Jeb leans back in his seat. “Well done. You’ve managed to destroy any resemblance to your mom.”
I freeze. “I’m not trying—”
“C’mon, Al. It’s me.” He stretches out a hand to bat the air freshener. The moth spins, reminding me of the website. The pinch in my sternum tightens.
I drop my eye shadow into the bag and fish out some silver gloss to spread over my lips, then stuff the bag back into the glove compartment.
Jeb’s hand rests next to my elbow on the console, his warmth seeping over to me. “You’re scared if you look like her, you’ll be like her. And end up here, too.”
I’m speechless. He’s always been able to read me. But this … it’s like he’s crawled inside my head.
God forbid.
My throat dries, and I stare at the empty water bottle between us.
“It’s not easy to live in someone’s shadow.” His face darkens.
He would know. He’s got the scars to prove it, deeper than the cigarette burns on his torso and arms. I still remember after they first moved in: the blood-chilling screams next door at two in the morning as he tried to protect his sister and mom from his drunken dad. The best thing that ever happened to Jeb’s family was when Mr. Holt wrapped his truck around a tree one night three years ago. His blood alcohol level was at 0.3.
Thankfully, Jeb never touches the stuff. His dark moods don’t mix well with alcohol. He found that out a few years back, after nearly killing some guy in a fight. The court sent Jeb to a youth detention center for a year, which is why he graduated at age nineteen. He lost twelve months of his life but gained a future, because at the center a psychologist helped him rein in his bitterness through his art and taught him that having structure and balance was the best way to contain his rage.
“Just remember,” he says, weaving our fingers together. “With you, it’s not hereditary. Your mom had an accident.”
Our palms touch with only my knit gloves between us, and I press my forearm to his to align the ridges of his scars against my skin.
You’re wrong, I want to say. I’m exactly like you. But I can’t. The fact is, alcoholics have programs, steps to take so they can fit into society and function. Crazies like Alison—all they have are padded cells and blunted utensils. That’s their normal.
Our normal.
Looking down, I notice blood has seeped and dried on the bandage at my knee. I run a hand over it, worried about Alison. She flips out at the sight of blood.
“Here.” Without my even saying a word, Jeb works the bandana off his head. Leaning over, he ties the cloth around my knee to hide the soiled bandage. When he’s done, instead of moving back to his side of the car, he props an elbow on the console and runs a finger along one of the blue falls in my hair. Either it’s vibes from our unresolved issues or from our intimate conversation, but his expression is serious.
“Those dreadlocks are wicked tight.” His voice is low and velvety, filling my stomach with knots. “You know, you really should go to prom. Show up just like this and knock everyone on their asses. I guarantee you’ll still have your dignity.”
He studies my face with an expression I’ve only seen when he paints. Intense. Absorbed. As if he’s considering the painting from every angle. Me from every angle.
He’s so close, I smell the raspberry on his hot breath. His gaze shifts to the dimple in my chin and my cheeks flame.
In the back of my head, that shadowy sensation rouses, not so much a voice as a presence, like a shudder of wings scrambling my insides … urging me to touch the labret beneath his lower lip. Instinctively, I reach out. He doesn’t even flinch as I trace the silvery spike.
The metal is warm, and his stubble tickles my fingertip on either side. Hit full-on by the intimacy of my action, I start to draw back.
He grabs my hand and holds my finger against his lips. His eyes darken, thick lashes narrowing. “Al,” he whispers.
“Butterfly!” Dad’s shout carries through the open window. I jump, and Jeb boomerangs to his side of the car. Dad saunters down the immaculate lawn toward Gizmo, wearing khaki pants and a royal blue polo embroidered with TOM’S SPORTING GOODS in silver thread.
I soothe my racing pulse with a few deep breaths.
Dad bends over to look through my window. “Hello, Jebediah.”
Jeb clears his throat. “Hey there, Mr. Gardner.”
“Hmm. Maybe you should finally start calling me Thomas.” Dad grins, arm propped on the window’s edge. “After all, you graduated last night.”
Jeb smirks, proud and boyish. He gets that way around my dad. Mr. Holt used to tell him he’d never amount to anything, pressuring him to drop out and work at the garage full-time, but my dad always encouraged Jeb to stay in school. If I wasn’t still ticked over how they’d teamed up against me about London, I might actually enjoy their moment of bonding.