by L. E. DeLano
Finally, I text Jules. She doesn’t have a date tonight, and she loves my chicken piccata. If she comes over and eats it, then by the time Mom and Dad get home, they’ll just assume my dinner went off as planned, and Devon went home early. I won’t get any questions.
And if Jules comes over, she’ll keep me from walking down to Devon’s house, beating on his door with my fist, and demanding that he tells me what the hell is going on.
Jules doesn’t pull any punches when I open the door.
“He ghosted you on Valentine’s Day?”
I opened the door wider. “Get in here,” I say unceremoniously. “Eat your food.”
She pushes past me, inhaling deeply and making an mmm sound as the smell of the garlic bread and chicken piccata fill her nostrils. She plops down at the table and start shoveling food on her plate.
“You’re not eating?” She says, slurping up a long strand of spaghetti.
“Not hungry,” I answer glumly. I pick up my phone, and then set it down again.
“So what’s the story?” She asks through a mouthful of garlic bread. “I’ve seen the boy eat. What could possibly keep him from this meal?”
I shrug in what I think is a casual way, but Jules knows me too well. She gives a little head shake, like I’m a hopeless cause, and starts cutting into her chicken.
“So tell me,” she says.
“There’s not really anything to tell,” I say. “At least nothing in the way of information. Twenty minutes before dinner he texted me to say he couldn’t be here. He’s been ignoring me ever since.”
“Men.” The anger in her voice makes me feel slightly better. Slightly.
I pull up the text and slide the phone at her. “What do you think of this?”
She reads it through and stuffs a bite of chicken into her mouth without even bothering to swallow the bite that went before it.
“Hmmm,” is all she says. I don’t think she can say anymore until she finishes chewing the half a chicken breast that’s in her mouth. Finally, she swallows.
“Was he acting weird today?”
“No. He was perfect. The perfect boyfriend.” My mouth wobbles, and I clamp my lips together. “We had such a good day.”
“But he hasn’t always had good days,” she points at the phone with her fork. “He had that bandage on his hand. And that big old honking bruise on his forehead.”
“You saw that?”
She waves her hand with a piece of garlic bread in it. “He tried to hide it under his hair, but it was big.”
It was big. But he told me he tripped over the cat on the steps. And the hand—I don’t remember what he said to explain the hand.
“Didn’t Maya see him in the emergency room?” she asks. “Did you ask him about that?”
“I started to but—every time I try to talk to him about stuff that might be going on in his life, he kind of goes off on another subject.”
Jules raises her eyebrows. “Well, we’ve ruled out the gay thing, but the dude is clearly hiding something. I mean, he’s nice to everybody, and all, but you’re the only one he really talks to about stuff. And nobody in the neighborhood really sees his family. They keep to themselves.”
I remember the way Devon’s mother looked that day when I dropped him off. No smile. Not even a wave. We’d just started dating then. But you’d think she’d at least wave to her son’s girlfriend.
Then there was the night at the playground. I haven’t told Jules about him crying, sitting alone on the swing in the snow. It seemed so—personal. I’m not going to tell her now, either.
“Why do you think he doesn’t trust me?” I ask quietly.
“Maybe whatever’s going on, he doesn’t want you involved in.”
“That’s a bit much,” I say. “He doesn’t have a meth lab in the basement.”
“How do you know?” Jules asks. “You haven’t been to his house. And his Snap and Insta accounts only go back to December. I checked.”
“I know. He told me he hates social media. He only created the accounts so he could follow me.”
Jules raises her brows. "Well, that’s not creepy at all. Has he told you why he left Florida?”
I blink at her in surprise. “I never asked. I mean, I assumed one of his parents got a job here, or something.”
“Maybe they had to leave Florida,” Jules says, biting into another slice of garlic bread.
“What—you think the state kicked them out?”
“I think maybe they wanted to start over. Maybe things weren’t great in Florida. Maybe one of his parents has charges against them. Or he does. Have you Googled their names?”
“No.” I open my mouth. Close it again. “I don’t know his parent’s names. I’ve never met them. He won’t let me meet them yet.”
“He’s afraid of them,” she says. “Or he’s afraid of what they’ll tell you about him.”
My eyes narrow. “So now you think he’s a criminal?”
“He could be. I mean he’s been here since before Christmas, and he still hasn’t tried to get a job, has he? Maybe they’re afraid to let him get one.”
“He’s not dangerous,” I snap. “I would know if he was dangerous.”
“Dude—does he have a gun?” She asks in a hushed tone.
“No! Oh my God, Jules.” I shake my head at her. Then I still. “I don’t know. It’s not something I’ve needed to ask him.”
“Maybe you should,” Jules says. “But do it in a text, just in case.”
“Like I can just break that out in a conversation.”
She glugs down the sparkling water I poured earlier, and puts a fist to her lips to stifle a delicate burp. Then she pushes the phone back toward me.
