“It’s really that bad, huh?” He nudges me with his elbow.
“It’s the worst.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No.”
Exasperated, Levi orders for us, and a moment later he hands me a donut in a little bag.
I accept it. “Before I try this…delicacy…answer me this: If you work at Mike’s when you don’t have to be at The Color Project, do you ever have time off?”
“Ha!” he laughs, then directs me across the street. I assume we’re walking back to his house, and my ride home. (I don’t want to leave yet, but I don’t know how to tell him that.) “Sometimes. I mean, I don’t come into the office on random days throughout the week, depending on the volume of applications and who’s volunteering. Some weeks are busier than others, but that’s just fine with me.”
“Because you really love it,” I murmur.
“Yeah. I really do.” Levi gives me a look. “I answered your question, so now you have to try it.”
Sighing, I reach into my bag, grab the donut and a napkin, and take a deep breath before my first bite.
Heaven. Just—heaven. “Oh, HOLY MOTHER,” I exclaim, crumbs dropping from my mouth. (Gee, I must be a vision.) “What have you done to me?”
Levi’s laugh is like heaven, too, but I don’t comment on that. “See?” he teases. “I don’t know how you managed to avoid Peterson’s for this long, but now you can start living.”
I take another bite.
“Hey, wait,” he says, reaching for my donut. “You didn’t want this, remember?”
I jump away, my laugh sounding like a shriek in the quiet of the neighborhood, but I don’t care. I’m having too much fun. “No way! I’m finishing this one.”
Levi shakes his head in exasperation and makes another lunge for it.
I jump out of the way again, shouting, “Donut thief! Donut thief!” down the empty street, and our laughter sends birds rising into the sky.
“Do you want to come back, sometime, maybe?” Levi asks. “To The Color Project?”
We’re standing in my driveway at one o’clock in the morning. I’m leaning against his car, finishing up the last of my donut. He stands just in front of me, looking especially tall, making me tilt my head to meet his gaze. “Of course I want to come back.”
“That’s good.”
“Mm,” I say, stuffing my face with my donut.
“You could come back for an interview. I have one on Wednesday at five o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.” (Some things in life are just that simple.)
Levi leans against his car next to me, hands in his pockets. He crosses his ankles, the bottom of his Chuck Taylors scuffing the concrete. “So now you know why I wear bright sweaters.”
I hum in agreement, smiling as I wipe my crumby fingers on a napkin.
He continues, “People like you….you ask questions.”
“People like me,” I repeat. Then I ask, “People like me?”
“You have a soft heart, you know? You seemed like the type of person who would care.” He pauses, crossing his arms across his chest. “Tom is the same way. He pretends to be Macho Man but is, in reality, a softie.”
I snort.
“Don’t ever tell him I said that.”
“Oh, never.” I pull out my house keys. “Thanks, Levi. For everything.”
“You’re welcome, B-E-E.” He spells out my name with the funniest look on his face, like he’s trying to figure out what my real name is. He won’t ever guess it. Not in a million years. (I hope.)
I grin at him. “See you Wednesday?”
“See you Wednesday.”
Moments later I watch him drive away, before unlocking the front door and slipping in as quietly as possible. I like to imagine the world is somehow a happier place, because of today.
Chapter 11
It’s chaos in my house.
Mondays aren’t usually so hectic, but here we are: one sister singing musicals at the top of her lungs and the other telling her to shut up, my parents sitting in the living room discussing something important in hushed tones (their attempt at quiet makes them louder than usual), Tom and Andrea yelling at each other on the front porch.
And here I am, minding my own business, waiting for the storm to pass.
We’ve already eaten dinner, but even that was broken up by Andrea showing up to “talk”. What’s happening outside is not exactly what I would call talking, and I don’t think Tom would, either.
After a half hour of texting Gretchen, I decide I can’t take it any longer, so I plug in my phone and head into the kitchen. Astrid doesn’t pause her singing to say hi, but Millicent approaches me and buries her head in my shoulder, moaning in agony.
“Make her stop,” she says, practically weeping.
“I wish I could. Only stabbing her will do the trick.”
“No, that will make her wail louder.” Millie moans again.
“Then there’s nothing left but to bury her in the backyard,” I tease.
This earns a laugh. “Think Mama and Daddy will miss her?”
“Nah. I bet that’s what they’re talking about in there right now.”
We both turn our heads toward the sitting room, where my parents are bent over some paperwork. Looking at them—my mother, stiff and tight-lipped, and my father scratching his head—makes me oddly…dizzy. I glance down at Millie. “Any idea what they’re actually talking about?”
“No. They look so serious. And Mama was crying earlier.”
I shake my head. Millie looks so distraught that I know it won’t do to wonder aloud, What on earth are they so sad about? So I think it instead. “Well, then. Are Andrea and Tom almost done?”
Millicent gives me a look. “I hope so. She’s dropped the F-bomb, like, a million times.”
“Seriously?” I pat Millie’s arm. “Gunna go kick them off the porch.”
Astrid sings over to us, “You do that, Bee.”
I shoot her a glare before heading to the front room. I can see Tom and Andrea through the bay windows in the front room, their mouths open as they yell, their fingers close to each other’s chests, accusing. Their eyes full of nothing but disgust (on Tom’s part) and anger (on Andrea’s part). I’m working up the nerve to go to the door and tell them to take it somewhere else, when Andrea shakes her head, drops her arm, and—walks away.
I’m as startled as Tom; Andrea is never the one to say goodbye first. She’s too aggressive, too intense. She has too much to say. But now she’s straight up leaving, waving her hand over her head as if to tell him not to follow. My heart breaks a little bit for him.
Behind me, Astrid stops singing, and I can hear my parents talking in a normal tone, although I can’t hear the words. When I look outside again, Tom has disappeared, and without a second thought I bolt for the door.
He’s heading toward his car, his stride sad and slow. (Andrea’s car is already gone from our driveway; I can hear her angry tires screeching down the road.) I catch up to Tom, hands in my pockets, watching him from the corner of my eye. His jaw works and clenches. His hands fist and his eyes burn.
“Want to talk?” I whisper.
“No,” he grinds out.