48. August
I pull Tiny’s Jeep to a stop in front of Ella’s house and quickly glance at the Holden version of myself in the rearview mirror. But before I can turn off the engine, Ella comes out of her house, saying something over her shoulder as she leaves.
I lean across the passenger seat and open the Jeep door for her, which earns me a smile as she gets in.
“Quick, let’s get outta here before my parents try to suffocate me with another family discussion about actions and consequences,” she says, and the air fills with her coconut scent.
“So being home all the time has been fun, huh?” I say, glancing at her as I head out of her driveway.
Her hair is in a loose braid down her back, and she’s wearing a strapless dress, highlighting the smooth skin of her shoulders. There are tan lines from her bathing suit running along the curve of her neck and over her collarbones. I swallow, shocked by how beautiful she is, and decide that I just won’t look for the rest of the afternoon. Or ever if need be.
“You have no idea,” she says and pauses. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that my parents care. Amber’s parents didn’t punish her, but they didn’t bother to pick her up from the police station, either. They sent her awful older brother, who made her wait two hours because he was out with his friends.”
“Sounds like my mom,” I say, once again responding as August, and for a split second I feel odd that I can relate to Amber in that way.
“Yeah?” Ella says and turns to me. “What about your dad?”
I internally wince. I’ve written my dad off in such a way that it never occurred to me that anyone else might reference him.
“Left my mom when I was eleven,” I say simply.
She stares at me for a long moment. “Do you see him?”
“Nope. Never. He left us in a crap situation. Didn’t even come to see us for the first year.” I lean back in my seat.
Dad gave me a kiss on the forehead, his coat draped over his arm. “See you soon,” was all he said. Not I love you; this isn’t about you. Not Don’t worry, everything will be fine. No explanation. Nothing to hold on to.
Des wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pulled me into her side. Dad looked back once, lingering in the doorway, but when he saw me and Des huddled together, he lowered his eyes and left.
I ran for the window, yanking back the curtains, positive he wasn’t really going. I knew he and Mom fought. They’d always fought, but he wouldn’t leave us. Not really.
As his engine started in the driveway, Mom began to cry.
“Mom,” Des said, only she didn’t sound sad; she sounded annoyed.
Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she managed and headed up the stairs.
As Dad’s car pulled out onto the street, his trunk and back seat packed with luggage, my chest tightened so fast that I gasped for breath.
I flung the front door open and chased his car. “Dad!” I yelled. “Dad, wait!”
He heard me. His window was open. But he didn’t stop. So I yelled louder. I ran faster. “Daaaad!”
Des grabbed my arm. “He’s gone, little brother. I’m sorry.”
I yanked my arm from her grip. “No, he’s not!” I yelled. But as I looked down our quiet street, his car was nowhere in sight. “He’s coming back. You heard him.”
“Yeah,” was all she said.
I turned away from her, from the doubt I heard in her voice, and walked back to the house, my shoulders sagging.
But I heard her footsteps behind me, and soon she was standing by my side. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to make me talk about it. She just walked with me.
And when the door closed behind us, she said, “I’m going to make some hot cocoa. Want some?”
I shook my head, glancing at the stairs and then down at my feet. I couldn’t go to my room without passing Mom’s, where I knew she’d be crying. Des followed my gaze.
“With marshmallows,” she said. “And pancakes. Chocolate-chip-banana pancakes.”
I looked up at her, my eyebrows pushed together. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“You mean make breakfast? Totally. Oh my god. I forgot. We have heavy cream—I’m also making whipped cream. We can make faces on them with chocolate chip eyes.”
“That’s what seven-year-olds do. You’re fifteen.”
“Don’t even care. I’m making faces on my pancakes,” she said and started pulling ingredients from the cupboards.
She grabbed the bag of chocolate chips and opened it, offering me a handful.
My eyes flitted to the stairs, then back to Des. But when I didn’t take the chocolate chips, Des shoved the whole handful in her mouth.
“Mmmmm!” she said and rolled her eyes back. “I guess this bag is all for me.”
