We meet Michelle and Uncle Derek at Shinobu’s, an expensive Japanese restaurant overlooking the water. Normally, I love Japanese food, but my stomach is too twisted in knots to eat much of anything. I’m certain they’re going to announce their divorce. Derek avoids eye contact, and every time Michelle opens her mouth, she looks like she wants to scream. Even Dad knows something’s up. We exchange a couple of nervous glances before he pretends to be preoccupied with using his chopsticks to pick up the pickled ginger on his plate.
“Derek bought this shirt for me,” Michelle says into the awkward silence. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows are twitching madly, poor thing.
I smile gently at her. “That’s great. Uh…”
She leans an elbow on the table and props her head against it. I can see her sneaking a glance at Derek. He returns her look, frustrated. God, I wish they would just spit it out, so I can tell them what a terrible mistake they’re about to make. It’s that stupid guy’s fault—the one who sent her the lingerie. Did she have an affair with him? Ugh, she should have known—
Michelle suddenly slams a hand down on the table, rattling the dishes, and causing me to jump in my seat.
“Oh, for god’s sake!” she exclaims. “You two—dingbats! Read my shirt!”
What? My eyes drop down to her chest.
Oh, my god! In gold glittering letters is one word: Baby. An arrow points down to her stomach.
“You’re pregnant!” I shriek.
“She finally guesses, right before my head explodes!” Michelle rolls her eyes, but she looks ridiculously pleased.
I don’t care how many people are looking in our direction right now. I’m so happy for them! And so glad their news is, like, the opposite of what I thought. Wow…after so long. How amazing! I squeak with excitement. Even Dad’s eyes are shiny with emotion as he wraps his baby sister in a huge hug.
“Remember that time when we eating at the Lotus Garden, and I got sick?” Michelle is saying to me. “I’d been feeling nauseous on and off for a long time, but I never would have thought I was pregnant! My cycle’s been so messed up lately, so I wasn’t really keeping track of my periods.”
“That’s so great!” I give in to the urge to rub her still flat tummy. “How many weeks are you?”
“Almost eleven! And believe me, I wanted to tell you right away, but we wanted to wait until we went to the doctor to confirm it…”
“That’s why you’ve been so weird on the phone!”
“Yeah, sorry.” She laughs sheepishly, and exchanges a sweet look with her husband. “You know what a hard time I have keeping things a secret!”
“I completely forgive you,” I say with a grin. “Have you guys discussed names yet?”
“Are you kidding?” Uncle Derek snorts. “The day after she took fifteen pregnancy tests, she went out and bought bags and bags full of baby clothes.”
“In gender neutral colors, of course.” She giggles.
Oh, my god! I’m so happy for them I have to blink back happy tears. They’ve waited for so long for this—and now they look more in love than ever. All the fighting and trust issues are things of the past. And I’m going to have a baby cousin! Man, I wish we lived closer to each other—I would babysit for them every day.
We’re at the restaurant for over two hours, talking about the baby and eating way too much sushi. I can’t seem to stop smiling, and Dad and I talk excitedly about the soon-to-be addition to the family on the drive home. Still pumped up from the news, he breaks out the playing cards, and we play Texas Hold Em for hours—something we haven’t done in years. It’s nice. Like old times.
The next day, I make a huge pot of chili, a pan of cornbread, and two apple pies to take to Mack’s. Heather tags along, and she brings five big Ziploc bags of homemade tortilla chips—which turns out to be a good thing, because Johnny, Ben, and (ugh) Arianna all show up minutes after we get there. At first, Arianna acts like she’s too good to eat my low-class food, but she starts sneaking bites off Ben’s plate, until he gets annoyed enough to give her the whole thing and make another one for himself. Arianna seems fascinated with my best friend, hanging on her every word. She even warms up to me—she barely scowls at me when I ask her if she wants a second trough of chili.
