Harry sat up, listened. Nothing.
Was that a note shoved under his door? Harry jumped out of bed and grabbed the index card. Clean your room before I get home. Dad. Dad never tacked on kisses. A kiss would’ve been nice, though. A bit of father-son camaraderie. What earned an xox from Dad? What made Dad happy—work, fixing up the house, anything that didn’t involve Harry?
When would Mom be home? Not tomorrow, not for his actual birthday. Mom was devastated—so Dad said. Harry had texted her that it was fine, all fine. Tomorrow was just another day, and they’d have plenty more birthdays together! But truthfully? He wanted her home so bad it hurt worse than when he’d had his appendix out. The house had no soul without Mom; there was no laughter. Dad didn’t find much in life that was funny. On Christmas Eve, when they’d watched National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, he and Mom had cracked up while Dad had muttered the occasional “banal.”
Harry glanced at the index card in his hand. Dad had offered to give him the lowdown on Mom this evening, so it wouldn’t be wise to upset him. Whatever Dad wanted would be done. Clean room? On it!
“Make it so!” Harry said in his most theatrical voice.
Although he didn’t give a flying fuck about the state of his room. After all—his space, his choice. Three cheers for the liberation of “My Way” (the Sid Vicious version). Mom had a nasty habit of sneaking into his room and tidying up when he was in school. Not that she snooped, but she was always moving his stuff around. Putting it where she thought it should go. Suppose the mess made sense to him? He would never go into his parents’ bedroom and start meddling. And really, did it matter if he threw his dirty clothes on the floor? At some point, the piles always made it into the laundry hamper.
If only Sammie were here. Or Max. Or anyone. If only he wasn’t alone.
He texted Dad: where are you?
Normally he would type U instead of you, but abbreviations annoyed Dad.
I’ll be home in one hour. Mom sends her love.
His head jerked with the new sideways tic, his fingers strummed, his left foot tapped. Then his body stilled. Enjoy the calm while you can, Harry. He picked up his phone again. No texts from Sammie? He’d thought, hoped . . . But she had a truckload of family shit to deal with. Worse than he did, since his mom wasn’t terminal.
hey how’s your saturday
Instant reply! Want to get together tomorrow?
hell yeah!!!!!!!
Call me later.
Unlike Dad, Sammie added kisses. A whole row of kisses.
They’d kissed last night when Dad was shut away with his migraine. And the best part—no tics! The moment he’d put his hand around her waist and pulled her close, everything had gone still. Except for the fireworks in his brain. He wanted to spend the rest of his life kissing Sammie. And maybe doing a few other things. But only if she wanted to. He wasn’t going to be one of those creeps who wanted to get inside her panties. Besides, the idea of sex was as terrifying as monsters in the walls. Suppose he ticced through the whole thing?
Harry texted back four rows of kisses. And four hearts, because one wasn’t enough. One of anything would never be enough for Sammie Owen.