He wants to take it slow. He’s interested in…me. It’s weird, and I have to wonder, does he have epically low self-esteem, or does he just have a thing for sick girls with mommy issues? Worse: is he part of the Society? He definitely has the money for it and maybe even the connections to get dirt on the other girls, but he’s been nothing but sweet to me since I got to his house. Nothing like I expected. Of course, that’s exactly how someone might behave to win my trust.
I shake myself out. I’m overthinking it. He probably kisses all his history partners. I’m just the latest in a long string of gullible girls. Tucker St. Clair might be more complicated now, but he’s still the rich kid with his life laid out for him. This conversation is just a way to make it less awkward.
He takes the exit for the Quarter, and soon the apartment complex comes into view. With Tucker next to me, I see it in a whole new light. The graffiti stained on the redbrick walls. The air-conditioner units hanging out of the windows that aren’t covered in bedsheets. The overflowing trash bin in the parking lot. I’m normally not so embarrassed about where I come from, but I normally don’t hang out with anyone half as rich either.
Tucker turns in to the parking lot and picks a space near my apartment, then opens his door. Panic spikes in my system. “What are you doing?”
“Walking you to the door.” He climbs out before I can stop him.
And then disaster strikes. Just before I climb out of the car, I take a too-deep breath of the cinnamon air freshener. My lungs cinch against the perfume, but it’s too late. I fall into a coughing fit just as Mom steps onto the metal landing of our apartment.
Shit.
“You have to leave,” I tell him, trying desperately to suppress my cough.
“Hope?” Mom calls down.
This can’t be happening.
“Seriously. You have to go.” I level Tucker with the most serious expression I can manage, but he loops his arm around my shoulder and gives Mom a jaunty wave as he tows me toward her.
I forcibly exhale, willing my cough to relent. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Relax,” he says out of the side of his mouth. “Moms love me.”
Mom waits for us at the top of the stairs. She takes in the whole scene—Tucker’s arm around me, his perfect posture and expensive watch, the sports car we came out of, my watering eyes—and her eyes narrow. For a moment I seriously consider making a run for it. I could hitchhike to South America, live in hostels, and get by on peddling homemade jewelry until my lungs finally kick it. It wouldn’t be so bad.
“Hello, Mrs. Callahan,” Tucker says.
“What are you doing home so early? I was supposed to pick you up at seven-thirty,” Mom says to me.
Strike one, Tucker.
“I know. But we ended early and Tucker offered to drive me. I thought it’d be easier than bothering you.”
Mom looks at Tucker. Tucker looks at Mom. I look at them both.
Tucker lets go of my shoulder to extend a hand and a smile to my mom. She hesitates before taking the hand.
“Tucker St. Clair,” he says.
“Nice to meet you,” Mom answers without offering her name. “So are you two dating, then?”
“Mom,” I warn, but Tucker’s in his element.
“I’d love to date Hope,” he says. “I just need to get her on board with the idea first.”
I feel a surge of heat so strong I’m sure the sun has collided with the earth. Did he really just say that?
“Well, that’s…great, I suppose,” Mom says. “But you know, Hope is sick.”
“Mom!” I cry.
If there was a God, he’d strike me dead right now.
“I kind of got that idea,” Tucker says. “She misses a lot of school.”
“It’s only going to get worse,” Mom says, pulling zero punches, and I realize she wants him to know one thing: there’s no future here.
“Mom!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s the truth, Hope. If he’s going to be taking you around, he needs to know,” she says, but I don’t think she’s very sorry. “It’s just too dangerous otherwise. Does he know what to do if you cough like that and don’t stop?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly is wrong with Hope?” Tucker asks.
“Why don’t we go inside and chat?” Mom says, stepping aside.
“What?” I say, like it’s a three-syllable word.
“Hope,” Mom says. “Don’t be rude.”
Tucker smiles at me and steps past, following Mom inside.
A million thoughts run through my head: If he wanted to know, he should have asked me, not my mother. I hope Mom’s wearing a bra under that sweater. She’s the one being rude in this equation. I wonder if there are any water cutoff notifications hanging around on the counter. I hate that I’m being discussed like I’m a thing instead of a living, breathing human. And I hope there’s at least a decent amount of food in the fridge in case Tucker catches a glimpse inside.
Oh God, what if Jenny tries to rope him into an invite to one of his parties?
It shouldn’t matter, I tell myself. I’m dying. I have much bigger things to worry about in the grand scheme of things than Tucker St. Clair chatting with my mother.
When we go inside, Jenny’s standing at the sink in her pajamas, drinking out of a jug of milk. She gives us a big toothy grin that lets me know she was listening to the whole thing and couldn’t be happier with the turn of events.
“That’s disgusting, Jenny,” I say. “Use a glass.”