13. Thirteen
Walking home from Jack’s place, I feel befuddled. The same man I slammed the door on after the oyster roast is now something like a friend. How did that happen?
His book certainly altered my opinion of contemporary romance novels, but that’s not why I’m warming up to him.
I smile over his charm with Mom. Hearing her say she believes in love again thanks to his books fills me with gratitude. I never wanted her to stop believing in love, but she hasn’t dated since my injury, perhaps in solidarity with me. It’s amazing to see her so hopeful… and giggly.
Besides that, he charmed me, too. His intense focus on my thoughts about his book sent tingles down my spine—I still feel them like tiny aftershocks. Jack-shocks. Jack-tingles. Ugh. I don’t know what to call them, but neither should’ve happened. He shouldn’t care about my opinion—the world loves him. Still, his touch, his rapt attention, his eyes burrowing into mine, I felt valued in a way that I haven’t in ages. It’s beautifully strange to think I might matter to him.
Equally exhilarating and scary is our deal. It forced a mental debate with two drastically different sides. I thought of Trent and how open I was with him, just for it to be used against me in his wicked manipulations. On the flip side, Dean knows so little about my past that it’s almost laughable, and it’s only hurt us for the added distance it’s caused.
But neither applies to Jack—it’s literature, not love. A simple favor between neighbors. He’s a hot book nerd and author, so of course, I’ll have Jack-tingle-shocks on occasion. But I’m aware of the fleeting nature of such things and entirely capable of ignoring them.
Weeks go by, and not much changes.
At random, Jack pops over with a bottle of wine. He’s a Magic 8-Ball of questions, seeming to snatch them from a cluttered, nonsensical list. A benign list—I’m grateful to discover.
Why do women apologize so much?
What clubs were you in in high school?
How many places have you lived?
What’s your favorite book of all time?
In turn, I ask about his former English classes—what he loved and hated—and his book history. Talking books with Jack helps conceptualize my teaching strategy. With the whoosh of an email, I send Dr. Evelyn my semester-long plan, glad to get back to my summer.
And Sara’s imminent arrival.
The neighborhood provides a wrought iron daybed (courtesy of the Mueller family), a tall wood dresser (thanks to Tom and Marcy), and a small desk with a wooden rolling chair (from Ed and Renita, who also gave me a basketful of free Mary Kay products as an apology). Vernon, Tom, and Jack supervise the deliveries, and though I could easily help move items into the house, they are insistent on doing the heavy lifting.
Men.
With the money I don’t have to spend on furniture, I splurge on a full-length mirror, a cute desk lamp, and a shag rug. I go with lavender curtains to compliment the sage walls and bed linens. A short bookshelf completes the room, which I stock with some of my favorites as a teenager. Little Women. Anne of Green Gables. Titles by John Greene, Kiera Cass, and The Hunger Games. She’ll have plenty to read and a lovely room to retreat to.
Sara Sweet arrives on the last Tuesday of July. I greet them in the driveway, where Mira unloads an old, beach-blue bicycle with a basket and a single suitcase from her SUV.
“Oh, we can go on bike rides…once I get a bike, that is,” I say as I think it. “It’s a great neighborhood for it.”
“I know. I live here, too,” Sara says with an eye roll and a huff.
She is a head taller and thirty pounds heavier than me, wearing mostly black and donning long, lavender-colored hair that looks so thick and different I wonder if it’s real. A nose ring and brow stud tell me she’s brave, perhaps keen on attention, while the dark smudges on her right fingers suggest she’s an artist. I adore her instantly.
“Right. I forgot that. I’m Rowan.” I extend my hand.
She keeps her arms folded and looks disgusted. “God, your face.”
Dropping my hand, I gape while cueing up the story I give my students. “Well—”
“I don’t care.” She steers her bike to the porch, propping it against a column.
Inside the house, I give her the full tour. Sara isn’t impressed by the snack-filled pantry or soda-lined fridge, though both are stocked with things teenagers love. She turns her nose up at my freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and sandwiches on the kitchen table.
She ignores the lavender-hued towels in her bathroom, which I point out are, coincidentally, the same color as her hair. The cozy vibe I created in her room with sage bedding, light green walls, twinkle lights around the window, and a soft desk lamp doesn’t impress her either.
