by McLean, Jay
“You’ll what?”
I swallow my nerves. “I’ll continue to act like being around you doesn’t drive me insane in the best possible ways. I’ll accept the fact that the one person in my entire fucking life who has ever truly seen me wants absolutely nothing to do with me. And I’ll ignore how it makes me feel. How it’s going to ruin me.”
Tears fill her eyes, and I’m quick to reach out, to palm her face and brush my thumb along her cheeks to wipe them away.
“I’ll ignore it all, okay?” I search her eyes, but they refuse to meet mine, and so I drop my hands, releasing her completely. I rest my forearms on the ledge again and stare out the window, noticing the water tower in the distance. I push down the pain in my chest. “For you, Mia,” I murmur. “I owe you that much.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mia
I read somewhere that the human body replaces itself every seven years. The thought stuck with me for months afterward, until I became so intrigued by the notion that I finally looked it up. Turns out, it’s bullshit. Like a lot of things in life.
While it’s true that cells have a finite life span, there’s no real science backing up that specific time frame. And besides, if you think about it, that would kind of mean that every seven years we’d feel younger. It was so obviously incorrect that, now, I roll my eyes at the thought. But swear, for those few months, it felt like I had something to look forward to. I even looked it up on a calendar and set a reminder on my phone on the exact date, seven years from the last day I spent at the Prestons’. On that date, there’d be nothing, at least physically, to remind me of that night. Of how it felt to hate the body I was born with. I would be a new me. I think, in a way, that’s why I waited so long to do the research. I wanted so badly for it to be true, which is dumb. You’d think that after everything that happened, I’d realize that the simple act of believing in something or someone wasn’t enough to make it real.
I tug my hair out of its knot and stand back up, my legs wobbly when I’m back to full height. The image of me in the mirror is blurred, distorted by dirt and grime and all the things that cover surfaces that haven’t been touched in years. When I open the door, sunlight filters through the cracks in the roof, splintering the room with shards of dust-filled rays. Rows of beds take up each side, couches and an old TV on one end. On the other are a small kitchen, eating area, restrooms, and showers.
At one point, the barn was the sleeping quarters for all the workers that would come through. Most of them were drifters or hitchhikers just looking to make a quick buck so they could continue on. But some of them stayed, became full-time employees. Papa said, in the beginning, they used to pitch tents on the field, but my nagymama—my grandma—complained about them going in and out of the house to use the bathroom and shower and kitchen, so Papa built the barn for them to relax in and sleep once the workday was over. He even let workers from other farms use the beds for a small fee when it was peak season, usually during the summers. I know most of this through stories alone. According to him, he didn’t like strangers around me much, especially when I was little, so, as a precaution, he stopped hiring the males he didn’t know. And then, females. Eventually, he stopped hiring anyone who didn’t come with a trusted reference. Soon, the lack of employees made it hard for him to keep up with the work, so he retired and sold up before he started losing money. At first, I worried that he’d want us to move, somewhere smaller with less upkeep. I shouldn’t have worried. This land, the house we live in, the life we have, it’s his dream. His American dream.
I pull out my phone as I walk to the door and send a text to Holden that I’m awake and to come and get me. It’s been three days since Leo and I were at the parlor, and I’ve spent most of that time with Holden—not replaying Leo’s words in my head over and over like a damn broken record. Just as I begin to push the barn door open, someone does it for me. That someone is the boy I was not just thinking about. “Sorry,” he rushes out, and he won’t look at me. He’s in his running clothes: navy shorts, a plain white tee, and a backward cap. There’s sweat around his neck and down his chest, causing the fabric to cling to his collarbone. The flesh that’s exposed glistens—his arms, his legs, all defined by muscles that weren’t there two years ago. Sweet baby Jesus, if nothing else, the boy sure is something to look at. Not that I’m looking.
He’s talking.
Shoot!
“…homeless man in the barn.” He’s smiling, a knowing kind of smirky smile that hints to the fact that he knows exactly what I was just thinking.
I force my mind to push through the derp moment I’m having and focus on his words, then look behind me. “What homeless man?”
He waits for me to face him before taking a step back. “I said, I just came back from my run and saw the door open and remembered what you said the other day, so I wanted to check that there wasn’t a homeless man in the barn.”
“Right.” I lower my gaze. “It’s just me.”
“What’s in there?” he asks, and I glance up to see him looking over my head.
And since he’s not looking at my face, I take the chance to look at his. He’d always looked older than his years, a little more grown, and that hasn’t changed. Either I’m too slow, or he’s too fast, because he catches me looking—staring. He doesn’t smile this time. In fact, he takes another step back. “I forgot. You’re ignoring me.”
I wasn’t ignoring him. Because truthfully, I’d forgotten to.
“And I’m supposed to be staying out of your way.”
I bite down on my lip.
“I’m going to shower,” he says, almost sheepishly, as he rubs the back of his neck. “So… I won’t see you later, I guess.”
It’s official. I’m mute.
Sucking in a breath, he nods once, and with that, he goes into the house.
