Besides, if Sierra’s asking for his help, what can I really do about it? “I have to finish this song.”
“Why?”
“Because I told Bree I would.”
His brow lifts. If I could guess what he’s thinking now, it would be something along the lines of,who’s stringing who along now, Benny?
Which…that’s fair. I’ve been one of those super old school wooden puppies on a rope since Bree showed up last week, following her around on wheels.
Am I pathetic? Maybe.
Do I care?
Jury’s still out.
Colby shakes his head, walking from the kitchen. “Your desperation is showing.”
I don’t even bother replying. Why should I? He’s right. I really need to get out of my house.
When I’ve showered and I’m swinging my leg over my bike an hour later, a brief flash of hesitation fills my chest. Grandma never returned to my house, which means she’s probably still with Bree. I look at the front door to Colby’s house for longer than I want to admit, my bike idling, my feet planted flat on my driveway.
At what point do I leave her alone? Again, at what point do I walk into her house and drag my well-meaning but obsessive grandmother away to give her peace? Theyareboth full-grown women who can take care of themselves. They don’t need me butting in. My mental health needs me to be as far away from this street as possible, right now.
My fingers tap against the handlebar as I let out a long, weary sigh.
I know what I need to do.
15
BREE
When Nancy Rhodesnearly broke down my door this morning, demanding to be let in, I almost snuck out the back.Almost. She seems harmless, but I didn’t want to face her.
I don’t want to face anyone.
Not that it matters. I ended up letting her in anyway. Turns out, that was a mistake. One look at me and she could see—or smell, maybe—how many days it’s been since I’ve left the safety of the giant bed or had anything more to eat than fruit snacks or Fruit Loops or just plain fruit.
Mrs. Rhodes took one sweeping glance at me in all my grieving, self-pitying glory, her gray eyebrows drawing together. “Honey, you need to wash your hair.”
I agreed with her, so I had no rebuttal.
She bustled into the house, closed the door , and nodded toward the primary bedroom. “You shower. I’ll rustle up something to eat. Then we can tackle everything else.”
I didn’t bother responding to Nancy or thinking too long about whateverything elsemight contain. No words would form as gratitude overwhelmed me. She stood in the hallway in her floral button-down over navy capris and no-nonsense attitude,like a grandma-coded angel, and I could have wept. Something about having an adultier adult swoop in and take charge reached inside and healed something within me I hadn’t recognized was broken.
It was a deeply introspective shower, I can tell you that.
I’m not even going to try and unpack the fact that this woman is acting more motherly than my own mom has in years, and they share a name.
Thus far, in the hour since Nancy walked into this house, she’s been puttering around the kitchen and throwing together what smells like a batch of muffins while singing to herself from my first album. I haven’t spoken to her, but her presence is calming. She’s everything I would have imagined in aLeave It to Beavermom—baking, humming, bossy, but in a good way. If there’s a twinkle in her eye when she hands me a muffin, I’m going to drop everything and ask her to adopt me.
For the first time since running away, I have the urge to turn on my phone and message my family, to let them know I’m doing alright.
That feeling is gone as quickly as it arrived.
“This smells amazing.” I towel-dry the ends of my wet hair while I walk into the kitchen.
“Feel better?”