“I …” One corner is split, and I push at the two pieces of wood. They resist and I press even harder—I’m not sure why, since it’s useless without the glass and the wood is cracked. It just seems important, like if I can fix this …
“You know what, I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. Just get the hell out of my room.” Jonah grabs the frame from my hand. He starts to retrieve the prom photo, then swears under his breath and drops the whole thing in a trash can under his desk.
“I’ll clean it up. And replace it.” I want to run for the door, but my feet won’t move and my mind won’t come up with any explanation that will make this situation better.
“Do I need to call the cops?” he demands. “Get out of my house!”
“What?” He thinks I broke in? I grab the baby monitor off his dresser and hold it up as proof. “No, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m watching Sophia.”
He gestures around his room. “In here? Really?”
I duck my head. “Can we go downstairs and talk about this?”
“No. No, let’s stay. Let’s go through the rest of my drawers.” He reaches around me and starts yanking them open, dumping a handful of T-shirts on the floor. “Would you like to know if I’m boxers or briefs?”
“I didn’t—That drawer was already open.”
“Sure. And I bet you didn’t put my baseball picture on the kitchen counter.”
“No, I did that.” I clench my hands into fists.
“Was I not clear in school today? Leave me the hell alone.” Jonah sinks onto the edge of his bed and kicks at the shirts on the floor. “Just go home. I’ll have my mom drop off a check tomorrow.”
“I can’t. She drove me here.” I wish I had my car so I could put distance between me and my humiliation. I wish I could go back in time to the salon and say no, or back further and not approach his locker today.
He looks at me like I planned it this way. Like I want to be here any more than he wants me here. I can’t stand him looking at me like that. I slink out of the room and chew the inside of my lip as I head back downstairs, cursing myself with each footstep.
Thankfully he stays put, but through the baby monitor I can hear him talking on his cell phone: “Mom, I’m back. The babysitter’s still here. When will you—?”
I consider texting Amelia and confessing everything, but I can’t. It’s too embarrassing. She’ll tease me and tell Peter. The idea of anyone knowing makes my stomach turn. Jonah won’t tell, will he?
I grab onto the back of a kitchen chair and take a few deep breaths.
No. He wouldn’t have anyone to tell.
I hear his footsteps coming down the stairs and start babbling before he’s even fully in the kitchen: “I’m really not stalking you. I didn’t know it was your sister at first. I met your mom at the nail salon and she introduced herself as Mrs. Shea.”
Without looking at or acknowledging me, he goes straight to the cabinet next to the fridge and takes out a glass. The collar of his shirt is folded crookedly in the back and I want to go smooth it. I can’t stop staring at the crease or the inch of skin between his collar and where the ends of his hair curl just slightly. Messily.
“Listen, we got off on the wrong foot and you clearly don’t want to be playing host, so you don’t have to entertain me until your parents get back,” I say.
“Wasn’t planning on it, but glad to know I have your permission.” He opens the refrigerator and studies the contents. “My mom’s on her way.”
“Thanks.” This is it, my last chance to persuade him to volunteer. I suck in a breath and squeeze my fingernails into my palms. “I’m not sure what I did before today to make you so unfriendly, but tonight I gave you every reason to be mad and I’m sorry.”
Jonah pulls milk and chocolate syrup from the top shelf. He puts these on the counter next to his glass before facing me.
“Can we start over?” I hold out my hand. My nails shine in the kitchen’s track lighting. “Hi, I’m Brighton.”
He turns his back to me and fills his glass with milk, squirts in far too much Hershey’s syrup, and leaves his stirring spoon in a chocolate puddle on the counter.
My hand is still extended, and he doesn’t show any signs of taking it. After swallowing a big gulp, he says, “Class president, yearbook editor, swim team, head of the CPHS Spirit and Key clubs. And Little Miss Popular, junior class.”
“Dive team.”
“Dive team. So glad you clarified.” He pushes off the counter and turns to leave, but I can’t let the conversation end like this.
“Wait! Hang on a second.” I’m surprised when he does, but he’s still looking at me like I’m contagious or confusing. “The only things I know about you are: you moved from Hamilton, you used to play baseball. And your mom says you have a girlfriend named Carly.”