The strength of my exhale feels like a release. “Dang it!” I whisper and then check my phone. It’s been precisely one minute since I sent the text to Holden. It felt like a lifetime passed in the time Leo and I stood here. I’m still looking at the phone in disbelief when a text comes through.
Holden: Can’t right now. I’m preoccupied.
Mia: What in tarnation does that mean?
Holden: I’m with a girl.
I gag.
Mia: It’s, like, 8 in the morning.
Holden: She’s been here since last night. I’ve been trying to get her to leave. Any advice?
Mia: You’re going to Hell, Holden. If your mama knew…
Holden: I’ll call you later.
Frustrated at my lack of escape, I stomp my feet, like the brat that I am, all the way to the house and up the porch steps. “What in the dang heck is wrong with you?” Papa’s sitting on his rocking chair like he always is.
I pout. “Holden’s busy,” I tell him, flopping down on the porch swing. I push off the floor, move slowly back and forth.
“Well, it looks like you’re stuck with The Old Man and The Boy,” he says through a chuckle, and I can’t help but throw him a smile.
“I could think of worse things.” When it comes to spending time with him, sure. The boy, on the other hand…
“Tell me,” he says.
“Tell you what?”
“Everything. Anything. School? How is it? Your dad? How is he? New York? You like it?”
I push out a breath. “School’s good,” I say. “The girls are nice. Different, but nice.” So nice that they’ve taught me bad things that I now consider good. “Dad is… dad.”
“So, you don’t talk to him often?”
I shake my head. “He’s busy with work.”
“Always work,” Papa says, a hint of disdain in his tone. When my father left here, it was for college, and then every excuse since has been work. Dad’s dream is to become the next Mark Cuban, the billionaire owner of the Dallas Mavericks, who made his riches in the tech field. Dad hasn’t yet hit the billionaire status, though I’m pretty sure he’s close. He makes his money b
y buying apps that don’t have much visibility, tweaking them, and then marketing them to the right people. Last year, one of the girls in my dorm showed me an article online about him selling a dating app for 2.8 million. I pretended like I already knew. And while the girls at the school all come from money, they often tell me that it’s not the same as my money. Which, yeah, might be accurate, but it’s not my money, and it’s not my grandpa’s either. We don’t want it to be. Besides, we both know what it cost him to earn it. And those costs are sitting on this porch.
I can tell Grandpa is thinking the same thoughts I am, the slight frown hidden beneath his beard proof, and so I change the subject. “I’m getting a little more used to New York,” I say and offer a smile that I know will ease his worries. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the people, though. And I don’t mean the type of people. I mean the number of them.”
Papa chuckles.
“You could fit all the people in this town in one Starbucks there.”
“Yeah, I bet,” he says. “But it’s good for you, baba. You see more people. Make friends. Maybe even meet husband… when you’re forty.”
A giggle bubbles out of me, just as the screen door opens. Leo steps out, freshly showered. He’s in his work clothes now: plain navy V-neck, khaki shorts, and sand-colored boots. Same muscles. “Hey,” he says, looking between my grandpa and me. “Sorry to interrupt…” he trails off.
Papa looks up at him, then points to his truck sitting in the driveway. “In the back. For you. Surprise.”
“For me?” Leo asks, eyebrows raised.
Papa nods.
Leo heads over to the truck and lifts a rocking chair from the bed. His grin is wide when he walks back with it, places it next to my grandfather’s. “You didn’t have to do this,” he says, sitting on it. He makes a show of running his hands along the armrests and rocking back and forth. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Papa smiles. “Of course. You’re here all summer. Need to sit.”
Leo’s phone rings, and he takes it out of his pocket. “It’s the hardware store,” he tells my grandpa. I don’t focus on his voice, on the deep tenor of it or the way he says, “I’ll be there soon,” right before hanging up.
“Good!” Papa rubs his hands together. “Now, we get started.”
Leo grins at him. “Finally, huh?”
I’d noticed not much work was being done at the house, but I didn’t bring it up. Honestly, I thought the whole working-on-the-house thing was just a cover-up for Leo being here.
“Mia, you go with the boy. Help him.”
Leo’s gaze snaps to mine before looking away. He says, eyes wide and ahead of him, “It’s okay; I’ll be fine on my own. I’m sure Mia has plans.”
I check my phone, no text from Holden. No genuine excuse.
Before I can speak, Leo adds, “And I might need the passenger seat for the smaller things… like screws and… stuff.”
Papa sighs. “She go.”
“Really, it’s fine.”
“She go,” Papa says and then reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out a bank card and holds it out to me. “She pays. See?”
“Oh, I can pay for it and then—”
“Bullshit,” Papa snaps, and I can tell it’s making Leo uncomfortable to have to fight him on this. Admittedly, I hate it for him. “She go.” Papa looks at me. “You go?”
I swallow my nerves. “Yes, Papa.”
Chapter Twenty
Leo
This is going to be harder than I thought. Not even the making excuses or the ignoring part. Just the simple act of existing part. Mia’s in the passenger seat of my truck, and she’s wearing a dress, and I’d never seen her in a dress before. It’s nothing flashy or revealing, but the mere fact that she’s in it and she’s next to me in it is driving me insane.
