“What did I do this time?”
“If you’d bothered to listen to the zillion voicemails I left you—”
“Which would’ve taken several years,” I point out.
“—you’d know that I saw the photos of you and Chase outside your apartment last night. You’re back in the city!”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “My mother, the traitor, called him from Rocky Neck. He came and brought me back early.”
She huffs, outraged. “And you didn’t even bother to tell me?”
“It was late. I didn’t want to wake you,” I hedge, avoiding a fight with her at all costs. There are so many hormones running through her veins at the moment, she makes most meth-heads look sedate — I amsonot about to enter a battle I know I’ll lose. “And let’s just say, things didn’t work out so well when I got to my apartment.”
“Um, yeah, I saw the photos! Why the heck were the police there?”
“Rat Bastard Ralph got his revenge.”
“What?”
I sigh, take another large sip of my coffee, and tell her about my wrecked apartment.
“What a dick!” she screeches into the phone when I finish. “If I wasn’t seventeen years pregnant, I would totally find him and kick his ass! Actually, I could probably still kick that little weasel’s ass, even in this state. I may be the size of the Hood blimp and confined to bed rest, but he’s kind of a weakling. I can take him.”
I laugh, picturing Chrissy waddling down Comm Ave, her swollen ankles shoved into motorcycle boots, a leather jacket not quite closing over her protruding belly, on the hunt for my asshole ex-boyfriend.
“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. Chase has it covered.”
She screeches into the receiver again, this time out of excitement rather than outrage, and I pull the phone away from my ear to prevent permanent hearing damage.
“Please warn me next time you’re gonna do that,” I mutter.
She totally ignores my grumbles. “So, does this mean you’re dating him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how long are you staying there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to the Croft gala thing tonight?”
Chase had mentioned it in the car yesterday, but he hadn’t invited me.
“Chrissy, I don’t know.”
“Is there anything youdoknow?”
I think about it for a minute. “Not really, no.”
“Ugh.” She groans. “I can’t properly interrogate you over the phone. Can you come over? My glare is much more effective in person.”
“The paparazzi are apparently camped outside, stalking me.”
“How intense is their presence? Say… on a scale of one to Britney Spears?”
I tilt my head in thought. “Are we talking teenage-dream Britney or bald, off-her-rocker Britney?”
“Either.”