It’s a really fun afternoon. Johnny behaves himself, spending most of the time throwing a football around with Nick. Every once in a while he’ll look over at me and smile, and when Mack and Lala teach us girls some hula moves, he quietly watches. His azure eyes on me make me jumpy and nervous. I turn the wrong way and hit Heather in the neck with my hand. She pretends to gasp for air.
Okay, maybe she wasn’t pretending.
Later, I’m sprawled on the grass under the shade of a tree, browsing through Lala’s family photo album that she insists I look at. Damn, she and Mack were gorgeous babies. She’s in the middle of telling me a funny story about one of their family vacations, when a shout distracts her. It’s Nick—he does a running jump into the pool, landing with a huge splash. He resurfaces, his brown hair plastered to his head, and laughing in that carefree way of his. Lala watches him with rapt attention, the way a cat would watch a mouse. I wonder if Mack knows his sister has a huge crush on one of his best friends. Probably not, since Nick is still around and breathing.
Lala suddenly snaps out of her trance—and without another word to me, jumps up and makes a beeline for the pool. Just like that, I’m abandoned for a sexy laugh and hard body. I can’t really blame her as I’ve done the same thing myself on more than one occasion.
Speaking of hard bodies…
Johnny eases down next to me, grunting slightly at the effort. Sometimes football players sound like old men with all their aches and pains. I consider asking him how his shoulder’s doing, but I remember it was just fine when he beat that guy up the other night.
He nudges me with his arm. “You still mad?”
I shrug, keeping my gaze downwards. “More like exasperated. You nearly killed that guy.”
“He had his hands all over you,” Johnny says, anger creeping into his words. I’m not sure if it’s directed at me, or at the pervert he beat up.
This time I look up. “I would have handled it, but you didn’t give me the chance to. Besides, it’s not your job to protect me. We’re not together anymore, remember?”
A muscle in his jaw jumps as he clenches it. “So you keep reminding me.” He looks away. “Just ‘cause we broke up doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.”
I sigh wearily. I so don’t want to have this fight again—why did I even bring it up? “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—never mind. I should start heading home. Dean’s coming over pretty soon to work on our English project, so…”
“Teeny. I know he’s not coming over until ten—I live with the guy, remember? If you don’t want to be near me, just say so.”
I flush, shifting my legs awkwardly. “No, it’s not that. I just—I want to go home. I ate way too much, and I just feel, like—blah. I really want to take a nap! but I didn’t want to sound…you know…elderly.”
Johnny chuckles. It looks like he wants to pat me on the head, but he knows better. “Says the girl who likes to be in bed by nine-thirty on a school night.”
“I know. I don’t know why Dean wants to come over so late—I have to get up early tomorrow,” I complain.
“He probably didn’t think about it.” He shrugs. “He never sleeps.”
“Never?”
Johnny takes the photo album from my lap, and opens it up. “Three or four hours a night, tops. I don’t know—I never sat there and timed him. He’s out almost every night, doing who the hell knows what.”
“Hm.” I give a little laugh before I climb to my feet. “Maybe he’s Batman.”
“I can totally see that. Is this Mack—or his sister? Damn, look at the size of that ‘fro! I wonder if he claimed air rights for it.”
“I heard that!” Mack shouts from the pool. He glares ominously in our direction. “Put the
photo album down, Parker, and walk away.”
Johnny and I exchange grins. He quickly puts the book down, but as I believe he mentioned before, he has fast hands. He casually slides the pilfered picture into the side pocket of his Cargo shorts.
“What are you going to do with that?” I murmur, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing good,” he replies with a wicked gleam in his eye. “You leaving now?”
“Yeah, if I can pry Heather away from her new bff. She—what are you doing?”
Johnny continues to pat my ass. “There was grass on the back of you shorts. Jesus, Juliet, get your mind out of the gutter. It wasn’t like that.”
But he says this with a smirk, so yeah—it was like that.
“Don’t worry about her—I can give her a ride home, or Ben and Arianna will if she doesn’t want to go with me,” he offers, standing up.
I watch Johnny as he stretches his long lean body in a way that he damn well knows makes me kind of drool. I’m already suspicious that he’s letting me run away from him again…what’s he up to?
