Page 123 of Sour Notes

I guess the sooner I do this, the sooner we get it over with, right? And I’m so ready to get back to the room and be done people-ing for the day.

All of a sudden, my shoulders sag, the beginnings of a tension headache flirting with my temples. I rub the back of my neck, mulling over my answer. I think I prefer having to hear about my parents’ sex life instead of this bullshit. It’s getting a little too heavy now.

“Wolfie’s biggest fear is running out of Post-it notes. They’re his favorite mode of communication.”

A rueful smile flits across his lips before he turns to our family, nodding.

“She’s right, those little yellow squares run my entire life. I’d be lost without them.” Shooting me a loaded, pointed look, he reaches over to entwine our fingers. “My girl’s biggest fear is…” He squeezes my hand while scanning my face.

What’s he gonna throw out there? Probably spiders. He still laughs about the time I thought a knotted-up tangle of my own hair was a huge spider crawling on the sofa and practically launched myself onto his lap.

“Not being enough. That she’ll never be enough.”

My skin prickles. It’s too tight. Breaking eye contact, I tug my hand out from under his, hiding the slight tremor by picking up my drink. I need to do something, because everyone’s full attention is on us—namely me—right now.

If I was mentally drained by the last round, this one’s like full-on mental warfare.

Why did he just say that? I’ve never said anything remotely like that to him. Hell, I spend my life trying to avoid thinking about it.

No one knows that about me.

No one sees me that way.

He sees you.

Swayze’s hand slides up my thigh, his touch both maddening and somehow soothing all at once.

“That’s where she’s wrong, though. She’ll always be enough—she’s everything, and I intend to spend my life reminding her of that.”

You hear that crack? No, it’s not thunder—it’s a direct hit to my stone-dead heart.

Is he faking this?

My eyes snap back to his and he holds my gaze, his face open, honest. I open my mouth, ready to deliver a witty one-liner, a denial—that river in Egypt might be handy—anything to stop the weird electric tension whirling around us, but I’ve got nothing.

Fuck.

A loud wail—very cat-like—interrupts the silence, Swayze’s mic drop moment broken.

“Ohhhh, my baby. I’m so happy you’ve finally got a man who deserves you. Who sees you for the amazing woman you are.”

A sniffle is all the warning I get before Mom appears in front of us and throws herself—we’re talking full-on football tackle here—between us, crying and smothering our cheeks in kisses. Moist ones.

Sorry, sorry, I hate that word too.

Because I haven’t been embarrassed enough already, apparently.

Thank fuck tomorrow is a free use day—no, not like that. Nick isn’t hosting an orgy. It means we have the whole day to do what we want, and I intend to spend it not people-ing. And if I get the room to myself, I’ll apply Mom’s stress relief methods and review some of those toys because right now, the tension thrumming through me is bordering on unbearable.

So are my mom’s wails, which only stop when she starts whispering into Swayze’s ear.

God. No more plotting, please.

Apparently, god decided to listen to me today because all of a sudden, the sky splits open and sheets of rain hammer down on us. We’re talking torrential. I look like I’ve done the ice bucket challenge and my white sundress was not a vibe for this weather. I might as well be standing here in my underwear. At least it’s a matching lacy set and not the Spanx I almost wrestled on.

Thank fuck I decided I don’t hate myself enough to deal with that torture today.

Swayze realizes I’m practically naked at the same moment I do, his eyes widening in alarm as he springs to his feet and offers me a hand. Mom goes running back to Dad as everyone hurries to gather their shit and run back to their rooms.