And she does. Her eyes flick down to my mouth once, then she presses her lips to mine. Soft and warm. I cup the back of her neck to pull her closer. Our tongues touch, gently at first, but then her thumb sweeps over my cheek, and I feel wild, like I need to devour her right here. She tastes like summer, like running and laughter, and the combination is so heady that I have to force myself to slow down and savor this moment. It’s a first for me, too.
She pulls away and I almost groan in protest, but I hold it in when she rests her forehead against mine.
“Did we just kiss in a tree?” she asks, a giggle edging her words.
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
She cracks up at that and her lips find mine again, both of us laughing between the soft press of mouths.
“Ready to go?” she asks when we break apart.
“Absolutely not.”
“Me neither, but I think I’m one scoot away from getting a splinter in my ass.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”
She guides me down the tree, her feet as light as the cool breeze over my skin. When we hit the ground, Sugar stirs but doesn’t wake, grunting in a way that sounds exactly like a pig. We stifle giggles as we tiptoe around him. Then we run toward town, holding hands the entire way.
Chapter Sixteen
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE UP TO SHOUTING. I’m out of bed so fast, I don’t even think about the fact that I’m in nothing but a thin camisole and a pair of fraying sleep shorts. My door cracks against the plaster wall as I fling it open and run down the hall into the living room.
“—can’t just take my money without asking, Maggie,” Pete is saying. He’s dusting something out of his hair and off his shoulders that looks like Fruity Pebbles. “That’s not how this works.”
“I thought we were in this together!” Mom yells.
They’re standing in the kitchen, a red box of cereal torn and empty on the counter, more colorful flakes scattered all over the floor. Mom’s dressed in nothing but one of Pete’s button-up shirts, dangling to her mid-thigh. At least, I think it’s Pete’s.
“Together doesn’t mean stealing,” he says.
Oh, shit.
“I did not steal,” Mom says. “I borrowed. For a good cause.”
“Always a cause with you. You need things for your jewelry business, fine. Ask me. I told you I’d help out, but don’t dig through my wallet when I’m sleeping. I won’t have that.”
Mom pops her hands on her hips. “You won’t have that? What is this? Nineteen fifty-five?”
“What happened?” I ask when they both take a breath.
Mom inhales sharply and whirls around to face me. Her affronted expression dips a bit, but she presses her lips flat and barrels on. “Nothing, baby. Pete’s having a hard time adjusting to a woman in the house, that’s all.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Maggie,” he says. He gestures toward the mess of cereal. “Is this what it means to have a woman in the house? Cereal dumped on my head for asking you about my own damn money?”
Dread fills my stomach. “Mom, did you—”
“I borrowed it, Gracie. I needed more copper for Eva’s necklace. I messed up the first one, and she needs—”
“Then. Ask. Me!” Pete booms, his face and thick neck red as a beet. I immediately move toward Mom, wrapping my hand around her arm and pulling her closer to me.
“What the hell?” Jay comes around the corner, rubbing his bed-head hair and blinking heavily. “It’s seven a.m.”
“It’s eight thirty, genius,” I say. My entire body feels caught in a vise.
“Whatever. Too early. What’s wrong?”
“We’re fine,” Mom says, but her voice shakes. “Just a simple misunderstanding.”
I keep my hand on her arm, both of us as tense as spooked cats. Pete shifts his gaze between the two of us for a few seconds before he closes his eyes, releasing a huge sigh. When he speaks, his voice is calm and even. “Grace, can you and Julian excuse us for a minute?”
“No, I cannot,” I say.
“It’s okay, baby,” Mom says. “Pete and I need to talk.”
“So talk. I’ll stay right here.” Pete is huge and was all crimson-faced and pissed-off two seconds ago. And yeah, okay, it sounds like Mom stole his money and he has every right to be mad about that, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her alone with him.
“Come on, Grace,” Jay says, taking my hand and pulling.
