Ever.
“There was no blushing, but he was smiling a lot. And I stopped the chin-dimple pushing before it could materialize—you know, trying to save my sister some dignity. But do you know what the best part of it all was?”
“What?” Larkin asks, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling with humor.
“Palmer didn’t even recognize him.”
“Seriously?” Larkin claps her hands together as her head falls back. “She was that oblivious? I mean, I know he looks completely different from the boy he was in high school, but she didn’t recognize him at all?”
I shake my head. “Not a clue. Then again, she was also inebriated off bottles of wine. I have a feeling when she goes in for her checkup this morning, she’s going to have a rude awakening.”
“Oh man,” Larkin laughs. “To be a fly on the wall . . .”
CHAPTER NINE
PALMER
“Mom!” I scream from my bed, barely able to lift my arm from the weight of the horrendous teal cast encasing it. “Mom! Something’s going on. Mom!”
My head pounds, my forehead stings, and my mouth feels like cotton. Something terrible has happened and I need answers, now.
The hallway creaks, announcing my mom’s approach, and before I can take my next breath, she’s busting through the door, hairbrush in hand, ready to swat at any predator that might have sneaked into my room.
“What’s happening?” she asks, out of breath.
I lift my arm. “What the hell is this?”
“Oh.” Mom lets out a sigh of relief and presses her hairbrush to her chest. “Sweetie, you took a tumble last night. Don’t you remember?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh dear, really?”
“Really.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Ugh, and the headache I—what’s this?” My fingers graze over something gauzy.
“You fell off the picnic table last night, got a cut on your head, and broke your wrist.”
“I broke my wrist?” I ask in complete shock as I inspect my arm. What the actual hell? Was I really so drunk that I don’t remember breaking my wrist? I examine the cast again. I guess I was. “Well, at least I had the presence of mind to choose an appealing color.”
“You don’t remember going to the doctor’s at all?”
“No.”
“Well, that is concerning. Good thing we have a follow-up appointment in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?” I ask, swinging my legs over the edge of my bed. “Were you going to wake me up and tell me?”
“I thought the extra sleep would help you.”
I sniff myself and wince. “Mom, I smell like a dumpster that’s been sitting out in the sun for too long.” My feet land on the cold hardwood floor, and I head to my dresser with attached vanity, where I get a look at myself for the first time.
“Satan,” I gasp loudly, catching my reflection. “Dear Jesus, I look like Satan.” My hair is sticking up on all ends, a small amount of blood is dried around my hairline, and yesterday’s makeup is smeared across my face.
Who the hell was in charge of putting me to bed last night? “Oh my God, Mom, you let me go to bed with makeup on? Don’t you know what that will do to my complexion?”
“Before you start snapping at me about your skin-care routine, I will have you know I attempted to wash your face, but you kept—and I quote—‘cannon blasting’ me with your cast arm. You know it’s very unsettling when your daughter treats her broken wrist like a bazooka and points it at you.”
I chuckle. “Sorry, but that’s kind of funny.”
“Oh yes, your father got a real kick out of it.” Mom sniffs the air. “You know, you might be right: I think we need to hose you down before you go for your checkup.”
“Ew.” I clutch my shirt to my chest. “Don’t smell my sleeping air.”
“It’s hard not to. I’ve been in here long enough that you’ve wafted it toward me, and dear, it’s unpleasant.”
“Oh my God.” I stride past her into my en suite bathroom and turn on the shower.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mom asks from the doorway.
“Uh, taking a shower.”
“You can’t get your cast wet. I’ll have to help you.”
I look my mom straight in the eyes. “Over my dead body will you wash me naked.”
“Was it when you were in Prague?”
“Mom, drop it,” I say from the side of my mouth.