Things hadn’t gone the way Mitch had planned. In fact, they hadn’t gone at all. Once Petula finally called him back an hour later, they’d walked over together to retrieve the harp, but it wasn’t there. Neither was the harpist. “It’s not like it’s your fault,” Petula had told him when they left empty-handed. “Then why does it feel like it is?” “Force of habit,” Petula told him, “because you usually are to blame. Come on, let’s go to my house.” Then she dragged him over for old movies and enforced snuggling, until she had to use the bathroom and he could escape. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his time with Petula, but she was like a cinnamon fireball candy—one was fine, but a whole mouthful could be painful. Finally, a little after four, Mitch watched as Val dropped Nick at the curb and sped off to her tree house, or wherever a girl like her lived.
