16. Tink
TINK
The knock at my bedroom door scares the shit out of me.
I sit bolt upright, covered in sweat, heart racing like I’m being chased.
I haven’t woken up like this in…weeks. Months. My brain and body gradually settled into this room, trusted that the lock on the door that definitely works. Boys don’t really worry about someone breaking into their room while they sleep.
And yet, another knock.
“Yo, Tink, you alive?”
Fox’s voice.
“I mean, I’m guessing you are,” he goes on. “But, uh…”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful that my voice is froggy from sleep. “I mean, no. Hang on.”
I sit up further, pushing my blankets down. My room’s absolutely nothing special: dark sheets, dark blinds, trashpicked bedframe and mattress. Nothing even unique. I came here with nothing. I have nothing I want to put in here. Just all of Tink’s clothes and…
…and my binder, which is under the bed, and which I need to have on to answer the door.
I whip off my shirt. Whip off my sports bra.
Squeeze into the binder. Not that my boobs have ever been anything to write home about—you’ve got the tits of a fat thirteen-year-old boy, or so I’ve been told—but it’s still not comfortable.
Then I grab the T-shirt from the floor, yank on a pair of pants, finger-comb my hair, and wipe the crud out of my eyes—morning routine down to thirty whole seconds—and slip out into the hall.
“What’s…”
The hall is empty.
“…up?” I finish, to no one.
Slowly, the adrenaline of my wakeup and the headrush of being up and awake ebbs away.
I hear something faintly at the other end of the loft, down by the kitchenette.
Click click click. Little doggy toenails.
Faint voices, including one lighter and higher than the rest. And then all at once, the events of last night come surging back.
Wendy. Right.
A wave of something floods me—anger, frustration, disappointment, I don’t know. I rub my forehead. I don’t not like Wendy, and I know it’s not her fault she’s here.
But also…it’s Saturday. My Saturdays—all our Saturdays—are for doing nothing.
Sleeping late—although that ship has sailed, I guess—hanging around, recovering from Friday.
Maybe going for a ride, maybe just rotting my brain playing video games, which I suck at but can hold my own if Fox is hungover enough. Eating tacos, drinking beer.
I like Saturdays. Saturdays are the best part of being a Lost Boy.
With a little girl here…who knows?
But I guess now I’m up. I sigh and crane my neck around the corner; the spare room door’s open, so I take a few steps and peer all the way in, but it’s empty—no Wendy or Nana.
Just the rumpled fleece blanket and an already visible layer of dog hair on the dark futon cover.
If I ever get around to making that chore chart, I’m giving that one to Pan.
Least he can do for getting all of us into this mess.
I turn back down the hallway, with a pit stop in the bathroom to pee and scrub a toothbrush over my teeth, and follow the click-click sound and jingling of dog tags to the loft to where Wendy must be hanging out.
And it is…not the scene I expected to see.
Wendy, in her brand new Valu-Mart T-shirt and jean shorts, is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her hair pulled back from her face by a thick pink headband with a floppy bow on top and a sheet mask plastered over her face.
On the TV, there’s a bright-eyed, clear-skinned YouTuber paused mid-syllable, her big eyelashes awkwardly frozen at half-mast and her glossy lips bunched unflatteringly.
And listening, intently, is Fox. Also on the couch, wearing black sweatpants so old and faded they’re practically gray, eating dry cereal out of the box with one hand. Shirtless.
I have to look away. Not just because I know actual guys are around other shirtless guys all the time and wouldn’t look twice. But because…
Because…
Because I think I’m blushing?
What the hell is wrong with you, Tink?
I want to smack myself in the face. This is literally nothing new, I’ve obviously been around Fox enough to notice—it’s impossible not to notice how big and broad he is, especially up close; he could practically cause a solar eclipse just by standing in the right place.
And it’s not like I haven’t seen him shirtless before, either.
Honestly, the mornings he is wearing a shirt are the exception.
But today, this morning, something feels like it’s sending the heat of a thousand sunburns right to my face.
Maybe it’s just because I spent time holding onto him on the bike yesterday, not to mention watching him single-handedly break into a burning building.
Maybe it’s because the dog has her narrow little head in his lap, eyes closed, totally blissed out.
Maybe it’s those fucking sweatpants—Christ, they leave nothing to the imagination.
But now it’s all I can see. How his shoulders are carved, how his arms each as thick as both of mine combined, how the tanned muscles of his abs ripple a little as he laughs at Wendy.
How a faintly reddish sheen of hair glints across his jaw, grows denser across his chest and forearms. How the lines of his hips narrow taut and lean into the soft band of his sweatpants.
How he could pick me up and snap me in half.
Fox is a man. And I don’t know why it’s never hit that way before.
