Do Over Read Free

awaited Trey’s response. After a lengthy pause, Trey crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re busy.”
    Dad tightened his lips and moved them back and forth, but didn’t say anything else. To him, parents who failed to show up at their kid’s games ranked somewhere between mothers who gave birth in public bathrooms and serial killers.
    “You should find a nice girl.” Dad shifted forward in his chair, thumped his arms onto the surface of his desk and looked at me. “Paisley.”
    Trey froze like the screen on my unreliable cell phone.
    My heart pounded for a second then I blew out a breath and wrinkled my nose. “There are limits to my after-school job, Dad. That’s a line I’m not crossing.”
    Dad rolled his eyes and waved a hand in the air. The heavy gold of his college ring emphasized the bareness of his left hand. “Not you. You’re not allowed to date someone like Trey.”
    His words reassured me that he hadn’t lost his paternal edge. I relaxed against the white-painted brick wall. My head rested under a picture of the soccer teams from years past. Dad hung his pictures too high, but in this case it worked for me.
    Dad glanced at Trey. “No offense.” Trey waved the offensive comment off and flexed his fingers. Dad clarified his request. “I mean, help him find someone. Someone nice.”
    I pursed my lips and eyed Trey from head to toe. He’d look so hot in a tuxedo, lean enough for Armani, but maybe he’d have to wear Hugo Boss with his broad shoulders. “Have you picked out your prom date?”
    Trey stared at me without blinking, his hazel gaze deep pools of appalled commitment-phobic fears.
    “Okay, so that’s a no then.” Jocks weren’t hard to interpret when you’d grown up around them.
    Dad checked an app on his smart phone, clearly losing interest in our conversation.
    “Think about prom,” I told Trey.
    Trey cradled his injured hand in his good one and didn’t respond.
    Dad snapped his phone back into its holster. He hopped up from his chair, causing the wheels to whoosh, and took a step toward Trey. “Let me wrap that hand.”
    Trey backed up, holding his injury out of reach. “It’s fine.”
    “Okay,” Dad said.
    Trey’s skin appeared red and scraped from my perch, but whatever. I pointed to the well-stocked shelves against the back wall. “First aid kits are behind you. I organized the shelves yesterday. Use a stretchy bandage. They’re under the letter B .”
    Trey didn’t move. We had another minor stare-off until Aster came in and joined us. The air in the room cooled ten degrees with her arrival because she kicked a wedge under the exterior door to prop it open. Then, with a wild grin, she threw her toned arms out. “They’re here.”
    I had no clue what she was talking about but thought her cheetah-print acrylics nicely matched her faux fur vest.
    A delivery guy moved into view. He wore a medium brown jumpsuit in the unflattering shade of tree bark. The jumpsuit was one of the worst looks ever designed, but the cut made practical sense in terms of motion. He kept one hand on the handlebar of the dolly and the other braced on the side of a large cardboard box. As he wheeled the large delivery into the room, his gaze never left Aster.
    Aster pointed at the sidewall. “Put them over there.” Her index finger wiggled as she pointed, causing her to pause and examine the polish. The guy banged into the wooden conference table while making the turn, clearly interested in her nail polish too.
    In less than five minutes, the man snipped the ties, opened the boxes, and stripped the protective plastic off two beige massage tables. While Aster clapped, the smell of wrapped plastic and new memory foam filled the room. With the set up complete, the man scooped the debris and wheeled the dolly out backwards. His gaze never left Aster.
    After he cleared the door, John, dressed in his soccer uniform, hurried in. “What’s going on?” Red wasn’t his color, not with his pale