“You’re going to have to start asking some questions,” she says. “He’s your boyfriend. There shouldn’t be any secrets. And he’s an idiot for missing out on this meal.”
I stare at my phone. She’s right. There shouldn’t be any secrets.
We had a perfect day before the secrets unraveled it all.
I pick up the phone, and text him one more time.
talk to me please
I’m worried
tell me what’s going on
I wait, as Jules finishes off the last of her chicken and spaghetti, mopping up the plate with a piece of garlic bread.
Devon doesn’t answer.
25
I packed up the leftover chicken and spaghetti and gave it to Jules. There was no leftover garlic bread, and she refused the salad, so I scooped it into the trash. By the time Mom and Dad got home, the kitchen looked like no one had been there.
Like no one slaved away three hours of her life hand-breading chicken and making a lemony piccata sauce from scratch. Like no one got ghosted by the guy who was the world’s greatest boyfriend earlier today.
I shut my copy of Fahrenheit 451 with a sound of disgust. I need to finish it tonight. I should’ve finished it before now, because we’ve got a quiz tomorrow, but as usual, I procrastinated and now I’m screwed because my mind is a mess.
I throw the book onto my pillow and slide down the bed to where Mojo is laying. As I snuggle into him, he gives my cheek a lick.
“Well, at least I got kissed on Valentine’s Day,” I tell him as I scratch his ears. I fold them over so he looks like Princess Leia and he shakes his head to release them, then shoves his nose up into my hand, begging me for more attention.
The doorbell rings, and Mojo jumps down to scratch at the door, barking madly. I groan as I roll off the bed and let him out. I’m ready to close it again when Mom yells up to me.
“Blue! Devon is here!”
Relief floods me. Dismay follows it quickly as I realize he’s down there alone with my mother. Racing down the stairs after Mojo, my stockinged feet slip on the hardwood floor at the bottom.
I skid to a stop and my relief turns to indignation as I see that he’s perfectly fine. No scratches, no bruises, no broken bones.
“I was surprised you didn’t stick around,” my mom is saying. “I’ve been wanting to meet you.”
“Sorry,” Devon says smoothly. “Something came up, but I’m back now. I’ve been wanting to meet you, too.”
Mom gives one of those stupid fake laughs and reaches out to put a hand on my arm.
“I was beginning to think that Blue was hiding you from me,” she says with a pointed look at me.
“She didn’t want to blow my cover,” Devon replies, leaning in and lowering his voice. “The CIA would consider all of you collateral damage.”
Mom laughs again. “He’s funny,” she says to me. “You didn’t mention he was funny.”
“You didn’t tell her I was funny?” Devon says, holding a hand over his heart like he’s wounded.
“It didn’t come up.” I really don’t feel like bantering
“Why don’t you come on in and we’ll all chat for a bit,” Mom motions toward the family room.
I ram my feet into my sneakers, which are, thank God, right next to the door.
“He can’t right now,” I say before Devon can get a word in. “We’re going over to his house.” I open the hall closet and grab my coat.
“Fifteen minutes,” Mom begs. “He only just got here.”
“Mom,” I put a wealth of exaggeration into her name. “It’s Valentine’s Day. And we got interrupted. Devon forgot to bring my present—it’s at his house.” I shoot him a warning look.
“Yeah,” he says. “Stupid me. We won’t be out too late.”
She lets out a sigh and finally gives up. “Home by ten-thirty,” she tells me as I pull the door closed behind both of us.
Devon starts to say something but I grab his hand, pulling him down the block. I know she’s probably listening at the door.
When we are far enough away from prying ears, I drop his hand and turned to face him.
“Okay, so what happened?” I demand.
He lets out a breath. “It’s kind of a long story, and I don’t have a lot of time right now.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“Can we go back to your house? I really don’t feel like having this conversation out on the street.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Why don’t we go to your house?”
He winces. “Now is not a good time.”
“Now is never a good time to go to your house. Now is never a good time to meet your parents. Now is never a good time to ask you anything about your past.” I say, waving my arms. Why is that?”
“Look, I know there’s a lot I haven’t told you. And I’m sorry—”
“So sorry that you ditched me on Valentine’s Day?”
“Bad timing,” he says, wincing again. “I’m really sorry. I told you I was sorry. I texted you as soon as I could.” His eyes brighten. “Is there any food left over?”
I stare at him incredulously. “That’s all you care about? The food?”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m trying to have a conversation. Why did you move here?”
He looked taken aback. “What?”
“You heard me. I’m asking about your life. About your life before you came here because apparently you don’t have one. Why is that?”
“I told you, I lived in Florida,” he says defensively.
“Yeah, and that’s pretty much all you’ve told me,” I fume. “I’m your girlfriend, and I can’t really tell anyone anything about you. You’ve got no past anyone can turn up. Nothing on social media. Google has some scores from a few golf tournaments at your old school but that’s about it.”
His eyes go wide and he freezes. “What—you’re running a background check on me?”
