The Boy is standing over the car next to mine, reaching deep into the hood. The first thing I notice about him are his clothes. In the grungy mess of the car shop, I would expect someone dressed exactly like Michael: black and other dark colors, complete with torn jeans and maybe even a bandana like Keagan sometimes uses to keep grease out of his hair. But no. The Boy is wearing a pastel yellow sweater, which I stare at for a second too long. Why on God’s green earth would he wear such a lovely, light-colored sweater to work at a car shop when it’s going to get greasy and torn?
I chide myself for staring at his sweater—so instead, like the social genius I am, I stare at his face. He reaches for something on the table beside him, then slips his hand back into the engine, lips puckered as he bites the inside of his cheek. He’s got that thin, lean look, all high arches and sharp cheekbones. His dark blond hair is purposefully messy, swooping up in the front. (He could give Douglas Booth and Sam Claflin a run for their money.) I notice that his eyes are a light brown, almost golden…and then I try to un-notice because those eyes are looking right at me. Again.
Belatedly, I turn red like a blood moon, and he chuckles.
Chuckles!
NOPE, I think to myself, mortally embarrassed and mourning the loss of my dignity. I turn back to Michael, who’s fiddling around with something next to the engine, eyes squinting in concentration.
“So, what’s up?” I ask, desperate to stop thinking about The Boy and whether or not The Boy is still looking at me and laughing at me, but Michael puts out a shushing hand. I roll my eyes.
Finally, after a few more minutes of muttering under his breath, he straightens and shuts the hood. “You probably need new brake pads, and I think you should have your transmission fluid changed. I can have it done in two or three days. Can you go without a car for that long?”
“I guess so... I mean, I have to, right?” I stutter, trying to imagine how I’ll get to Oceanside.
“Considering I’m doing it for free—”
“Wait, what?”
“I mean, not the tires. But the other stuff is easy. So, yeah, I’m super nice, thank me later.” Michael waves his hand. “If you can wait another hour I’ll drive you home.”
“I guess I have no choice. Have anything to eat?” I think my stomach is eating itself now.
Michael laughs. “Sure, check the office fridge. And Greg is probably hiding a bag of Lays behind the desk.”
I peer into the office window. Greg, who was munching on a bag of BBQ potato chips, slowly takes his hand from his mouth, as if he knows I’m eyeing his snack. He shakes his head, I nod, he shakes his head, I nod, he shakes his head… But I know I’ve won because he quickly goes back to work. (I’m infamous around here for always eating the chips they have stashed.)
“Thanks, Michael!” I holler. I swoop into the office, where Greg is attempting to hide the bag under his desk. Laughing, I shake my head. “No, no, Greg, it’s fine. I’ll check the fridge.”
Greg visibly relaxes, pulling his chips close to his chest, and I laugh harder. All that’s left for me to do is pull out a yogurt and spoon, sit on the edge of the swivel chair across from Greg, and wait for Michael to take me home.
Chapter 3
The house looks dark from the outside; our small street has no lights to guide me to the door. Around us, the city of Escondido is quiet, getting ready to sleep.
I wave goodbye to Michael and hurry to the front door with my phone flashlight. I unlock it as quietly as I can so I don’t disturb the movie I hear playing in the back room. I slip inside, lock up, and make my way toward the noise.
My mom is sitting alone on the couch. The girls and my dad obviously haven’t come home yet, or else at least one of them would be sitting next to my mom. I can’t tell if Tom is here or not, but his presence is everywhere as always: shoes by the door, a sweatshirt over the back of a chair, clothes folded by the couch and waiting to be put away. I scrunch my nose at his boxers lying flat on the top, the Superman logo staring up at me. (I am never watching any Superman movies with Tom ever again.) I study my mom from the doorway, hoping she doesn’t see me. She’s crying; I can tell immediately by the way she lifts her thumb to her cheek and wipes at her cheekbones every twenty seconds. It’s silent crying, but she hasn’t stopped since I walked up.
My stomach sinks. I’m frozen, alternating between wanting to give her space and wanting to slip onto the couch next to her for some cuddles. Before I can make up my mind, however, the front door bursts open and Astrid and Millicent rush inside. They’re yelling about some musical and arguing over who can sing the words with the most accuracy. Still in their leotards and tights, they push past me like two fierce winds (“Hi, Bee!” they shout) and sprint toward the couch.
Mama quickly hides her tears behind an award-winning smile while they tell her about their auditions at dance today.
I glance back at the door, but my dad hasn’t come inside yet. I bite my bottom lip.
“Bee!” my mom calls. “I didn’t see you come in!”
“Just got home,” I say, and smile at them from the doorway. Millie (an old soul for her thirteen years) has her hand over her heart like she’s telling an exciting story and losing her breath. Astrid glances at Millie and rolls her eyes. At fifteen years old, she’s the cynic of the family. (I swear, getting a tear out of her is like trying to get water out of a long-dry well.) The three of them look alike. My mom passed down her long, golden hair to all of us, but that’s where it ends for me. The girls have the shape and color of her eyes, the oval face, the small nose, and the thin lips. I, on the other hand, got my dad’s nose (let’s just say it’s not as small and dainty as my mom’s), his round face, his green eyes, his full lips—and all his mannerisms, too. Everyone tells me I look like him, something that pissed me off when I was younger. How dare they tell me I look like a boy?! I’d rant. But now I understand what they mean, and I take it as a compliment. Papa has a kind, honest face, with eyes that literally sparkle. (And hey, he was pretty darn good-lookin’ in his yesteryears, if his high school yearbooks are any indication.) My mom sees my smile and smiles back. It’s genuine, which puts some of my worries at ease. “How’d it go, baby? Want some leftovers?”
I shrug. “I’ll have to pick it up in a few days. Michael’s doing a full checkup.”
“He’s so nice.” My mom waves me over. “Want to watch the movie with us?”
I almost comment that she’s already cried enough for one day, but manage to hold the words inside. Instead, I say, “I’m not in the mood to cry right now. Thanks, though.” (Thing You Should Know About Me #17: I’m a crier. I feel a lot of emotions, deeply and with abandon.) “But I will accept kisses goodnight.”
“You’re going to sleep?” Millie asks. She looks up at me with her big blue eyes as I walk over to her, and gives me a quick kiss.
Astrid scoffs. “She’s not going to sleep. She’s going to stay up all night reading and watching YouTube videos.”
“I am going to sleep, actually. I’m tired.” I kiss my mom on the forehead.
“Lies. You always say that, and then we see your light on at midnight.”
I turn to Astrid and smack the back of her head before she can run away. “Which means you’re up at midnight every night, too. Just kiss me.”