“Papa? But isn’t he working?”
“He got off early.” Her voice tightens, tone restrained. She doesn’t offer an explanation, so I don’t ask. “I’m just eating dinner. Want me to save you some?”
She sounds like she’s trying to smile and is failing miserably. “Sure,” I say. “Not sure when I’m coming home, though. I got two flat tires.”
Beside me, Julian grunts. I start, having forgotten he was there in the first place. But then I just scowl. Is he laughing at me? I squint at him for an indecent amount of time before realizing my mom is asking me questions.
“Sorry, sorry, what?” I ask.
“You’re okay, right? No injuries? Your car’s okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Car’s fine. We’re headed to Mike’s right now.”
She lets out a deep breath. “Okay, okay.”
“Mama?” I ask.
“Yes?”
I hear it again, the tightening of her voice, the sniffle, and I sigh. I want to ask her what’s going on, what happened to make her cry, why Papa’s taking time off to take my sisters to dance. But Julian’s sitting next to me, we’re almost to Mike’s, and I’m feeling funny. So I blurt instead, “Can you pick me up if I need you to?”
She clears her throat. “Sure, that’s fine. Just see if Michael can do it first?”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Love you,” she says, her voice small.
“Love you, too,” I say, equally quiet. I shake this strange feeling from my shoulders, straighten, and hang up.
I glance at Julian, who’s studiously staring ahead at the road, both hands on the wheel. I say a quick thank-you to the heavens that he wasn’t a weirdo or someone who wanted to talk the whole time (not that I gave him a chance) before he pulls into the parking lot at Mike’s.
Chapter 2
Mike’s is a car shop owned by a nice man named—you guessed it—Mike. But his son, Michael, basically runs the place, and he’s the real reason my family comes here regularly. Tom and Michael have been best friends for almost sixteen years, as long as I can remember. I have mostly good memories of growing up with him around, but I tell him that I only remember him teaming up with Tom and not letting me play video games with them.
Michael sees me from across the garage and strides toward me with his arm raised in greeting. I return the wave and gesture with my thumb at my car behind me, rolling my eyes.
He laughs. (And I suspect it’s at me.)
“Bee,” he says teasingly, trying to hug me with his grungy wife beater and greasy hands. I close my eyes and wait for it to end. I love hugs, but not from sweaty Michael. (You’d be surprised how many of them I’ve received in my life.)
Michael pats the hood of my car as two of his coworkers slide it onto solid ground. “Come on in. We’ll take care of you.”
“Thanks, Michael.”
He nudges me into the small office building to the left of the garage, and when everyone inside turns to look at us, he shouts, “Look who broke her car!”
I halt fast, giving him a mean side-scowl. “I didn’t break my car.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Greg, another of Tom’s friends, chuckles from behind the computer. “Bee always says it wasn’t her.”
I harrumph. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“Come on, you guys,” Keagan says, coming up beside me. His green eyes sparkle in that dazzling-Keagan way. He’s not quite a pretty-boy, but he sure is nice to look at, with his thick, wavy brown hair and square jaw and a thin nose. “It was probably Tom’s fault. Slit your tires or something.”
“Finally, someone with sense.” I grin at Keagan. Not for the first time, I wonder why Tom doesn’t work here with all his buddies. He practically lives here when he’s not working the night shift at the warehouse. (Or sleeping. He does a lot of sleeping.)
“Dude, Bee, we haven’t seen you in a while,” Greg says. “How are you?”
“Not so bad. New job and everything.”
Keagan raises an eyebrow. “New job?”
I feel a sheepish grin covering my face. “Yeah, I’m a florist’s assistant now. Today was Day Three on the job.”
“Phew,” Greg says. “What’s that like? Sounds like an allergy attack to me.”
I smack his arm softly. “It’s a little shop called Tracy’s Market Flowers, in Oceanside.”
“That’s a long drive,” he says quickly. (Greg, ever the optimist.)
“Yeah, but it’s worth it,” I say. “So far.” This job has to be the most interesting thing I’ve ever done for money. (Please don’t take that the wrong way.) Giving flowers to surprised individuals, watching their faces fill with the most adorable confusion and delight, is my new favorite thing. “I keep the shop clean and help out at the front desk, but mostly I help deliver arrangements.”
“I’m glad you like it, Bee,” Keagan says, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. It’s not too grimy yet, but it leaves a trail of dirt on his forehead.
These boys, I think, affectionately. “What about you guys? How’s your summer so far?”
“Nothing awful has happened,” Greg answers. “Yet.”
Keagan smiles. “Pretty good. Not as interesting as yours, though.”
“Busy,” Michael says. He drops some paperwork on Greg’s desk and smiles ruefully. “Organize those.”
With Greg grumbling about the messes everyone leaves for him to clean, Michael touches my arm, suddenly all business. “I have to leave in an hour, so we should get you sorted.” He opens the door that leads from the small office to the garage.
My car has already been moved into the garage alongside three others. I try to keep up as Michael weaves his way through the ports, but I accidentally run into four men and a tire en route.
When I finally catch up to him standing by the hood of my car, Michael looks at me and shrugs. “Aside from the tires, how about I give you a full exam? While it’s here.”
“If you think she needs it,” I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes. It’s down to my waist now, and the constant fluttering and swishing around my face sometimes makes it hard to concentrate. (Thing You Should Know About Me #35: Because being bored with short hair is worse than being annoyed by long hair, I’ll never cut it again.)
Michael nods. “Why not? It’s been a while.” He runs a hand through his ruffled blond hair. Now, Michael can surf and play guitar. He should have been named Julian.
I laugh. Quietly.
To myself.
Which is precisely when I discover someone looking at me.