To myself.
Which is precisely when I discover someone looking at me.
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.”
She tucks her lips around her teeth. “I never loved you,” she says in perfect old-lady-with-no-teeth character.
I raise one eyebrow, unamused. “Wow. I’ve never seen that one before.”
She breaks into a smile, then, and lightly kisses my cheek. “Goodnight. I’m sure you’ll sleep soundly tonight.”
Her smile turns evil. I grab a pillow and whack her until she’s cowering o
n the couch.
Laughing, I snatch up my purse and wave at them. “See you tomorrow!” I snag some quick leftovers—cold mac-n-cheese—before disappearing into the rest of the house.
My bedroom is down the hall, and I close the door behind me, sighing happily into the silence. It’s really messy: unfolded clothes at the end of the bed, books lying on the ground because I don’t have enough money saved for a new bookshelf, and three coffee mugs creating rings on my desk. I sling my purse onto its hook before taking the mugs to the kitchen. I rinse them out and hurry back to my room.
Taking one look at the pile of clothes on my bed, I realize I have no energy left. I grab my bowl of mac-n-cheese, shove the clothes aside, and sit down with an exasperated, “No way.”
That’s when I see there are seventeen unread messages from Gretchen. I check the clock. It’s eight o’clock here, so it’s eleven her time. I pray she’s still awake as I stuff my face with mac-n-cheese and read her messages.
Gretchen
Daily song! Get ready. Are you ready?
…I don’t think you’re ready.
Well, I don’t know why you’re not answering me because Facebook tells me you’re online. I think Facebook is lying to me. *shakes fist* ZUCKERBERG!
I laugh outright and continue to scroll.
Gretchen
Anyway, new song. GET READY.
Below this, there’s a link for a song called “Moon”. I press play and turn up my Bluetooth speakers.
Gretchen
ISN’T IT THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SONG EVER?! I AM SO IN LOVE.
Bee
WHAT IS THIS MAGIC?! I am in love with it only twenty seconds in. Why haven’t we heard this before?
I smile wide when the green light appears next to Gretchen’s name. It takes a minute, but soon new words pop up on my screen.
Gretchen
I DON’T KNOW. BUT WE CAN DIE HAPPY NOW.
Dude, where were you all day? I miiiiiissssseeeddd youuuuuu!
I give her a quick update on all things Bee & Car. I think about the beautiful, yellow-sweater-wearing boy in the shop and nearly mention him, nearly say something about my rude staring, but then Gretchen’s reply comes in, and I forget.
Gretchen
I’m shaking my head right now. Only you, Bee, would get two flat tires. Only you.
I take the last bite of my leftovers and set the bowl on the desk, right where the old mugs used to be.
Bee
I know. But that’s why you love me, right? Because I provide amusement and entertainment to combat the everyday mundane?
Gretchen
I love you; this is true, but not just for that reason.
Also, I hate to be rude, but I need to go to sleep now. I’ve been staying awake just for you.
Bee
Thanks. You’re the best. Sleep well.
Gretchen
I think you’re crap.
I smile. I’ve heard this a thousand times before—it’s our way of saying goodbye, because goodbyes are stupid, and we don’t like them. It’s our coping mechanism for living three thousand miles apart and missing each other every single day. (I love her parents, but I also resent them for taking her away from me all the way to Pennsylvania.)
Hearing Gretchen say “I think you’re crap” makes me forget that we’re so far from each other.
It’s the biggest lie ever, but I don’t care.
Replying to her message with those same, sacred words, I exit the app and pretend I’m not super-tired as I stand up and start stuffing my unfolded clothes into my drawers. The mess will still exist, but at least I won’t have to look at it or sleep on top of it. I’m folding up my favorite pink shirt when there’s a knock on my door
“Come in,” I mumble, hoping whoever’s there won’t actually hear me.
He does. My papa stands in the now-open doorway, hands in the pockets of his paint-splattered jeans, his shirt equally messy. The Flash lightning bolt logo looks sad with paint splattered across it. I shake my head and tsk, saying, “You and Tom.”
My dad ignores my teasing and steps into the room. “What? We love our superheroes. Just like you, so don’t try to pretend you aren’t as nerdy as we are.” He looks pointedly at my Clark Kent t-shirt hanging half out of my drawer, then holds out his arms to me. “I didn’t realize you were home and I’m offended that I didn’t get a hug.” He sniffs with pretend vexation.
I smile and hug him tight. “Sorry, I’m tired.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Did you build an attic today?”
I groan. My dad loves to compare his job with each of his kids’ to remind us that we don’t work nearly as hard as he does. (I admit: It’s true.) “No, Papa.”
He chuckles. “I’m just messing with you.”
