She turns to me. “What is all this?” she demands. Her voice is gratingly high-pitched. It’s about five percent less annoying than chalk scraping on a blackboard.
I try not to sigh too loudly. I should’ve known she’d show her nosy self here. She bought a telescope and binoculars three years ago, saying they were for “observation.” What she really means is spying on me—to see who’s coming by, if I’m getting any deliveries, anything at all. Unfortunately, there’s a direct line of sight between her place two streets over and mine. That’s what happens when you live in a small town in a state as wide and flat as Texas.
Since she barged in here without an invitation—not that she’s ever gotten one—I don’t offer her a seat or coffee. “When you walk into somebody’s home, you usually say, ‘Hello,’ first before asking something as asinine as ‘What is all this?’ As you can plainly see, they’re boxes.” My eyes shift over. “And a drum set.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “I know that! I just want to know why you have all this stuff. Is Max moving back home?”
She’d love to have him back home so she could tag along everywhere and pester him endlessly for autographs and tickets. Not because she wants them for herself, but so she can sell them online. “If you follow the band, you know Max doesn’t drum.”
“He can totally drum for fun. That’s better than you trying. Nobody wants to hear you drum!” Sylvie says shrilly.
“They’re for me,” Tasha says. “I plan to give Becca a background beat while she creates art for rich and important people.” She puts extra emphasis on the adjectives. Those are the two main qualities Sylvie says she needs in a man worthy of becoming Mr. Sylvie.
Of course, if I were a rich and important man, I’d build myself a rocket to Mars to get away from her.
“You’re such a lying lowlife!” Sylvie says. “Everyone knows you can’t carry a tune, much less rhythm.”
“At least my mascara doesn’t run,” Tasha says. “Yours looks like it’s trying to beat Usain Bolt. You couldn’t get the waterproof kind? Or did it smear because of the binoculars jammed against your eyeballs?”
Sylvie jabs a finger in Tasha’s direction. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Tasha knows her makeup,” I say. “Now will you be quiet? Or better yet, go away? You’re scaring the nice moving people. What would Grandma say?”
That makes Sylvie shut up for a moment. She’s terrified of upsetting Grandma, mainly because she needs Grandma’s money. Sylvie works part-time at the taco joint, but that isn’t enough to pay for all the “As seen on TV” fitness gadgets that promise you buns of steel and a thigh gap wide enough to pass a hand through.
“And you make it too easy for Tasha to tease you,” I add with a smile. She’s probably salivating over the idea of getting my parents’ home. Not so fast, cousin! “That isn’t her drum set; it’s my husband’s. I’m married now.”
Sylvie turns slowly to face me. “You’re married? Like, for real?”
“Uh-huh.”
“To Jeff?” She sounds strangled, then she starts laughing before I can respond. “Oh my God. You know he’s been cheating on you, right? He’s been banging at least two of his coworkers behind your back!”
“He and I broke up,” I inform her coldly. Her attitude that Jeff is the only man I could ever hope to snag is beginning to irritate me.
“Yeah, but you could’ve paid him or something.”
I almost flinch—I did try to get a paid fake husband. Would have succeeded, too, if Hooker Bruce had shown up in Vegas like he was supposed to.
“You’re a highfalutin artiste now,” Sylvie says bitterly. “Makin’ the money and too cool to take your cousin to New York.”
What she really wanted was a free trip to New York City, not to share in my good fortune and happiness. She doesn’
t understand that’s why I never take her anywhere.
Tasha scoffs. “Bless your heart, Sylvie. I didn’t get to go, so why should you?”
“Because I’m family,” Sylvie says.
“Tasha’s like my sister, which is a lot closer than a cousin. And anyway, I married Devlin Marsh.” No point in holding it back—everyone in Drover’s going to find out soon enough. I doubt Devlin will arrive quietly. He’s a rock star.
A beat of silence. “Devlin Marsh?” Sylvie chokes out. “The sexy drummer from Axelrod?”
I nod. “The one and only.”
She screams. “It’s not fair! You aren’t pretty enough to snag a guy that famous and hot! Why would he want you when he could’ve had me?”
Tasha shakes her head. I merely sigh. Of course that’s her biggest reason for being angry with me. I got something she thinks she deserves more than me.