“You’re going the wrong way,” she says, and I don’t know how considering we literally just pulled out of the driveway. “The hardware store’s the opposite direction.”
Right. I’d forgotten that just because she was constantly on my mind, it didn’t mean that she lives in there. “I haven’t had breakfast,” I tell her, my voice cracking from the dryness of my throat. “I was going to grab something at the diner real quick. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
When we get to the diner, there’s an awkward silence—a pause. I had planned on eating in because I like to watch the world from behind a window, but now that she’s here… “I’ll just get it to-go. Did you want something?”
She shakes her head. “I’m good.” Then her eyes trail to a group of guys sitting on the outside tables. They don’t seem to fit in with our surroundings. They look like they belong in a frat. Mia must pick up on the fact that I’ve followed her gaze because she says, “They’re seasonals.”
“Like, summer hands?”
She nods, her brow pinched as she watches them.
I look back at the guys, who are all looking at my truck and leering at her. “Maybe you should come in with me.”
“Yeah,” she breathes out.
“Wait there,” I tell her, getting out of the truck. I move to her side and open her door. We don’t touch. As close as she walks beside me, especially past the frat crew and into the diner, we don’t make contact. There are more people here than I’d seen before, and I glance around for Miss Sandra, but can’t find her.
“Mia Mac,” a woman calls from behind the counter. She’s little, like Mia, with fiery red hair and a face full of freckles. “I heard you lived in New York now!” She’s shouting, even though there’s no need to because we’re standing a counter distance away. “How’s that daddy of yours?”
“Good,” is all Mia says.
“I remember him as a kid…” the woman says. “Running around his daddy’s farm. I hope it was worth it, you know, leaving everything behind.”
Wait.
His daddy’s farm? I always assumed Virginia was John’s daughter. Surely, I should’ve known this fact. I guess I never asked.
“Is Rita bothering you, sweets?” Miss Sandra appears from the kitchen, her natural grin doubling when she notices me. “Hey, baby.”
I return her smile. “Hi, Miss Sandra.”
Miss Sandra looks between Mia and me, again and again, before settling on me. “You still waiting on that darkness to fall?”
I glance at Mia quickly. “Undecided,” I reply.
Miss Sandra tilts her head to one side, assessing me. “Good answer,” she says. “You want the usual breakfast, hun, or are you going to change it up this time?”
“Just the usual.”
She doesn’t bother writing down my order, just shouts to the kitchen staff, “Breakfast burger!” She winks at me. “I’ll get that chocolate cake for you.”
Mia speaks up. “I thought you didn’t like cake?”
She remembers, and that little piece of information has my stomach flipping. “Someone made me a cake for my birthday once,” I say, pulling some napkins from the dispenser. “Had me changing my mind real quick.”
Mia doesn’t have her license, so she can’t drive while I eat, and so we have no choice but to sit in the parking lot while I practically hoover the meal. When I’m done, I put the truck in gear, and before moving, I tell her, “I always thought Virginia was your grandpa’s daughter.”
“That’s a creepy thought,” she murmurs, looking behind us. “It’s clear. You can back out.”
I wait until I’m on the road again, going the right direction, to say, “It just seems weird. He wanted you to spend the summer with her, and she’s not even his kid.”
Mia sighs, looks down at her lap.
Aaaand, she’s back to ignoring me. Noted.
The hardware store is a good half-hour drive away and swear; I didn’t think it was possible to drown in sounds. Or lack of, in our case, because we spent the entire ride in silence. I should’ve turned on the stereo, but I didn’t, and now it’s too late because we’re already entering the
pick-up dock at the store. Mia gets out of the truck before I do and makes her way to the counter. I follow after her like a sad, pathetic puppy just looking for some attention. She’s already got the debit card in her hand, and she’s tap, tap, tapping it on the counter—a sign of impatience. I bet she can’t wait to be back at the house so she can run off with Holden or lock herself in her room like she’s done the past three days.
A guy, around my age, appears from a doorway leading to what I assume is an office. He smiles a generic smile and asks, “What can I do for y’all?”
Mia answers, “I have an order to pick up. It should be under John Smith.”
She seems annoyed with me already, so I don’t speak up.
The guy eyes her a moment, as if he recognizes her, and then types on a keyboard. “I don’t have anything under a John Smith.”
Mia’s quick to say, “He may have put it under his real name—János Kovács.”
Huh. It’s amazing what you can learn when you keep your mouth shut.
“You’re going to have to spell that for me,” the guy says, and he’s still looking at her like he knows her from somewhere. He probably does, and it’s difficult for him to pin-point. I’m not blind to the way she looks now compared to the way she used to. I just don’t care. This guy, though, he clearly does, because he’s eyeing her the way Logan does when he wants someone.
I want to punch him.
I want to take the two-by-four sitting on the counter and smack him over the head with it—multiple times.
“Nothing here with that name either,” he tells her.
I finally speak up. “It’s under Leo Preston.”
“Oh,” says the guy, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. “That name, we have.”
No shit, Sherlock. I just told you that.