My eyes widened. “Hang on,” I said, stepping forward.
“Yes?” she replied with a mouth full of chocolate.
“I guess I’m a little hungry,” I admitted.
“Oh?”
“Maybe I could help you make them?”
She grinned at me so big and bright that some of the tightness in my chest released. She poured some chocolate chips into my hand. “Grab the mixing bowl, little brother. We’re making a chocolate feast!”
And even though everything was wrong, really wrong, I realized it might be okay anyway because I still had Des.
Ella doesn’t respond right away, so I sneak a peek at her. “I’m sorry. That must have been incredibly hard,” she says, a small worry line in her forehead.
I open my mouth and close it. The last thing I want to talk about on this very anticipated hangout is my dad. The only thing worse would be if we started talking about Kyle.
I brush it off with a shrug.
She looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether she should ask another question. She sighs. “Enough about parents. Parents suck,” she says, and I couldn’t agree more. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. Like... have you ever been in love?”
My laugh takes me by surprise.
She smiles. “That’s funny?”
“Unexpected.”
“Good,” she says, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about our conversation when I told her I like girls who surprise me. “If you don’t anticipate a question, your answer is more truthful.”
“You want the truth?” I start. “It’s actually kind of embarrassing.”
“All the better,” she says with a satisfied smile.
I laugh, mostly at myself because I can’t believe I’m about to admit this. “The last girlfriend I had was in seventh grade, and I gave her a friendship bracelet and held her hand twice.”
“There’s no way that’s true,” she objects. “You’re attractive and charming. I don’t believe for a second you’ve never been in a relationship. Amber wanted to jump you on day one.”
Her words make me blush. And my stomach dips pleasantly at her compliment. “I think you have a different impression of me than most people do,” I say, once again as August. “In my everyday life, I’m usually really quiet.”
She looks at me sideways, like she just doesn’t buy it. “I’m trying to believe you, but no, I just can’t. I mean, you’re pensive, sure. But it just adds to your artsy vibe.”
I can’t help but smile, and she grins back. “How about this,” I say, trying again. “I’m not good at casual. I’m not one of those people who have quasi friends or can date for two weeks and then shrug it off. It’s true that I haven’t had a committed relationship, but I think it’s just because what I want is something real.” I get the irony that I’m currently talking about how much realness means to me, when she doesn’t even know my name.
“Hmmm,” she says, considering it. “I can accept that. Actually, in some ways we’re similar. I’m not a casual dater, either. Justin’s the only boyfriend I’ve had in high school.” The mention of Justin tightens her expression. She doesn’t elaborate on her thought, though. Instead, she switches off the AC and rolls down her window. “Fresh air is so much better.”
She pulls up a playlist on her phone and sets it to play through Tiny’s speakers. And we ride like that for a while—wind blowing, music playing, and Ella singing. When we pull into a parking spot in the art store lot, I’m bummed it’s over, making a mental note to take the long way home.
Ella hops out of the Jeep onto the warm pavement, and I join her. I’m overly aware of walking next to her. It’s almost uncomfortable, the sensation of being with her, of noticing the way her mouth bows when she’s holding back her amusement or the way she twists her hair over her shoulder when she’s unsure. And when I open the art store door for her, she rewards me with a smile that makes me want to earn another.
The store smells exactly the way I remember—new canvas mixed with pungent alcohol brush cleaner. The shelves are stocked in a colorful Willy Wonka–inspired layout of paper, paints, and fabric.
I can practically feel Des pulling me by the hand through the aisles, oohing and aahing over craft supplies—something to decorate her backpack or make a patch for her jeans. Des never painted. She wasn’t drawn to art the way Mom and I are—in fact she used to joke that she wasn’t even good at doodling. But she was a self-proclaimed bedazzler—if it was possible to make it shiny, she was on it.
Nostalgia swirls around me like fog. And a sketch forms in my mind, beckoning me to follow it.
I turn to find Ella studying my face as though she’s been watching me for a while, a curiosity line between her eyebrows.
