Dad finally notices the dog and stabs his fork in its direction. “What the hell is that?”
“Jake’s dog,” all the kids say at once.
“That beast is yours?” Dad asks Jake.
“Technically speaking, yes.” Jake shovels a forkful of pancakes into his mouth. “His name is Sally,” he says around a bite.
Adam chuckles. “Trixie named him, huh?”
Jake nods. “Yep.”
The crunch of gravel in the drive gets my attention and I lift the edge of the curtain to look out.
“Is that my truck?” Jake asks. He gets up and walks outside. The truck’s horn begins to honk.
“That’s for me,” Gabby says as she eats the last bite of her pancake and finishes her milk. “I’m driving Mr. Jacobson to the doctor.”
“In Jake’s truck?”
“I guess.” She shrugs and walks outside.
I follow them out and I see Jake and his dad arguing at the driver’s side window. “’Bout time, girl,” Mr. Jacobson grouses at Gabby.
“Oh, keep your shirt on,” Gabby tosses back. Mr. Jacobson grins and scoots over so she can drive.
“Gabby’s never driven a truck this big,” I warn them.
But Mr. Jacobson just waves his hand like he’s swatting a fly. “Never a better time to learn.”
Gabby puts the truck in gear, backs over a fence post, and they leave together, the truck making jerky motions.
I feel like someone has just put me inside a snow globe and given it a good shake. The pieces haven’t even started to settle around me yet.
“She’s going to wreck my truck,” Jake says.
I wince. “Maybe not.”
Jake growls low under his breath. “I’m going to kill him. He could have had her drive his car.”
Jake swings around quickly. I see him moving out of the corner of my eye, and I react the only way I know how to react: I brace my arms over my head and wait for the blow.
Jake’s voice is soft when he pulls my arms down from on top of my head. “Katie,” he says, his voice no more than a whisper.
“What?” I say, my heart thundering in my chest.
“Did you think I was going to hit you?” His voice is still soft and even.
I avoid his gaze. “No.”
“Then why did you duck? Why did you cower?”
I swallow hard. “R-reflex?”
“You think I’d hurt you?” he asks. I finally get the courage to look at his face, and I see a world of pain there.
“No, Jake,” I protest. “I didn’t think you–”
But he’s already walking away. He’s walking toward the big house on the hill.
“Take the golf cart!” I yell to him.
But he doesn’t respond. And he doesn’t stop.
Adam and Dad walk onto the porch. “You should have told him already,” Dad says.
“I know,” I whisper.
“You could go tell him now,” Adam suggests.
I nod. “I could.” I can barely force the words past the frog in my throat.
Dad sighs. “You should probably go talk to him, Katie.”
I glare at both of them. “You guys could have given me some warning, you know. Instead of just showing up here.” I stomp up the steps.
“How?” Dad asks. “You didn’t bring your phone.”
I turn back and glare at them, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you sure no one followed you here?”
“We were very careful.” Dad and Adam both nod like two dashboard dogs.
“I hope you were.”
God, I hope they were careful, because if they weren’t careful enough and he finds me, he’ll kill me.
27
Katie
I drive Jake’s golf cart back to the big house on the hill and park it in the driveway. I hear heavy rock-and-roll music blaring from the garage and I look in through the open door. Jake’s legs are sticking out from under his dad’s car. Loud knocks and bangs come from under the car.
“Jake,” I call out.
His shoes wiggle but he doesn’t come out. I cross to the radio and turn it down a little. Jake’s shoes stop dancing. He rolls himself out from under the car, but he doesn’t sit up. “Why did you do that?” He glares at me.
I walk over to him. “We need to talk.”
“Great,” he mumbles as he rolls back under the car. “Now she wants to talk.” The banging resumes.
“Jake,” I say again.
He stops banging. “What?”
“Come out.”
The banging resumes. What the heck is he knocking on down there? I tap his knee.
“Jake!”
He starts to sing. Loudly. And poorly. I bite back a chuckle, because I doubt laughing at him would be a good idea right now.
I grab Jake’s ankles, lift them, and back up until he slides out from under the car. “That’s cheating,” he says. He wipes a hand across his forehead, smearing grease from one side to the other. He doesn’t sit up. He just lies there looking up at me.
I point to my forehead. “You got a little dirt right here.”
“You want to do that mom thing you do and lick your finger, then rub it off?”
Actually I did. “No,” I grouse, “of course not.”
“Are moms just born with an excess of spit?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Must be.”
“I’ve seen you do that with Alex and Trixie. And you tried it one night with Gabby but she sidestepped you.”