Hello, Goodbye, and Everything in Between

At Scotty’s house, all the windows on the second floor are dark, which means his parents have already gone to sleep. This isn’t usually a problem. Over the years, they’ve mastered the art of the after-hours entrance: the tiptoeing and shushing and whispering on their way through the kitchen, where they usually grab a few snacks, and then out to the deck to drag the scattered lawn chairs into a circle and let the clock wind down on their curfews.

But tonight, Scotty is still keyed up from his brush with the law, and as they burst into the quiet kitchen, he trips over one of the barstools, stumbling a few steps before crashing into the hutch. The whole thing rattles and chimes, the delicate plates and glasses quivering on their shelves, and they all hold their breath until it settles again.

“Oops,” Scotty whispers, once they’re certain that his parents haven’t woken up.

“Maybe I should make some coffee,” Aidan suggests, and Stella gives him a thumbs-up as she and Clare start steering Scotty out of the kitchen.

In the bathroom, they sit him on the closed seat of the toilet and then assess the damage with matching frowns. He looks back and forth at them, pushing his broken glasses up on his nose every few seconds, only to have them immediately slide down again.

“I’m not sure soap is gonna do it,” Stella says eventually, and Clare nods from where she’s leaning backward against the sink, doing her best to avoid the giant mirror above it. She isn’t quite ready to see the damage to her own face just yet.

“I feel like we need bleach or something.”

“Bleach?” Scotty repeats with a worried look.

“What else do you use for this kind of thing?” Stella asks, tapping her chin. “Turpentine? Nail polish remover?”

Scotty stares at his blackened palms, splaying his fingers. “Maybe it’ll just go away on its own,” he says hopefully. “I bet it might even be gone by morning.”

“Sorry, pal,” Clare says, shaking her head. “I think you’re looking at a few really awkward days with those spots.”

Scotty hides his face in his hands with a groan.

“Not to mention the black eye,” Stella adds cheerfully. “All the girls at your new school will probably run away screaming.”

“What about dish soap?” Clare suggests, and Scotty claps his inky hands.

“Brilliant,” he says. “Isn’t that what they use on the animals when there’s an oil spill?”

“Are you seriously comparing your crazy finger-painting spree to the plight of a baby seal?” Stella asks with a raised eyebrow, and Scotty makes a face at her.

It’s quick, so quick that Clare might have missed it if she’d looked away even for a second, but there’s something about this exchange, this moment between them—silly as it is—that feels almost charged. They hold each other’s eyes for a beat too long, and then, with a goofy grin, Scotty spins around and walks out the door to find the soap.

As soon as he’s gone, Clare widens her eyes at Stella. “That’s it,” she says, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“What, dish soap?”

“No. You and Scotty.”

Stella pauses—just for an instant—in the middle of folding a towel, the corners still matched neatly at the edges. “Scotty,” she says dismissively, “is an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Clare says, grinning now, “but he’s your idiot.”

Stella hangs the towel carefully on the silver bar near the sink, then turns around again with a wary look. “Okay, just say it,” she says, and there’s a challenge to her tone.

“Say what?”

“It’s Scotty we’re talking about here. So you must have some sort of opinion.”

Clare hesitates. “I think it’s… great.”

“You do,” Stella says flatly. It’s not a question.

“I do. I mean… I’m surprised, obviously. You have to give me a minute to get my head around it.”