I jerk back. “Get your hands off me.”
“Gracie, go,” Mom says.
“No way in hell.”
“Margaret Grace.” She turns toward me, prying my fingers off her arm. “You watch your mouth and get your little butt back in your room. This is between Pete and myself, and I do not need you here. I can handle this.”
I blink at her, speechless. She’s never said that to me before—that she didn’t need me. I’m so shocked, I don’t even fight Jay guiding me away and down the hall.
In my room, I sink down onto the bed, but my senses are still on high alert. I listen for more yelling or shattering of thrown objects, but there’s only a low murmur. Jay hovers in the doorway.
“He won’t hit her,” he says.
I glance up. “What?”
“He can get pretty loud when he’s mad, but he won’t hit her. He’s never hit anyone in his life. Not even a dude.”
My body relaxes and I let out a bitter laugh. Because this is ridiculous, right? That this is what I’m worried about. Because I never know exactly what we’re getting into; with every new guy, every fight, every scream, there’s always a chance it’ll turn ugly.
On my rumpled bed, the fingers of my right hand move subtly, tapping out the bass clef of Schumann’s Fantasie. Jay stays put, watching me. I can’t look at him. Yeah, he’s an ass, but I’m acutely aware right now that I’m the girl whose mom just stole from his hard-working dad—the man whose house we’re living in, whose food we’re eating, who could kick us out at any minute. I can’t remember the last time Mom sold a piece of jewelry or worked a shift at Reinhardt’s Deli. If she’s slipping twenties from Pete’s wallet or wherever, then things are bad and could get worse any minute. I feel an overwhelming urge to apologize, and I swear to god, I’m about to, when I think of my own stash of tips from LuMac’s.
It’s not much. I’ve only worked one shift, but when I got home yesterday, I put the thirty bucks in my Wizard of Oz music box that I’ve had since I was five, a birthday present from Emmy. Jay’s eyes follow me as I get up and cross the room to my dresser, flipping open the box’s lid. “Over the Rainbow” twinkles through the room, slightly off-key after so many years of play. Dorothy spins slowly in her ruby slippers.
The box is empty.
I knew it would be. Just like I know I won’t ask her about it. Just like I know if she had asked me for the money, I would’ve given it to her.
I stare at the dingy, emerald-green velvet interior, a little yellow brick road curling through the faux forest floor. Gently, I close the box and lift my eyes to the mirror. My hair is stringy from being outside last night, the wind and running tangling it up, and there’s a mess of smudged eyeliner I was too exhausted to wash off when I got home.
I look like her.
“Where’s your mom, Jay?” I ask, eyes still fixed on my reflection.
“Huh?”
“Your mom. I assume you have one.”
He clears his throat, and I turn to look at him. He’s staring at me, his lower lip tucked under his teeth. “She’s in Chicago. Has been for about four years.”
“Why?”
“They got divorced, obviously. She moved there for work. She’s a lawyer. A career-obsessed bitch, honestly, with a whole new family. I usually see her at Thanksgiving.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“You were supposed to stay with her this summer, weren’t you?”
“Her new husband surprised her with a trip to Key West,” Jay says, shrugg
ing and picking at a loose fleck of paint on the door frame.
“How did I not know all this about her? I mean, when we were together?”
He tilts his head at me. “You never asked.”
After a couple of awkward seconds, he turns around and leaves. The house is quiet now, my senses filled with the image of a girl in a mirror—the girl I am, daughter of a sad woman who takes what isn’t hers and never, ever asks.
Chapter Seventeen
THE KEYS FEEL ROUGH UNDER MY FINGERS. They’re yellowed and a few of them are cracked. Hell, the lowest A key isn’t even there, but it’s a piano with pedals and it’s only a tick out of tune, and I can create music on it, practice for my audition, distract myself, and focus on a future I’m not even sure I can have.