“See, it all depends.” Wendy’s got her arms crossed, studying the screen, and nods at Fox. “Like, do you know your skin type?”
Fox glances down at himself. “I dunno. Regular?” Seeing me, he lifts his chin and sits up a little. “Hey, Tink.”
I duck my head. Swallow dryly. “Uh, hey. Hey, Wendy.” I give her a smile. “You…sleep okay?”
Wendy nods. To Fox, she just groans. “No! Like the type type.”
“Yeah, I dunno.” Fox sets the cereal box on the coffee table, dusts his fingers on his pants, and cocks his head at me. “Tink, what kind of skin do you have?”
God, does he have to be looking at my face? No, focus. Combination, I think. Oily T-zone, but prone to dry patches on the sides of my nose.
Outwardly, I just shrug and say, “Dunno.”
“See?” Fox says on a yawn. He flops back, hands behind his head, which only serves to show off the swell of his biceps and the dark thatches of hair under his arms. “Guys don’t know this stuff.”
“Well, you should learn,” Wendy says from behind her sheet mask. “Skincare is for everyone.”
There’s the creak of a door hinge as Fox and Kit’s bedroom opens and a bleary-eyed Kit steps out. Wearing a shirt, at least.
“Yo,” Fox says, nodding at his brother. “Do you know your skin type?”
“The fuck?” Kit mumbles. He shakes his head. “No. White, I guess.” He squints at the kitchenette and heads for the espresso maker, but not without a quick double-take at Wendy on the couch. “Uh, good morning.”
As he passes me, he gives me a wide-eyed look, which I return with a kind of shrug that hopefully means I’m on it.
Because I am, or I will be. Obviously. Someone’s got to figure out a way to get her back…somewhere. Anywhere.
Not here.
“Morning,” Wendy says politely, looking from Kit to the cereal box on the coffee table and then quickly to the TV again.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Fox leans forward and points at me. “Do we have any food?”
“You woke me up to ask if we have any food?” I grumble.
“Because you usually buy food,” Fox says, grabbing the box of Mini-Wheats again. “I, uh, owe you more cereal, by the way.” He jerks his head at Wendy. “She wanted something to eat.”
“And you couldn’t look?” Kit says, picking up his tiny cup of coffee.
“I was…shut up.” Fox chucks a Mini-Wheat at Kit, which misses and lands on the floor, prompting the dog to jump to its feet—to its paws?—and scramble over to eat it.
“Is that…” I shake my head, deciding that dogs can probably eat whatever’s in cereal without dying.
“Never mind. Uh, let’s see.” Still half-awake, I poke around the kitchenette, opening the nearest cabinet door, the one that never stays open anyway.
“Do you like…” I pull out the first box I see. “…Pop-Tarts?”
Wendy’s face eyes light up behind her sheet mask. But when she speaks, it’s extremely polite. “Um, yes. Please.”
“Cool.” I bring the box over to the couch. “All yours.”
Wendy delicately removes her face mask and takes the box from me. She frowns. “These aren’t Pop-Tarts.”
Behind me, Kit sucks his teeth and chuckles. “Store brand? Dude, you can’t promise Pop-Tarts and then give her Toaster Treats. That’s a subpar experience.”
Wendy tips her head. “What’s subpar mean?”
“Like…not as good,” Kit explains. “But don’t worry. I’m sure they still have your recommended daily maximum of artificial colors and flavors.”
“She’ll be fine,” Fox says through a mouthful of Mini-Wheats. “Right, Wendy?”
Wendy nods, as if Fox was being completely serious.
She takes out the one remaining foil packet, rips it open, and slides out a purple-coated Pop-Tart—I mean Toaster Treat—and narrows her eyes at it like she’s trying to give it an X-ray.
Then she takes a tentative, exploratory bite of the corner—mostly the bread part, some frosting and filling.
“Will that work?” I ask as she chews. Swallows. Considers.
“It’s honestly not as good,” she declares. “But it’s still okay.”
“Ha.” Kit laughs into his coffee, and Wendy frowns.
“What?”
“Oh, uh, nothing,” he says quickly. “Just appreciate your candor.”
“What’s candor?” Wendy asks, taking another bite.
“It’s like…honesty, I guess?”
Silence, for a moment. Except the crunching of Fox on the cereal and mroooon of the dog stretching and rolling over under Wendy’s feet.
God, how is this my Saturday?
“Did he eat already?” Fox asks suddenly, nodding at the dog. “Or—”
“She,” Wendy corrects pointedly. “Nana’s a girl. And yes, I gave her some kibble. If that’s okay,” she adds hurriedly.
“I guess. Dog’s gotta eat, right?” Fox shrugs and looks at me, and—and why is everything always up to me?, I think.