17.1

“Yes. So you’ll go?” “Fine. Yes.”

“Can you paint me a little flowerpot to put out front, please? And don’t just smear it with paint like you did with that one in third grade. Put a little effort into it.”

I picked up the case of wine I’d come back here to get. “You said you loved that pot.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You were only eight. But you really phoned that one in.”

“Nice, Mom.”

She smiled and batted her eyes at me, and I spun, ready to push back out to face the ever-ebullient El as she studiously ignored me some more. “Be there at noon.”

I sighed and spent the rest of the night trying not to stare wistfully at the beautiful girl who hated me as she laughed and talked like she didn’t have a care in the world. My week had been horrible without her, but I was having trouble believing hers had been anything but great. The only bright point was when Chad called to tell me she was all mine.

“She’s a fun girl,” he’d said. “Just not my type.”

“Why’s that?”

“Mostly because s