Except I can’t concentrate. I bang on the piano, the dissonant clang causing the Book Nook’s owner, Patrick, to tsk from the front of the store. I ball my hands into fists and stretch them out before starting the piece again. I drift into autopilot, my hands obeying me for a few seconds, but my mind wanders. It creeps over to Mom picking Fruity Pebbles off the kitchen floor as I left this morning, but I can’t think about her right now. Don’t want to. Don’t even know what to think about her stealing and necklaces for Eva and not needing me and whatever else the hell.
So I let myself think about Eva. Last night we ran all the way to the lighthouse driveway, and only when our feet slowed did our hands falls away. Eva kissed me once and then kept heading farther into town, a little smile on her lips as she waved goodbye.
And my hand. My mouth. They tingled. I couldn’t get them to stop. They’re tingling right now just thinking about it all, and my fingers slip and hit an E-minor chord when it’s supposed to be E major.
I shove my hands into my hair and groan. The early-morning sun filters in through the window in the storage room, blinding me for a split second.
“Scholarships don’t win themselves!” Patrick calls from behind the register. He’s in his midthirties, completely bald—by choice, he swears—and is a classic Cape Katie busybody, one of those who feasts on Bethany Butler’s radio show just so he feels like he knows everything about everybody in town.
Still. He has a piano, and he lets me sit in here for hours a day, free of charge.
“Thanks for clearing that up, Patrick,” I call back, but he’s got a point. If I don’t get a scholarship, I don’t go, plain and simple, and a lot of other pianists vying for a spot at a school like Manhattan come from performing arts high schools and money. I’m miles behind just by simply existing.
Patrick grunts acknowledgment, and I get back to work. This time forcing every thought other than college, scholarships, dorm rooms, and ice cream socials in the quad out of my mind.
Schumann’s Fantasie unfurls from my fingers. It’s soft and haunting and I love it. I pour myself into it—every wish, every shitty duplex, a girl named Eva, a mother who steals from her daughter—it all rises and falls with the piece’s dynamics. The first movement unfolds in a sort of stream of consciousness, various states of the mind and heart mimicked under my hands.
Fear. Fury. Hope. Love.
I let it all fall out of me and onto the neglected keys. It’s a rush, a complete letting go, and I can think. Everything is clear when I’m at the piano. I know who I am. I know what to do.
I know how to leave.
Blasting through the rest of the first movement, my fingers ache and tingle, but it’s a very different sensation from last night. This one is pure drive, surety, confidence. The last notes reverberate through the store, my hands suspended in midair. The mad dance I always fall into with the piano whenever I play tosses my hair into my face. I push it back just as a tiny exhalation of air reaches my ears.
I whirl around on the creaking bench to find Eva gaping at me. She’s in a slouchy tunic and a short denim skirt, legs for literal days.
“Wow,” she says. “You are good.”
I smile. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Humble, too.”
“Hey, I don’t have a whole lot else going for me.”
She sits down on the bench, pushing my hips over with hers. “Humble and self-deprecating. How attractive.”
“I try.”
“Are we flirting?” She leans against my shoulder a little and lowers her voice, her hair brushing my cheek. “I think we’re flirting.”
I can’t keep the grin from my face. “I don’t know. Do you want to be flirting?”
“I might. Do you want to be flirting?”
“I think talking about flirting sort of nullifies any actual flirting.”
She laughs, pulling one of her curls straight before releasing it. It springs up to her cheekbone. “Maybe we should stop talking about it, then.”
“Maybe.”
We lean into each other, and I feel this huge wash of relief. We’re about to kiss again. It wasn’t a one-time thing. It was real.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom in the doorway. I pull back from Eva—way back—and stare at my mother. She’s hugging a large cream-colored paperback book with intricate flowers printed all over the cover to her chest. She looks at ease, her makeup fresh, her posture casual, like this morning never happened.
“Hi, baby. I didn’t know you were here.”