A chorus of protests sound off when I announce I’m leaving. Well, there was a muffled cheer, but since it came from the sea harpy, I’m ignoring it. Unsurprisingly, Heather is having too much fun to leave. She and Arianna are huddled together like plotting terrorists talking about strappy sandals. I’m totally okay with with my bestie being so snuggle bunny with the enemy. I don’t know why I have the urge to bake two strawberry rhubarb pies topped with whipped cream, and smash them into both girls’ faces. Must be about that time of the month.
Johnny walks me to my car, and I half expect him to invite himself over tonight. But he gives me a lingering kiss on the cheek, taps the roof of my car, and says he’ll see me at school tomorrow.
Well, fine. I’d much rather finish my Biology report, anyway.
******
Chapter 20
“Oh, my god. What are you doing to that onion?”
Dean looks up from the cutting board, holding the knife at an awkward angle. “Chopping it.”
I stare at the mangled mess he’s made. The whole kitchen smells strongly of onions, and my eyes start to water. “That’s not chopping. That’s, like, onion murder. I’m not putting that mess in my omelet.”
“I told you, I’m no good in the kitchen,” he says.
Dean Youngblood is in my kitchen. I seriously forgot he was coming over, and was in the process of making myself an omelet. I’m wearing the skintight shirt I’ve had since I was seven—and can’t bear to get rid of because it still plays the “Little Red Monkey” song when you press the banana—and my enormous Aunt Flo shorts. It’s got giant red flowers on it, and I could smuggle a toddler in it, no problem. What possessed me to answer the door dressed like that, I’ll never know. I won’t even talk about my hair.
Look how cute Dean is, standing there. Of course, there’s no disputing he’s gorgeous—but cute? I don’t think I’ve ever mentally applied that term to him before. But he is cute now, looking around uncertainly. What does he think of my tiny hobbit house? Must seem pretty shabby compared to what he’s used to. And judging from his extreme lack of culinary skills, I’m betting he’s never had to prepare his own meals in his life. Sad.
“You can get the leftover chicken fajitas out of the freezer. It’s in a Ziploc bag,” I tell him. Then I hold my hand out. “Now give me that knife before you hurt yourself. Oh, and prepare to be dazzled by my incredible onion-chopping skills.”
Dean twirls the sharp knife in his hand in an impressive display of dexterity. He tosses it in the air, deftly catches it by the handle, and offers it to me with a slight smirk. “In the freezer, you said?”
I smirk back at him, raising my eyebrows. “Yes, ninja boy. Watch how you open the door, though—sometimes the ice trays fall out.”
Under my close supervision, Dean mixes the ingredients together, and makes a perfectly edible chicken fajita omelet. We sit down at the table, and I can tell he’s prepared to eat in perfect silence, but I ruin that plan by reminiscing about childhood friends. I almost choke on a fajita when Dean tells me about Aaron Davies, his former partner in crime (and a huge perv), is a father of two little girls—and currently serving time for grand theft auto. I wonder if his parents, both big-shot lawyers, represented him in court?
“It’s almost eleven,” Dean finally says with a glance at his rugged black watch. “We should probably start working on our project.”
“Actually,” I begin, then pause to take a sip of my diet coke. “I’ve already completed the outline—and I talked to Heather and Nick about helping us out, since they’ve both got that period free. How awesome am I?”
“I don’t know,” he says warily, sitting back. “Let me see the outline.”
“Sure, let’s go up to my room.”
I try to tell Dean he can leave the dishes in the sink and I’ll get to them later, but he ignores me and cleans up after the both of us. So, hm, he’s not totally clueless. Must’ve picked that habit up at military school. It’s weird to see him do something so domestic as loading up the dishwasher. Weird, but kinda hot. If his fangirls could see him now, I bet their hearts would melt like butter.
Dean follows me to the stairs, but pauses at the first step. I turn back to look at him, curious.
“Is your mom home?” he asks abruptly, rubbing his chin.
