“I’ve got stain stuff under the cabinet.”
“It’s fine.” His clipped words kill my efforts to free my foot and get the Spray ’n Wash. My cheeks burn with color—like they always do when I feel chastised—and the nails on my left hand end up a little smeared.
He crumples the Band-Aid wrappers into a ball and lowers my foot to the floor. I wipe at a stray speck of glitter on my thumb and desperately seek something to say. He softened when talking about Sophia; another question about her, maybe?
My gaze rises slowly from my nails, drifting up his shirt to his face, and locks on the brown eyes that are studying me. “Thank you—” The other words of my gushy like-me speech die in my throat.
He nods and stands. I do too, and the space between toilet and bathtub is far too small for both of us. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, hear his breathing. I wait for him to step away.
He doesn’t.
“What do you think of the color?” I ask, lifting a hand and holding it out to him.
He cups it and leans back to create enough room between us to examine my fingers. “It’s very green.”
But I’m looking at his hand cradling mine, not my nails. He has kind hands. Can hands be kind? His are.
I want to find a flippant reply, something that will keep him smiling with amusement not condescension, yet all my mind will repeat is: he’s being nice.
If only I could freeze time and figure him out. Make a list and uncover the secret to receiving a smile like this. Instead, I suppress the shy grin that wants to spread with my blush, and force a practiced smile. “You like it? Maybe it’ll start a trend. All the girls in Cross Pointe will be wearing green nails.”
His fingers drop mine, his mouth drops into a scowl, and he crosses the bathroom. “It’s nail polish, who cares?”
My words dry up. I shrug and lean back against the countertop.
“You’re about to knock your ring down the drain.” He points.
“Oh. Thanks.” I don’t bother to explain it wouldn’t fit down the drain. Instead I guide it back onto my finger, careful not to hit a nail. The green of the gem and the polish are a perfect match.
“Is that real?” he asks.
“My dad gave it to me for my twelfth birthday.” It was my last birthday with a father.
“Because you’re really careless with it,” Jonah adds.
Careless? I’ve been hyperaware of its weight on my finger all day. It’s an anchor, keeping me grounded and prepared for whatever Mom might need. A reminder that when I get past the stress and emotions of tomorrow, it’s all for him.
I wish I could communicate this to Jonah with a look, because I can’t find the right words. Normally if I’m in a situation where I have to utter the phrase “my dad” to anyone but Amelia, I’m suffocated by pity and the subject is changed.
“Don’t worry, I won’t lose it,” I finally say.
“AAA’s in the driveway,” Evy calls from the kitchen.
“I wasn’t worried.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed in me. “If you lose it, he’ll just buy you another one, right?”
My mouth drops open, but he’s already disappeared into the hall and heading down the stairs.
His retreat slaps like rejection. We’d almost been getting along while he played medic. Had he thought my hand squeeze was romantic instead of friendly? Standing practically pressed together, holding hands with me might’ve seemed like something it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t anything.
He definitely wouldn’t want it to be anything.
He didn’t even seem to notice that he was sitting on the edge of my shower. He had no reaction to touching my bare legs. Even the skimpy robe hanging behind his head didn’t make him pause. Plus, he has a girlfriend.
The girl in the mirror agrees with me, nodding as she continues to pose with her hand in a ridiculous posture—like it’s being held by a ghost. I shake my head at her and watch as she spins the emerald inward, makes fists, then reacts to tacky nails hitting tender palms. I examine my hands as I leave the bathroom. There are flecks of glitter in the welts—decorations on my marks of stress and shame.
19
Jonah
9:41 P.M.
I’M LATE FOR AN APPOINTMENT WITH NYQUIL SHOOTERS & MY PILLOW
Evy follows me to my car. She’s detached from her cell, and her grin is all sexy mischief. I don’t care what Brighton says, they don’t look alike.
“So, do I want to know what you and my baby sister were doing upstairs?”
“Depends. Does blood make you queasy? I was fixing the damage Never did to her foot. She can’t walk that dog and you know it.”
Evy shrugs an acknowledgment. “I didn’t think you’d let her get hurt.”