For once, she’s right. I didn’t tell her where I was going when I left this morning, and she didn’t ask. She was too busy cleaning up cereal.
“What . . .” I flit my gaze between the two of them. “What are you doing here?”
Mom holds up the book. “I was listening to Bethany’s radio show the other day, and Nina Alvarez was talking about how she struggles with anxiety. She mentioned these fancy-schmancy coloring books for grownups. They’re supposed to be great for relaxation and even mediation. Then Eva told me she uses them all the time, so we’re going to head over to the picnic tables at the park and try it out.”
“You should come with us,” Eva says, sliding her hand over mine. I yank it back. Hurt blossoms in her eyes. I want to apologize, to explain that it’s not about us or even the fact that my mom is standing right there while I sit extremely close to another girl. Mom doesn’t really know about me, but not because I haven’t tried telling her. She just doesn’t listen. Regardless, I’m not embarrassed.
I’m furious.
Because, my god, I kissed this girl last night, and today she’s buddying up to my mother. I know Eva’s having a hard time, and if coloring with Maggie helps, then so effing what? I can’t pretend that Mom doesn’t understand grief or whatever a hell of a lot better than I do, no matter how screwed up her coping methods. Still, I can’t help but feel cheated by both of them.
Standing, I collect my music books and stuff them into my bag. “I have to work.”
And that’s all I say before I head toward the door, Patrick eyeing me as I speed-walk past the history section. I can’t help but think Luca would be proud as hell right now—I’m already getting better at this leaving thing.
Chapter Eighteen
THE MAGIC OF ALL THAT ADRENALINE AND HAND-HOLDING and kissing from last night is gone. Poof, bye-bye. So when Eva starts her shift at LuMac’s about halfway through mine, I pretend like I don’t even see her side-eyeing me in the break room while she clocks in and I exchange my ketchup-soaked apron for a clean one.
“What happened there?” she asks, nodding toward the bloody-looking apron.
“Harrison Jensen didn’t like his fries.”
“Ah.”
Harrison is a notoriously temperamental three-year-old Luca warned both Eva and me about during our training. He takes to throwing food when he’s displeased, and his server rarely escapes unscathed whenever his parents drag him to LuMac’s. So of course, when he and his harried-looking mother walk in for a midmorning snack, they sit in my section.
I finish tying my apron, sticking my order pad and pencil into the front pockets before turning to leave.
“Grace, wa
it.”
“What?” I stop and turn around.
“What happened at the bookstore? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” I don’t even try to enliven the flat tone of my voice.
“Are you sure? Because you seem . . .”
“I seem what?”
She tilts her head at me. “Angry.”
“I’m not.” I can’t look at her. If I look at her, I won’t be able to lie, and if I can’t lie, the truth of how much I hate seeing her around Maggie will come tumbling out right here in the break room, and I’m not ready for that. Still, I can’t seem to keep the snap out of my voice. “I’m just tired and smell like ketchup, and my fingers hurt from practicing, okay?”
She visibly flinches at my tone. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well, that’s your choice, but that’s all I’ve got.”
Her eyes narrow and her jaw tightens. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
She gives me one more baffled look before shaking her head, whipping an apron off a hook, and all but running out of the break room.
“Whoa,” I hear Luca exclaim in the hallway leading to the kitchen. “Slow down, Eves, or you’ll be wearing maple syrup in about two-point-four seconds.”
He sticks his head in the break room door, his eyebrows cinched in concern. “Who spit in her coffee this morning?” he asks, jutting a thumb in Eva’s direction.
“Me, apparently,” I say, digging my fingers into my eyes.
“You?” He frowns, setting his backpack on the small metal table.
“I thought you were supposed to start an hour ago,” I say, ignoring his question. I drag a hand down my face as though I can wipe away this whole cluster of a day.
“Oh. Well, yeah, about that. Mom pushed back my shift.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say she was not amused when she found out what we did last night.”
How to Make a Wish Page 12