“Do I need to?” I demand.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You tell me. You’re the one with all the secrets. Beaten up hands, bruises on your body, weeks out of school, ambulance rides to the emergency room.” I tick them off on my fingers as I list them. “Am I missing anything?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact you are,” he spits out. “Apparently you’re missing the part where I’m your boyfriend and we care about each other. You’d rather dig through my past and make up your own stories.”
“What the hell else am I supposed to do? I ask you about stuff and you change the subject.”
His jaw tightens. “I know I haven’t handled this right—”
“No, you haven’t. I’ve got enough shit to deal with at school without people asking if you’re going to come to school with an assault rifle or something.”
“You honestly think I would—” His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “So you’ve got the school gossiping about me?”
I poke a finger in the middle of his chest. “Don’t put this on me. We’ve been dating for weeks, and you won’t let me into your life. I can’t trust somebody who’s keeping secrets from me. For all I know, you’ve got another girl on the side. Maybe back in Florida.”
“I told you I didn’t. And why did your mom think I’d eaten dinner with you?” He accuses. “Who were you cooking for? Did you text one of your whatevers and let them know there was an open spot?”
“Maybe I did!”
He turns abruptly on his heel. “I’m done.”
I grab his arm. “Well, I’m not. If we’re going to make a relationship work, you can’t be closing up on me, and ghosting me when I’m trying to find out what the hell is going on. And then you show up here tonight and all I can think is, ‘Somebody had better be dead’ and you look fine. You’re joking with my mother. You’re asking me about leftovers. What am I supposed to think?”
He goes utterly still. His mouth tightens into a thin line and he shakes his head.
“I have to go,” is all he says.
I watch him walk away, because I don’t know what else to do. And somehow, I make it up the stairs into my room and lock the door before I shove my face into my pillow and cry.
26
Devon wasn't in school today. I spent a miserable night tossing and turning, replaying our conversation in my head.
I shouldn’t have jumped on him like that. I should have given him a chance to explain.
I did give him a chance to explain. He told me he didn’t have time to explain and he asked about leftover chicken.
I’m really, really mad at him.
I really, really miss him.
I shouldn’t have been so harsh.
I let him walk all over me.
Back and forth, back and forth. I feel ripped apart. Everything was so good. It was so, so good. Why didn’t I just leave things like they were?
Because he doesn’t trust you, a small voice whispers from the back of my mind. I wish I could dig that voice out with a fork, but it would still be there. And every day that we’re together it will get louder, so last night’s conversation was bound to happen sooner or later. I just wish it had been later.
I keep looking at my phone to see if he’s texted me and I somehow missed it—which is not possible because I’m checking my phone constantly, and pretty much kept it in my hand all day.
If I don’t hear from him by the time school is over, I’m going to text him. Or maybe not. I don’t know what I’m going to say, but I’ve got to say something. But he should text me first. After all, he’s the one who walked away.
Did he really think I called Austin and invited him to Valentine’s Day dinner after the way he’s treated me? Just because I was mad at my boyfriend?
I shift back from sad to pissed off again, and then I remember that I’d hinted Devon was a potential mass murderer, so I guess we are more than even when it comes to jumping to conclusions.
/> Not that I really feel that way about him. I was just angry and it came out. Despite what Jules says, I can’t feel like Devon is dangerous to me. Whatever it is he’s hiding, it was in the past. I’m pretty sure. Or it’s nothing like that. I believe that.
I have to believe that.
I left before Mom got up this morning just in case she wanted to ask me why I ran back into the house ten minutes after I’d walked out last night. Why I pounded up the stairs and slammed the door to my room and locked it. Hopefully, she didn’t hear me crying, but this is Mom. She hears everything.
I work after school, and I’m three hours into my shift before I get a break. BurgerMania has outdoor seating, but not a lot of people use it in February in Pennsylvania. It’s a good place to check your phone, though, if you’re likely to burst into tears as you read your text messages.
Or your lack of text messages.
I’ve decided against texting Devon. But I can’t leave things like they were. I posted a selfie last night where I looked kind of thoughtful and a little sad. I captioned it: late night thoughts.
Okay, maybe I looked a lot sad. He had to have seen that I looked sad.
But he didn’t comment. And he didn’t text.
I think about driving to his house after work today, but the mental image of me standing on his front porch sobbing is a real deterrent.
I put my forehead down on the cold, metal table, and will myself not to cry. I’ve only got ten minutes of break left, so I need to keep it together.
A hand prods my shoulder, and I let out a startled squeak.
“You okay?”
Maya is standing there staring down at me.
“What—what are you doing here?” I sound really stupid—like I’m accusing her of a crime or something. “Sorry,” I mumble. “Bad day.”
“I was going through the drive-thru and saw you back here. I wanted to talk to you, anyway.” She slides onto the bench across from me. “You look rough.”
“I’m sure it’s all over school,” I say. “About me and Devon.”
She looks confused. “What? Did you break up? After all that stuff he did on Valentine’s Day?”