“You were sketching, weren’t you?” she asks, and I’m reminded of what she said about my drawings being a connection to my sister. While that idea is still far from comfortable, it’s also not unthinkable like it was a few days ago.
I rub the back of my neck. “A little,” I admit. “This place...”
“Is special?” she offers, and I’m surprised by how easily she read me.
“My sister used to bring me here on birthdays. We had this game we played.” I feel a little shy telling her this, but I also can’t seem to stop myself, like the sketch... a little piece of my sister that wants to be known. “We’d each pick two things. And then we’d make something out of all four. Worst design had to do the dishes for a week or—”
“Buy dinner?” she suggests.
I shake my head. “I was too young, but—”
“No,” she says. “I mean when we play, loser pays for dinner.”
For a moment I stand there, trying to recalibrate up from down. Ella wants to play my sister’s game with me? The thought fills me with warmth I wasn’t anticipating, and I raise an eyebrow at her. “Is this a ploy to get me to go to dinner with you, Scorpio?”
She laughs, but her eyes scream challenge. “If you don’t think you’re creative enough...”
“Creativity isn’t my problem,” I reply, and somehow it feels like we’ve moved closer, like the space between us is alive with current.
She shrugs mischievously, raising and dropping her perfect shoulders. “Or if you’re scared of losing. No shame.”
I laugh. “You’re on, Scorpio.”
She looks all too pleased with herself. “I’ll choose first,” she says and saunters off, with her blue dress swishing around her tanned legs, like she owns the place. I practically fall over myself to follow.
The moment Ella spots the display of embroidery materials, she beelines for a rainbow pack of embroidery thread. She holds it up with a smug look. “Suck it, Holden.”
“Did you know that in elementary school they dubbed me king of the friendship bracelet? True story.”
“You’re so full of it,” she says, laughing as I lead her toward the back of the store to the sewing section.
I lift a bag of safety pins.
She stares at it, like I just drew a line in the sand with my randomness. “Oh yeah? Well, let’s just hope you can sew,” she says and grabs a bag of fabric scraps.
“I can’t,” I say. “Which is why I got the safety pins. You’re making it too easy on me.” I flash her a victorious smile and walk to the jewelry-making section, where I pick up a bag of mismatched vintage junk jewelry (Des’s favorite).
She looks from me to the bag and back again. And as much as she fights it, she grins. “I think I hate you.”
“That’s okay, Scorpio, because I like you. And I’m not opposed to working for your admiration.” The moment I hear myself say it, I know it’s true. But I also know I shouldn’t have said it. I can hear Tiny chewing me out in my mind.
Thankfully she looks like she took it as nothing more than our usual banter. “So now it’s admiration, huh? I thought you were just going for neutral?”
“The goalposts have moved.”
Ella opens her mouth to respond, but before she does, someone says, “Jonah?” and my heart jumps so violently into my throat that I cough. “What are you doing here?” the familiar voice continues, confusion lacing its tone.
I panic—hot lava courses through my insides, and spots form in my vision.
But before the girl can get another word out, I start speaking. “Hey, Daisy,” I say, finally catching up to the situation. This has never happened before. Tiny and I spread out the locations of cases specifically to avoid this type of thing. “Wow, it’s been a minute.”
“A year,” she says, looking at me like she’s not sure I’m real. “Aren’t you supposed to be in India?”
I rub my temple, my pulse beating like a jackhammer. “Mom’s organization lost funding. Real bummer. We just got back a month ago.”
Ella looks back and forth from me to Daisy. “Jonah?” Ella says, suspicion making her eyebrow lift.
The panic lava surges, threatening to melt my brain.
“Middle name,” I say and turn to Daisy. “Hey, can we—”
“Wait, Jonah is your middle name?” Daisy says over me.
“Daisy, can we talk a minute?” I gesture down the aisle and away from Ella.
Daisy thankfully follows my lead, although she still appears unsure. And even though Ella gives us space to talk, there is now doubt between us where there wasn’t any before.
FML.