Grunting, she eyes the Squishmallow on her bed—Danielito the Starry Cat—before tossing him into the trashcan by her desk. “I’m not five.”
“Sara, don’t be rude,” Mira says gently. “We talked about this.”
Rescuing Danielito, I shrug. “That’s fine. I’ll take him. He reminds me of Edgar.”
I force an indifferent smile, hugging the soft, stuffed cat. Whatever pride I have left in my work shrivels in her contempt.
Edgar saunters into her bedroom to see what’s happening. Animals make for excellent icebreakers, and he’s such an adorable cat.
But Sara scoffs again as if it’s her favorite reaction. “What’re you? A witch?”
I laugh like a dork struggling through a bad date. “No, of course not.”
In the living room, I perk up when she asks for the Wi-Fi password. But when I tell her it’s Nevermore99, as a nod to both Edgars, she groans. “You’re one of those sad nerds, aren’t you?”
I don’t know how to answer. Worse, her thumbs fly over her phone screen, like she’s sharing my sad nerdiness with the world. Or my Wi-Fi password. Or both, based on her satisfied smirk.
Mira bounces on her feet and releases a heavy sigh. “Sara, why don’t you take your bag to your room and get settled? Remember what we discussed about making the best of things, huh?”
After a mind-blowingly intricate eye roll that would cause an aneurysm in most people, Sara heaves her suitcase down the hall.
I lean against the back of the couch, pained. “I shouldn’t have bought the Squishmallow.”
“Yeah, that’s the takeaway… You’re trying too hard. Just relax. Give her space, and she’ll warm up to you. Eventually. Maybe.”
“Sure she will,” I say, mustering my confidence. “She’ll love it here when she gives it a chance.”
Mira eyes me skeptically. “You want to cry, don’t you?”
“No.” I swipe the dampness under my eye. “A little. She’s a smidge meaner than I expected.”
“She’s had a rough few days. She’s close to her dad. It wasn’t easy seeing him off to jail… Remember how sad you were when Mom left on deployment?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you had your grandparents. Imagine being stuck with a stranger.” Mira helps herself to my cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches. “Rolling out the red carpet probably feels… overwhelming.”
“Of course, you’re right. Understood. I will pull back the red carpet and play things cool.”
“Just be normal. You do your own thing. Let her do hers. Take it slow.”
Mira puts Sara’s number in my phone. “She might be more willing to communicate with you this way.”
When she hands it back, I send off a quick text to her. This is Rowan. Text or call whenever. Happy to have you here. *house emoji, nerd emoji*
Mira shakes her head. “That’s not playing things cool.”
“I said whenever.”
After a short talk with Sara alone, Mira leaves. The house remains quiet but unsettled, like restless spirits are afoot, but they don’t know what to do with themselves.
I follow Mira’s advice and give Sara space. This makes me think of Dean. Why do people need so much space from me? If he were here to support me, he’d have Sara talking and laughing by now. And I’d feel like a woman in a solid relationship instead of wondering if two weeks of silence falls into the ghosted category.
I stare at my phone, debating. Should I add another text to the lingering messages I’ve already sent?
No. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I clean the kitchen and put the cookies and sandwiches away. Then, I break out my laptop to catch up on work emails and continue researching for my Inspiration Project. There’s nothing like to-dos to stave off an emotional breakdown.
I start a list in my work notebook. #1: Stock up on extra school supplies pantry items
I wonder if Sara will want to go back-to-school shopping. What teenage girl doesn’t like a trip to the mall? With the stipend provided for Sara’s care, she’ll have her own shopping spree. I almost text her the idea before reminding myself to give her space. That brilliant plan can wait for tomorrow.
In the kitchen, I make dinner. I play music while cooking, hoping to lure her from her room to see what’s happening. Maybe she’ll want to help. Or talk. Something. But she doesn’t take the bait. Over an hour later, I pull steaming enchiladas from the oven, set the table, and head to Sara’s door. She hasn’t come out of her room once since Mira left, and I hope that means she’s enjoying her space.
But when I knock, she doesn’t answer. I try again, louder this time. Nothing.
