Twist of Fate (Taking Chances #2) - Tia Louise Page 0,33

you meet someone, but you never give him a chance because you believe you’ve already had one great love. How would you ever know? You could have another great love. Or two.”

Chewing my lip, I touch away the tear. “But what if he doesn’t die?”

“If he doesn’t die, and he’s your one great love, why would you assume it’s over?”

I can’t answer that.

My ever-strong cousin shakes her auburn head. “I still don’t like it. It’s too limiting, and it’s just silly. Live your life and be open to whatever comes. You’ll be happier that way.”

“Different people have different experiences.”

“You said a mouthful there.”

Sitting up, I kiss her cheek. “I’d better get some rest if I’m heading to Columbia tomorrow.”

“You’re going to slay, and I’ll be ready to give you a full-body massage and hear all about it.”

That makes me laugh, which helps with the cement block in my chest. “Love you.”

Sly is my best friend and the most encouraging person I know. I think about her advice, Be open to what comes.

I also think about her observation. If he’s not dead, don’t assume it’s over.

“Live my life, and slay.”

Twelve

Scout

“You did Shakespeare…” I’m sitting in front of Lorraine of Lorraine’s Bankable Talent, and she looks like every caricature of every talent agent you’ve ever seen.

Her voice is gravelly, a cigarette dangles from her well-manicured claws, and she squints with heavy fake eyelashes through bedazzled readers.

“I was Macbeth in the Big Fall Show at Clemson.” I’m sure she can hear the pride in my voice.

“College theater…” She hums under her breath as she continues reading my résumé. “What’s this? Who’s Warren?”

“I was an orderly in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It was a smaller production but well-reviewed.”

“An orderly.” She bobs her teased head and takes a longer pull off her cigarette. “That’s it? The rest of this is high school. Why didn’t you do more in college?”

“Football took up most of my time.” I shift in my chair. “I was starting receiver, and we had practices, away games—”

“College athlete.” She frowns briefly before her eyebrows rise, and she bobs her head side to side. “You’re a good-looking kid. We’ll send you out for sports pictures and commercials.”

“I don’t want to be typecast.” Her eyes narrow fast, and I quickly add. “What I mean is, I’m up for anything that will help me get my foot in the door.”

“That’s a good boy.” She points an inch-long nail at me. “You’ve got the right attitude. I’ll call you.”

“Thanks, Lorraine.” I give her my signature grin, but she picks up her phone and swivels around in her chair, waving me away.

“You’ll hear from me. And get some headshots. I need black and white glossy. Any photographer will know what to do.”

“Sure thing.” I leave, unsure whether to feel encouraged.

She wants headshots. That’s a good thing, right? All I know is it’s too early to get discouraged. I need to find a good photographer.

My apartment complex in North Hollywood reminds me of something out of Karate Kid or an old 1960s motel. It’s tall stucco painted light blue with a huge pink flamingo on the middle tower. I like the retro feel of it, and there’s a swimming pool in the courtyard. The sun never stops shining, and in the two weeks I’ve been here, I haven’t seen a cloud. It’s weird.

An old lady with a little dog sits on a chair dipping her feet in the water, and I wave as I pass. “Hey, Cecilia.”

“You know I was named for that song.” Her voice is thin and yippy like her little dog’s bark.

“Hey, that’s cool.” I smile and give Oscar a pet on the head.

“You don’t know what song I’m talking about, do you?”

“I don’t, sorry.”

“Kids these days!” She holds up her hand. “It’s Simon and Garfunkel. Look it up!”

I laugh and tell her I will before jogging up the stairs to my shared apartment. Lucinda is a single mom with a little boy named Luis. They live across the balcony from us. Luis watches out the window as I unlock the door.

“Want to throw a football later?” His voice is small with the lightest Mexican accent, and I guess he’s between six and ten years old.

“Sure. Maybe after dinner?”

“Mama’s making Chipotle Turkey Chilaquiles.”

“Sounds delicious. Save some for me.” I give him a wave before heading into my shared apartment.

Crenshaw is standing on his head when I open the door. The answer to my wondering is last name. His first name is Tuck, Tuck