I’m about to take a swing at his arm when my mom appears behind him and practically pushes me out of the way to hug my dad. “Matt Wescott, you have to come snuggle me—I’ve been crying over that movie!”
Ah, the aftermath of sad period dramas. This happens every time.
“Oh, baby,” my dad says dramatically, “I’ll snuggle you anytime.”
Ew, gag me. I mean, I love my parents, and I love that they love each other, and I wish more parents loved each other like they do, but really? They’re standing in my doorway, making out like teenagers.
“Um.” I choke. “Um, please?” Then I realize I haven’t actually asked them to do anything. (The struggle is so, so real.) I try again, much louder, in the sternest voice I can muster. “Mom, Dad, can you please exit the doorway and find your own secluded area of the house to…suck face?”
They stop and look at me, my dad wrapping his hand around my mom’s. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he says.
I raise my eyes to the heavens and close my door on them.
“Young lady,” my mom starts, but then she breaks out in a giggle.
I lean against the door. It eases my worried heart to see them like this, as they usually are: totally in love, my mom happy, my dad there to catch her if she loses it again. I wonder, for the millionth time, how my parents can love each other like newlyweds after twenty-five years of marriage. It’s like our own personal fairy tale; I’m constantly telling my sisters and Tom that we are the product of true love.
Thing You Should Know About Me #395: I’m a hopeless romantic. Any book with a love story in it is more likely to grab my attention. I love weddings so much that I crave them. I cry during most romantic movies. I even have my favorite engagement ring picked out at the local jewelry store. (Who am I kidding? I have an entire Pinterest board full of similar rings. My future man will surely get the hint.)
I look back at my closed door one more time, smiling to myself. I almost peek outside to make sure they’ve gone, but I think better of it. Then I pull on my pajamas and collapse onto the bed in a sudden wave of exhaustion.
I’m asleep before I remember to turn out the light.
Chapter 4
I get to work the next two days by using my parents’ extra car. I can’t really complain, even though it’s a minivan and I get strange looks from moms everywhere I go.
I’m at work when Michael finally calls. I can’t answer with my hands full of peonies and roses, but as soon as I clock out for my break, I listen to his voicemail. It confirms exactly what I want to hear: MY CAR IS READY! I imagine colorful confetti raining down around me.
Excited to be back in Familiar Car Territory, I immediately call Tom. “I need a favor,” I demand when he answers.
He clicks his tongue. “Let me think about it. Hmmm. No.”
“Tom! I need you!”
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I hear giggling in the background. “Are you with Andrea?”
“Yes, obviously. Where else would I be?”
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Ugh. “Tom, really. Will you be home tonight to take me to Mike’s? My car’s ready.”
“I’ll be home at nine. If they’re still open, I can take you then, okay?”
I thank him quickly and hang up. After a few more phone calls, I get a hold of Michael to ask if I can pick up late tonight. (These back-and-forth phone calls are starting to get on my nerves.)
“Yeah, sure, you can stop by late,” he says. “Levi will be there working overtime. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
I have no idea who Levi is, but I thank Michael anyway, “Are you sure I don’t owe you anything?”
“Positive. You’re Tom’s little sister. I feel I owe it to you for all those times I stole your bras and put them in the freezer. Just don’t break your car again and we can call it square.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “I didn’t break my—”
“Hey, Bee, gotta go. Levi’s calling.”
I hang up, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head that’s wondering who Levi is, and why I haven’t met him. I clock back in and reach behind my back to retie my colorful apron.
Around me, the shop is a bright world of petals and loose leaves on the ground and gifts and buckets and glass. From my vantage point, I can see the gift shop ahead, the cooler to my left, and the designer’s workstation just behind me. Tracy is there, working away, her silver hair cut in a short bob and her reading glasses slipping down her nose.
I push up my own frames and reach for the nearest bucket of lilies to clean off the stamen. It’s one of the things I find myself doing automatically in the shop, checking for orange pockets of powder in every bud even if I’ve already gone over the flowers. There’s something therapeutic about the repetitive motions: squeeze, swipe, squeeze, swipe. After I toss the stamen in the trash, my palms are stained with orange, like splotches of sunshine.
Since the checklist for the day is completed, and it’s nearly two o’clock, I stand beside Tracy for a few minutes and watch her work. The flowers she’s using are bright, not a combination I’d particularly choose, but the arrangement comes together beautifully. The hot pink gerbera daisies and purple dahlias contrast with yellow carnations and white hydrangea to create something I would never have expected. Okay, I wouldn’t put it in my house, exactly. But somebody ordered this, and it smells amazing, and I just know they’re going to be pleased. (Tracy’s customers are always pleased.)
The Color Project Page 2
