Chapter 1 When Crazy Doesn’t Faze
WHEN CRAZY DOESN’T FAZE
The garage door opens, calling mine and Mom’s attention. Dad’s head pokes through the crack and he says through a grin he fights to hide under a bushy mustache, “That boy is here again. The one from across the street.”
I shovel another spoon of Fruit Loops into my mouth, hoping the flutter of my heart doesn’t show through the window of my eyes. I’m sitting at the island because Mom has overtaken the kitchen table with one of her puzzles. It’s halfway done. A picture of the sea and, I think, a pod of orcas.
I prefer turtles.
Across the island, Mom leans into the countertop with a grin she doesn’t bother fighting. “Oooh lala, Faye.”
I blush when she shimmies her shoulders. I groan. “Mom.”
“He’s quite the looker.” Her brows jump around on her forehead like—like jumping beans. It’s awful. I laugh, catching a dribble of milk as it escapes from the corner of my mouth with the sleeve of my sweater.
“Mom,” I protest again, weakly.
“Really, kiddo. That hair.” Her eyes twinkle. “Those eyes and the jaw.” She gives me a knowing head bob. “The jaw. All square-like. And I’ve seen his pipes.”
She’s trying to incinerate me for amusement. It’s cruel.
I’ve never been so hot.
“Oh, Goddddd. Mom. Stop.” Sliding from the stool, I take my bowl to the sink. I can’t look at her as I beg, “Please.”
“I’m just saying, I’ve noticed.”
I rinse the bowl. “You’re not supposed to notice things like that. It’s—” I shiver. “Ew.”
I think my face is on fire. It’s only half past nine, but it’s hot out already. I can tell by the way the AC pumps. I have no excuse to be this hot, though. This on fire.
“Why?” Mom demands, hands finding flared hips. Her eyes narrow. “Because I’m an old lady?”
“You are not an old lady, Candy,” Dad shouts from somewhere unseen now that I’m standing at the sink.
Damn, he’s still here, eavesdropping. That’s just like Dad.
Mom calls back, “Thanks, Doug. But maybe you should tell your daughter that. She seems to think I’m blind.”
Dad snorts. “Your mom’s not blind, honey. The boy’s sporting the pipes right now.”
I groan. And then I hear a deep chuckle that makes me freeze as I dump my rinsed bowl into the dishwasher.
Oh, God, he’s here. As in here in my house. Listening to this. He’s not sitting on the front step, waiting, out of earshot of this horrifying display that is the inner workings of my too tight family.
I can’t even. I’m horrified. Mortified.
My ears are burning. The tips are so hot, I wouldn’t be surprised, not even a little bit, to find them singed right off.
“Someone kill me,” I plead under my breath.
“Oh, Lord, now she’s begging for death. Doug, bring the boy in to fix the girl. I think we broke her.”
“No!” I squeak. “I’m not even dressed!”
Mom laughs and he appears. Holt. Looking—O.M.G. HOT.
His dark brown hair, a touch too long by Mom’s standards (not that she’s complaining, she obviously thinks he’s perfection), is mussed. Like he rolled out of bed, threw on his clothes, and happened over here.
Like he thought of me first thing…
My blush burns hotter, and my eyes roll over him again. He’s in black shorts and a white sleeveless tank. And, of course, his pipes (Dad’s words, not mine—I would never) are on display.
As for Holt, his dark eyes slide over me in the same way. But where my face burns, his eyes heat. His deep voice, touched with humor, murmurs, “Nice pajamas.”
I want to die.
I grumble, “Thanks.”
“Faye has a thing for purple daisies,” Mom says, explaining the design Holt can clearly see stamped on my too-short shorts, and too-tight top.
At least I threw on a sweater, though it’s unzipped.
I feel like a harlot, even though I shouldn’t.
Mom’s always going on about body positivity.
As a matter of fact, Mom is usually going on about something or other.
Case in point, Mom continues to blabber all my secret loves, “And sunsets. She likes those, too.”
The look Holt wears says he might have a thing for sunsets and purple daisies, too.
I swallow hard.
“Why don’t you go get dressed, honey, so the boy can take you wherever the boy plans on taking you.” Dad swings his head to lift bushy brows at Holt. “Where are you off to?”
Holt tears his eyes from me, hand clapping around the back of his neck as he inhales a deep breath, casting his attention to Dad. “I was hoping she felt like joining me down by the lake.”
“Just you?” Dad’s bushy brows slant inward.
Holt stands straighter. “No, Sir. My brother, Tate, too. And a couple friends.”
Dad’s hands find his hips. He pulls his shoulder blades toward his spine, puffing out his chest. “Any of these friends’ happen to be girls?”
“If Andy comes, yes, Sir.”
Dad’s brow arcs a notch. “Who is Andy?”
“She’s like one of the guys.” Holt grins a little sheepishly, shifting on the spot. He hurries to add, “But she’s a girl. She’s cool. I think Faye will like her.”
Dad opens his mouth to grill Holt some more, but I’m already halfway up the stairs, so I don’t hear it.
In my bedroom, I jump up and down like a lunatic as I let out a silent scream, clapping my hands quietly.
With a little of my excitement released into the ether of hopeful teenage dreams, I pull open my closet (still a mess from the move) and pluck a dress from the heap of clothes still in a box on the floor. It’s wrinkled, but I don’t care as I begin the hunt for the bikini I’ll wear underneath.
Teeth brushed, waves pulled back into a long ponytail and clothes on, I hurry down the stairs to the boy who stood to brave my crazy parents all alone. I feel another sizeable chunk of my heart chip away when he shoots me a grin that says he’s not been turned off by their crazy. Not a bit.