The next morning, I wake up to the smell of coffee and three new text conversations. Two are my brothers wishing me farewells. Tonight is the show that starts their tour. They must be halfway to Vegas by now.
The third text is more interesting.
Kit: I didn't forget that it was my turn.
I stare at my cell screen as I fix my first cup of coffee—lots of sugar and lots of half and half. It's sweet and creamy but it's not nearly as effective a wake up call as hearing from him.
I try to remind myself that Kit has no romantic interest in me. We're friends—he made a point of reminding me last night.
This might never go anywhere, but I like talking to him. What could it possibly hurt?
Piper: You didn't really answer the question about your recovery.
Kit: I don't talk about that.
Piper: With anyone?
Kit: Yeah.
Piper: What about when you were in rehab? Did you just sit in therapy sessions and stare.
Kit: Not exactly.
Piper: But close?
Kit: If we're gonna be friends, you should know I'm a fucked up guy.
Piper: I thought we were friends?
Kit: If we're going to do this.
Piper: This?
Kit: This texting thing.
Piper: I didn't realize it was a thing.
Kit: Well, you're 19. You probably haven't spoken to someone on the phone since... ever.
Piper: Not true.
Kit: I know. I've heard Ethan and Mal call you. But I bet you text all your friends.
Piper: I call Rory sometimes. She's my BFF. Since grade school.
Kit: Fair. Let's call this a friendly warning: I'm a fucking mess. If you try to dig into it, you're gonna get lost.
Piper: I don't need a warning.
Kit: Not sure about that.
Piper: If you respond with something about how I'm a nice girl, I'll drive to Vegas and strangle you before the show.
Kit: Friendly warning?
I can imagine his dark eyes lighting up as he chuckles. He's teasing me. God, I love him teasing me.
Piper: As friendly as threats of bodily harm get. You can't scare me by warning me you're fucked up.