I gotta run, but send me some pics of you and Crystelle once you make her your fiancée! Can’t believe I never met her.”
“Will do, Ri. Take care.”
I hang up feeling a little worried for Fitz. If I were him, I would have been done with Crystelle the second all the messy rumors about her cheating were confirmed. He always seemed way too caught up on that girl. But maybe I just don’t get it. I’ve had my share of crushes—hell, I’ve got a big inconvenient one right now—but romantic relationships are as foreign to me as the stuff Dr. Stone scribbles on the whiteboard each day.
CHAPTER 16
Jude joins me at his car. “Check your email,” he says.
Concerned by the look on his face, I quickly tap over to my Mail app, where one new message from Ms. Jess sits waiting.
From: Jessica Kent [email protected]
To: Sariyah Lee Bryant [email protected], Jude Abrams [email protected]
Dear Sariyah and Jude,
I apologize for sending something so sensitive via email, but in light of recent events, I hope you’ll be understanding. My mother has been ill for quite a while now and I’ve put off visiting her for too long. I need some time away, so I’ve decided her home in Savannah is as good as any other for me to gather my bearings. Unfortunately, this means that Sweet Pea’s will be closed indefinitely. Since this is coming on such short notice, and at no fault of either of yours, your next paycheck will include the wages for all the hours I had you each scheduled for this week.
Be Blessed,
Jessica Kent
Owner and CEO of Sweet Pea’s Ice Creams
Atlanta, Georgia
Find us on Instagram!
I read the line about neither of us being at fault several times, but it doesn’t make it any more believable. Not after yesterday at the park. Not after the way she looked at me. Not after what she said.
I lock my phone and put it in my pocket. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
He agrees with me without truly understanding what he’s agreeing with, but it makes me feel better anyway. Makes me feel validated in carrying the blame. Not that I need anyone’s permission. I’d be carrying it either way.
“I want to visit Philly again. Give my condolences.”
Jude hesitates, only pulling his car keys halfway from his pocket.
“You don’t think I should.”
“No. But I suspect you’re going to do it anyway, so I’ll drive you.” He unlocks the doors and we get inside. “I know I’ve said this several times already, but in case you forgot, what happened to Danny isn’t your fault.”
I turn away from him and stare out the window.
“It’s not,” he insists. “You say it all the time. You can’t predict how people will use what you give them. You aren’t picking and choosing what to pull from Santa Bag. It’s their need. It’s nice of you to give this man condolences, but I hope you don’t feel indebted or something.”
“I don’t,” I say, even though I do. He’s incapable of fully grasping my perspective. Everyone else on the planet is, too.
* * *
Philly opens the door for me, television remote gripped in one hand, his cane in the other. He immediately turns around, heading back down the hall to the kitchen. “Knew you’d come.”
“I can’t stay long. My friend is waiting for me.”
We sit at the tiny kitchen table. My arms stick to the plastic tablecloth. It’s quiet for a moment and then we speak at the same time. Me paying my respects; him telling me he’s already used everything I gave him last time I was here.
“Hold on one sec.” He shuffles out of the room and returns with a dusty shoebox. He opens it and inside are at least two dozen old-fashioned steel hair combs. “My mother used to collect them. She was a mean old bag. Gonna see what I can get for ’em at the pawn shop, but this one is for you. To show my appreciation.”
He passes me one that’s been neatly repaired with some of the gems I gave him the other day. It’s small, but heavy. Pretty, too, but not really my style and the pointy teeth seem like they’d scratch the mess out of my scalp. “Thank you, Philly.”
“It’s nothing. You want some tea?” He lifts a plastic pitcher, undissolved sugar swimming at the bottom.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” He fills his battered Braves cup to the brim, chugs half of it, then tops it off again. “Never did get to make it up to see him in the hospital, but I spoke to him yesterday afternoon. He sounded good. Like he always sounds. I wasn’t thinking it’d be my last chance to talk to him.” He swipes a tear from the corner of his eye and sniffs.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“You love apologizing for things that don’t got nothing to do with you, don’t you?”
“That’s the thing, though. It does have something to do with me.”