I roll my eyes. “Uh, of course not! You wouldn’t be here if she was. She’s working the night shift at the hospital. So if you’re worried she’s going to pop out at you from somewhere—don’t.”
A thought occurs to me, and I pause at the top of the short flight of stairs. “Um, so where’s your mother? Do you get to see her often?”
Dean seems to freeze for a second. His expression is unreadable when he replies. “She’s in Seattle, and I haven’t seen her in seven years.”
“Seriously?” I frown down at him. “Why? Seattle’s not that far away, if you wanted to visit her.”
His face closes off. I don’t think he’s going to say anything, but then he shrugs his broad shoulders. “She’s not allowed to see me.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“My dad.” Dean’s voice is completely emotionless. He stares past me, over my shoulder. “He gave her a lot of money to stay away from me—at least until I turn eighteen.”
“And she took it?” I blurt out, horrified.
A corner of his mouth crooks up in a wry smile. “My father can be very persuasive.”
I grasp the banister of the staircase, and forcibly swallow the biting adjectives that come to mind for a woman who would choose money over her son. Dean watches the struggle on my face, and seems to accurately interpret my unvoiced opinions. I’m sure it looks like aliens are trying to escape through my eye sockets. Fortunately, he looks more amused than offended. I would never call anyone’s mother a greedy bitch. Not to their face.
I clear my throat, and search for something neutral to say. “Do you want to see her?”
Dean steps onto the landing with me, so that he’s once again, much taller than me. “Someday, maybe,” he says with another small shrug. He pointedly looks away in a not so subtle hint that he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Curiosity has me asking another personal question. “Do you get along with Johnny’s mother?”
“Yeah, we do alright. She’s nice.”
I open my mouth to something, but then snap it shut again. It’s not my business. Instead, I turn down the short hallway to my bedroom. “This way,” I say over my shoulder.
I walk into my room (mostly clean, since I’m no slob), but Dean pauses at the threshold. At first, I think he’s weirded out about being in his step-brother’s ex-girlfriend’s room—but then I see the bemused, trying-not-to-be-horrified look on his face.
Oh, I forgot. My room’s kind of…a lot to take in. Johnny’s been up here, of course, but I used to tone it way down before each of his visits. It slipped my mind, this time.
“My room is m
y sanctuary,” I say defensively, watching Dean try to take in everything at once. “Don’t judge me.”
Okay, so I love carousel horses. There’s an army of plush ones on my window seat; miniature carousels—thirty-seven in all—sit atop every available surface in my room—my desk, the shelves running along two walls, my bookcase…I’ve got a small carousel lamp, and an adorable carousel alarm clock that plays tinkly circus music when the alarm goes off. I’ve painted carousel horses on my walls, and the little ones I’ve carved vie for space on my dresser.
I can practically hear the psycho stabby music playing in Dean’s head as he carefully examines my precioussses. He picks up one of the carves ones—Willow. She’s got tiny amethysts for eyes, and smells like oranges because she’s closest to the side of the bookcase which I regularly clean with Citrus Blast Deep Cleaning Solution.
“You made these?”
Willow looks especially little and delicate in Dean’s big hand. He holds her carefully, turning her to study the intricate curlicues that I painstakingly shaped as part of her mane. If he looks too closely, he’ll see the little heart on her left flank where I carved my initials. I resist the urge to snatch Willow out of his hand, clasping my own behind my back.
“These are great,” he says finally, gently setting her back down.
“Thanks,” I say quickly. “My dad used to take me to Queensberry park every Saturday to ride that huge indoor carousel. They had a carving class in the same building. This old retired guy named Beavis taught us how to make the horses. It’s fun. I make them for the kids at the rec sometimes…they seem to like them. You think I’m a huge freak now, right?”
“No.” A slow smile curves the corners of his mouth upwards. “I think you like carousel horses a lot.”
“Um…yeah.” I smooth back my hair self-consciously. “My dad and I—we were gonna try to make a life-sized one, but we never got around to it.” I decide to change to subject. “So, I started on the script…let me just get my computer on. It takes forever to boot up.”
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