I rake my fingers through my hair. “My parents want me home for dinner to talk.”
“That’s normal, Dude. They are always in your business.” He leans the chair back almost falling backward.
I nod because he’s right. They are firm believers in always wanting to know what I’m doing. “They want to talk about Tonya and Layla. And, how tohandlethe situation.” I wince internally. I hate the way Mom phrased it this morning.
Marshall’s eyebrows rise. “What do they mean handle it? There’s not really anything they can do.”
He gives me a point stare, silently telling me thereissomething I can do, and that I need to talk to her. I want to explain. I want to tell him that Ican’t. If he saw how happy she was with Reaf over Spring Break, he’d never want to pop that bubble of happiness surrounding her. I didn’t exactly make things easy for her when she was pregnant. If I’m being honest, I was a total douchebag. The fact that she gave me time to come to terms with having a daughter still baffles me.
Before I can say anything else, I hear hollering coming from the hallway. A few seconds later Randall and Dylan are barging through the doorway.
“What’s up assholes?” Randall yells, slapping his hands on the wall.
There are days when I wonder why I’m friends with him. He’s annoying on the best of days and fucking ridiculous on the worst.
“Not much,” I lean against the headboard on Marshall’s bed. I don’t have the patience to deal with these fools today, but I’m also eager to see their new tattoos without the wraps. The question is who is going to bring it up first. I don’t have to wait long for the answer.
“I want to see everyone’s tats,” Dylan says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Everyone else pulls their shirts off while I lift up my sleeve. The second they see mine, laughter fills the room.
“Why the hell did you get it on your arm?” Randall asks. “You realize it’s going to be hard to cover that up during football season, right?”
I shrug. I don’t know why I didn’t have the artist put it in a different place, but I guess this was a part of her surprise. Ugh, I guess I’ll be wearing t-shirts instead of tank tops under my uniform.
“Is thatPatrick?” Dylan chuckles. “What is the point of him eating a pretzel?”
“Yeah, Man,” Randall interjects. “Pretzels are the miracle whip of chips. Nobody likes them.”
Marshall is still sitting in his gaming chair, though he’s paused the game, shaking his head. I happen to know for a fact that he loves pretzels. His mom keeps the pantry stocked at all times when he’s home.
I glance at my friends, trying to see if the tattoos they got match their personalities. Randall has some sort of tribal sun on his chest with thick lines. It’s a stark contrast to his skin. He’s not super pale, but he’s not exactly tan either.
Dylan has a Celtic symbol on his back that looks almost exactly like the symbol that Breaking Benjamin uses on their merchandise. It’s pretty awesome and makes perfect sense. He’s liked that band for as long as I can remember.
Marshall also has a tattoo on his chest. It’s a compass. The design is simple, with a little bit of shading and the arrow pointing North. I wondered what he was going to get since he wasn’t too keen on the idea of us getting tattoos, but this tattoo fits him perfectly. He’s the steady one in our group. I don’t think he realizes how much he equalizes all of us. Or, how much trouble he’s probably kept us out of.
“I’m thinking I probably should have told my artist what I wanted,” I sigh. “I was trying to flirt with her, but she’s a feisty one.”
“At least you didn’t get stuck with the girl who had perpetual resting bitch face,” Randall fires back.
Marshall blushes. That was the artist he had. I wonder what the reddening of his cheeks means, and before I have a chance to ask Dylan speaks up.
“Let’s go out to the lake and hang out for a while.”
Groaning, I get off the bed in search of my shoes. “I wish I could, but my parents are expecting me home for dinner.”
“Can’t you do it some other time?” Dylan asks.
A quick look at Marshall shaking his head means I need to get home and deal with whatever my parents are going to throw at me. “Afraid not.”
I wave as I back out the door, “See y’all later. Let me know what the plan is for tomorrow.”
I jog down the driveway and get in my car. I’m not ready for this dinner at all. I’m not even sure what I’m going to tell them if they question what I’m going to do about Layla.
Four
Charleigh