I sigh. “And then there’s me, hiding out from the real world.”
He shrugs. “What if this was your real world?”
“Hmm. Does that mean I never grew up?”
“Maybe,” he leans in conspiratorially, “growing up is overrated.”
That thought has certainly occurred to me in the time I’ve been here, but it feels like a cop-out. Everything I’ve done in my life to this point is to “make it,” and “making it” doesn’t happen back home. Making it is something that happens in big cities, at cocktail bars and events where I have to wear shimmery dresses. After so many years proving I “made it,” I’m not sure it was all worth it.
Caleb’s eyes flick to the corner where the couple he was talking to sits, and he turns on the charm, looking at me completely lovingly. “Hey, can you play along for a minute? I think we need to kick up the heat again.”
“Of course.” I throw my head back with a deep laugh like he told a scandalous joke. “How was that?”
“It’s perfect,” he says. “Daddy’s lucky to have you.”
The song ends and Caleb dips me, but not as suggestively as Jake did in the homeplace kitchen.
“Thanks for the dance. Go see your man. He still looks grumpy.”
TWENTY-SIX
JAKE
Eight weeks.
The number stares back at me from the computer screen. I need only one more part for my picking robot to be complete, and that part is on a container ship in the Pacific somewhere. Peaches are in now. I need my robot to worknow. The whole point of being at Rossetti’s Peaches this summer is so I can get this final project out of the way before my last semester starts.
It was for nothing. The last part won’t be in until peach season is long gone.
But it will be apple season, and that means one thing: going home to test the picker.
I tug at my hair and rest my elbows on the lab table. “Fucking bullshit.” My stomach hurts, and a dull ache forms behind my eyes.
This was not the plan.
I’ve hardly been home since my last stint living there, and it’s been better that way. My stepdad, Art, is such a dick, and my mom just puts up with it. I have no idea what she sees in that asshat. And because of that, it causes all three of us to fight.
I don’t want to fight with my mom, so I don’t go home. Now, I’m going to have to.
Eight weeks is on the low end for the expected delivery, so I’ll have to find a way to get away from school long enough if the part comes in later.
I’m deflated driving back to the bar, and my only consolation is that Darcy waits for me there.
But when I enter the delightfully dingy bar, I’m greeted by an unwelcome sight. That little red dress is swinging around Caleb, the gray bow in her hair flying behind her. She’s laughing and giving him the most loving looks.
Logically, I know I have no reason to be jealous. I was the one in Darcy’s bed last night. I was the one kissing her in the hayloft today. She was the one asking me what our deal was.
But I still don’t like it. She looks like she’s in love with him and even if I know that’s not possible, my blood simmers.
I feel a little stupid wearing this cowboy hat indoors at night, but it’s per her request. I take it off as I sit at the bar, noticing Darcy’s phone next to her purse on the bar top. She’s got a few stickers on her phone case: a little West Virginia, a black cat, and the logo for the hockey team she used to work for.
The phone inches toward me as it rings, each round of buzzes bringing it closer. She’s obviously not in a place to answer it, so I pick it up to silence it.
When I do, the screen almost sends me into shock. The call gets kicked to voicemail and a message flashes on the screen.
Rob (14)
Her ex has called her fourteen times. What right does he think he has to talk to her after what he did to her? My fist clenches and my jaw pops when I shift it forward. What I wouldn’t give to punch this dickhead in the face. I recognized Darcy’s reaction to his messages. It was borderline PTSD, a zero to sixty anxiety response. I can’t let this guy keep fucking with her.