Heart racing, I check the bathroom and the rest of the house. But I only find Edgar chittering at birds through the back window.
At her door again, I pound. “Sara, this isn’t funny. Open up, please.”
When she fails to answer, I try the doorknob. It’s locked. In my panic, I jump to frightful conclusions. What if she’s unwell? Or she took something? Or tried to hurt herself?
I bolt to the kitchen, grabbing a fine-pointed knife from the utensil drawer. With shaking hands, I work it into the keyhole on her door. The knife slips, slicing a three-inch gash into my right palm. But the lock pops and the door swings open.
Sara’s room is empty. Her suitcase sits unpacked on the bed. The window’s open, and the screen’s been popped out. Checking the front porch confirms that her bike is gone.
First, I’m relieved not to find her unwell or unconscious. Thinking drugs or suicide is a harsh conclusion to jump to, but not knowing Sara well and being fully aware of the desperate lengths teenagers will go to, I couldn’t help it.
With a paper towel pressed to my bloody hand, I text her. Sara, dinner’s ready. Where are you?
No answer, and ten minutes later… This is Rowan, and I’m worried. Text me, please.
Twelve minutes and nothing, I call. It goes to voicemail. “Sara, this isn’t funny. Please call or text me immediately.”
Seventeen minutes pass. I sit at the kitchen banquette with a glass of water, tapping my fingernails on the Formica like I’m composing a frantic song. As the sky darkens, I wonder how long I should wait before calling the police.
I call Mira instead. When she answers, I blurt, “Sara’s gone. She snuck out the window and took her bike. Should I call the police?”
“Rowan, take a breath. How long has it been since you saw her?”
“Not since you were here. I was playing it cool, giving her space. She didn’t leave a note. She won’t respond to my texts or calls. What am I supposed to do?”
“Stop freaking out, for one thing. She’s fifteen. Not three. She’s not in danger. She’s just being an asshole.”
“How do you know that?”
“Rowan, it’s okay. She’s probably at the park or her house—that’s the downside of placing her in her neighborhood. She’s too close to home. I’ll reach out to her. Maybe she’ll answer my call.”
“If she doesn’t?”
“Let’s give her until nine… then, we’ll freak out and call the police.”
I don’t like this plan, but I trust Mira. “Fine. But I want her home address.”
Reluctantly, Mira gives it to me. Leaving the front door unlocked, I hop into my VW Bug and weave through a dozen neighborhood streets before arriving at Sara’s house. Her bike is propped against the stoop of a cluttered rancher with a neatly manicured lawn. There’s no garage, but a decrepit-looking carport limping on one side houses rusty bikes, a pile of hubcaps, and other random metal objects. An old green truck boasts an advertisement for Sweet’s Lawn Service on the door, and the trailer hitched to its back end holds an industrial mower and other lawn tools. I wonder what a three-month hiatus will do to Mr. Sweet’s business.
My first instinct is to pull into her driveway, storm up to the door, and demand she return home. But I don’t. Anger only makes everything worse. Besides, it’s enough to know where she is and that she’s not in danger. For now.
I text Mira with an update and wait for her at home.
Sara climbs into her bedroom window at 8:56. She finds me at the kitchen table with my phone, my hand neatly wrapped in gauze, and the uneaten enchiladas cold and unappetizing beside me.
She grunts at the sight of me and bypasses me for the fridge as if nothing’s happened.
I straighten my back and take a breath. “Look, I know this is tough. You don’t have to like me—”
“Good because I don’t.”
Her words burn a hole through me. “Fine. But here we are, like it or not. I want to make this as pleasant as possible for us both. For me, that means knowing you’re okay.”
“Well, for me, that means dealing with you as little as possible. This place is a shitty hotel to me.”
“This little house is friendly, comfortable, and safe—three things you may not have gotten elsewhere.” My words come out with surprising sternness, given how weak and disappointed I feel. “I promise to give you space as long as you tell me where you are… and you always come home by nine.”
“Whatever.” She snatches a banana from the fruit bowl and goes to her room.
After tidying the kitchen and putting the food away, I scoop up Edgar, my new Squishmallow Danielito, and go to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.