Glancing in the mirrors and verifying nobody is driving up behind us, I slow the car and roll down the passengerwindow as we come up on Jack McIntire. He’s got his arms wrapped around a cloth bag, stuffed full enough that it looks heavy and cumbersome.
“Who is that?” Parker hisses again.
“One of my hockey players,” I tell him, before raising my voice to call through the open window. “Hey, Jacko.”
Jack flinches visibly at his name, and immediately flushes a color that I’ve only ever seen on fruit before. Now that I’ve got his attention, I pull up to the curb and put the car in park. Hefting his bag so he’s got a better hold of it, Jack steps closer and bends down a bit to see through the open window.
“Hi,” he says, voice small. It sounds like he’s asking a question, not offering a greeting.
“What are you doing?” Parker asks with the bluntness of an uncouth kid. He’s leaning forward in his seat again, but since the car is parked, I don’t bother correcting him.
“Oh,” Jack says, looking surprised at being addressed by a curious nine-year-old. “Laundry.”
“Washing? Don’t they have machines at the school?” I peer at him, once more noticing how heavy that bag probably is. Where the hell is he walking to?
“Yeah, but there is a laundromat next to the bowling alley.” He nods to the side, indicating the direction he was walking. “And it’s twenty-five cents cheaper than the one at the school.”
I stare at him. The bowling alley is six and a half kilometers away from campus, at least. His blush deepens, and I cool it on the staring, looking up in the rearview to check traffic.
“We have a washing machine,” Parker chimes in. I turn and stare at him instead. He jokes, “And it doesn’t cost any cents.”
It costs me some cents,I think, but now really isn’t the timeto explain how water and electricity and rent bills work. I smile at Jack, noticing as I do how striking his hair color is in direct sunlight.
“You can use our machine if you want,” I offer. “No cents needed—you heard it here first.”
Parker laughs. “Yeah, you can use ours.”
Jack’s eyes bounce between us. He looks so embarrassed I almost feel bad for offering. Almost. Mostly, I feel bad that he is apparently so strapped for cash that he has to walk a thirteen-kilometer round trip to save twenty-five cents on washing.
“Hop in, Jacko,” I prompt, unlocking the door.
“Oh. I don’t—well, maybe. Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Adjusting his washing bag to free up a hand, he pops open the passenger door. Parker leans forward, practically crawling over the center console as he tries to get a good look at Jack. I raise my eyebrows at him, widening my eyes in a silent request tosit the fuck back. He rolls his eyes and slumps backward with a huff.
“Jacko, this is Parks.” I hook a thumb toward the back, waiting for Jack’s seat belt to click into place before getting us back onto the road. His washing bag is squished between his legs, resting on the floorboards.
“He’s not my dad, though. Desmond is my uncle,” Parker adds quickly, a somewhat mean tone to his voice. “My parents are dead.”
“Parker! Unnecessary, bud, come on,” I scold him, insides recoiling at the harsh reminder. I hate when he does that.
“Well, it’s true. You’re not my dad,” he replies, crossing his arms and meeting my eyes defiantly in the rearview mirror.
“Okay, well…there are better ways to go about it.” A quick glance over at Jack confirms what I’d already suspected—embarrassment painted across his skin, nearly wiping out the freckles that cascade over his face and down his neck. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly, before clearing his throat and adding in a small voice, “My parents are dead, too.”
This manages to snag Parker’s attention so thoroughly that he forgets to glare at me. For the rest of the quick drive home, every glance in the mirror shows his eyes locked firmly on Jack, cheek dimpled as though he’s chewing on it.
When we all climb out of the vehicle, awkwardness radiates off of Jack like heat. He’s clutching his washing bag so tightly, one might think he was worried I was going to try and take it from him. Parker walks so closely to me that he steps on my heels twice, either picking up on Jack’s nerves or adding some of his own to the mix. When we get inside, Parker stays glued to my hip and Jack hovers barely a foot inside the door, gazing around the room.
“Wow,” he says, “this is really nice.”
I look too, wondering if something has changed since this morning. The furniture is all a haphazard mishmash of things we brought from Victoria and Paul’s house, and the rest bought on sale at IKEA. Nothing matches. There is also a thin layer of mess coating the room—a hoodie thrown over the back of the couch, shoes in the hallway leading to the bedrooms instead of by the door; three half-empty, used water glasses on the coffee table.
“Thanks. It’s not so bad,” I agree, reminding myself that he lives in a dorm and anything more than one room probably seems like a castle. “Washing machine and dryer are in the laundry, through the kitchen. Help yourself.”
