Page 96 of Sing Your Secrets
twenty-eight
Reese
Hell hath no fury like a particularly pissed-off Reese Reyes, especially when it’s pointed at my dad. In a show of protest, I skipped Sunday dinner with my parents and resigned to an evening in sweatpants and a Pitch Perfect marathon.
Here’s what I know…
Miles called me on Wednesday night to tell me that he and my dad wouldn’t be proceeding with the EP because he needed to focus on getting The Garage up and running. When I didn’t believe that bullshit excuse, I called Sedi, who informed me that Dad basically donkey-kicked Miles right in the ego when he told him he was a shallow, talentless songwriter.
After ripping Dad a new one via text message, I promptly told him he could shove a pizza pocket where the sun don’t shine, and he wouldn’t be seeing me or my boyfriend for the foreseeable future. That went down three days ago and I’m still seething so hard that the steam coming out of my ears has me whistling like a tea kettle.
I’m just about to watch the Barden Bellas take the stage at regionals when there’s a rapid knocking at the door. Always with the interruptions! I grumble as I yank my fuzzy throw off of my lap. It can’t be Miles. He’s having dinner with his family this evening. He invited me to go, and I should’ve accepted—I’m just still so angry. I was not good company on Friday at girls’ night, or so Addie, Noa, Quinn, and Mani all told me. I didn’t want to meet Miles’s family when my head is so full of hot rageful air that I feel like it’s going to explode at any moment.
Looking through the peephole, it’s someone I certainly didn’t expect.
I rip the door open. “Petey?”
“Hey.” His smile is small and cautious.
“Hey. Wow. You look so much better. How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks to you. You’re not sick?”
I hunch my shoulders and drop them. “I was sniffly for a day, but I got over it quick. I’m telling you, that stuff hits you too hard. You need to ask your doctor about why this stuff takes you down so hard. Maybe you’re prone to bronchitis or something.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom.”
Well, you could use one.
I see Petey’s eyes begin to drop below my clavicle. I cross my arms, suddenly aware of how thin my tank top is, and the effectiveness of my push-up bra. “What are you doing here?”
“I feel like we just cleared the air and you’re about to hate me again.”
I narrow my eyes to slits. “What did you do? Because I warn you—my fuse is really short right now.”
“Wait for it…” He holds up one finger in front of my face as he takes in a deep breath. Then, he looks over his shoulder and calls down the hallway. “Mac, she’s home.”
Ah, fuck. I try to slam the door, but it gets stuck on Petey’s massive foot. “No,” I seethe. “Dad and I aren’t speaking at the moment.”
“Hear him out.” He flutters his lashes at me. “I’m not moving my foot, honey. Keep trying. I’m twice your size and am no longer suffering from the Bubonic plague.”
“Bubonic. Wow. That’s a big word for you, Petey.”
He laughs at my teasing insult and it sounds like an echo from the past. It feels strangely familiar—like old times. But my smile is quickly wiped away when Dad appears in the doorway.
“Okay,” he says, holding up his palms, “just hear me out.”
“I did hear you out, Dad. When you told me you’d help Miles. I was sitting right there.” My hands find my hips as my temper explodes. “You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll give him a shot. Let’s you and I make an EP…together!' What you didn’t say is that you were going to ask his fucking heart to go outside and bite the curb while you followed him out with a heavy boot. You broke him. He’s completely over it. If you wanted to be a condescending asshole, you could’ve picked anyone else. I told you Miles was important to me.”
Dad wears a bemused expression like he’s enjoying my tantrum. “Important enough to lie to your old man about him being your boyfriend?”
I pretend to check my nail beds. “That…is neither here nor there.” Petey does his best to pretend he’s not part of this conversation, even though he’s literally standing between me and my dad. “And what’s up with this?” I gesture at the minimal space between Petey and Dad. “You guys are already back up to your old antics?”
“Petey came by to talk…” He glances at Petey accusingly. “I thought you guys were okay, now?”
Petey shrugs innocently, so I answer for him. “We are. For about a millisecond. You guys are already working on something?”
“We’re just going with the flow—testing out some new sounds…”