“They’re coming,” he answers throatily. “We’re almost finished.”
“Good,” she says, oblivious to the change in our body language. “Solana, let’s talk more about your schedule so we can coordinate for next week…”
The next week passes fast when I force myself to stick to a routine that almost feels normal. I keep my head down at school, ducking into restrooms when I spot Shay or Yvette coming down the hall. They text me a few times—more variations of “girl where r u?” and “stop being weird lana”—but I don’t answer.
I can’t bring myself to. Not when every time I see them, I feel like they’re laughing at some joke I’m not in on.
Instead I throw myself into the things Icancontrol. Learning my lines for the upcoming audition. Babysitting Jack at the Roberts-Kingman residence. Actually showing up to my classes and doing any assignments early for once.
Jack turns out to be a pretty sweet kid when he’s not trying to gross out his sister. It’s true he makes fart jokes and thinksburping the alphabet is peak comedy, but that’s standard ten-year-old boy stuff.
When I tell him it’s homework time, he actually listens. When I make him a snack—usually just a ham and cheese sandwich or microwave popcorn—he’s appreciative without being prompted.
Rachel’s house becomes my escape. While Jack does his math worksheets, I rehearse my lines or work on my own college assignments on my laptop.
The house is nice, nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived. Not rich-person nice, but comfortable. Coordinated furniture that wasn’t bought from garage sales. A neutral color scheme with tasteful pops of color. Pictures on the walls in matching frames. A refrigerator that’s always full.
One afternoon while Jack’s engrossed in his video game time, I wander into the family room and stop cold. Family photos cover the walls.
I track their family through the years, stopping in front of one photo in particular that’s from about ten years ago.
Silver has his arm around Rachel, both of them smiling wide at the camera. A baby Jack is in her arms, and a much younger and freckled Tabby wears pigtails and overalls.
They looked happy. Really happy. What happened?
What makes two people go from swearing they’ll spend the rest of their lives together to barely being able to sit at the same dinner table without sniping at each other?
I don’t have the answers. But it does make me frown as I turn away and wonder if we’re all destined to be alone.
Including me. Especially me.
Other than babysitting and dragging myself to classes, I’m alone most of the time. Unc’s gone more than he’s home—“club business” his eternal excuse.
Moses finally calls from Vegas of all places. The bike show in Colorado ended days ago, but he and some friends decided to make a detour.
“Just for a couple days, Lana,” he promised, but we both know his couple days can turn into a couple weeks.
It’s evening time, and I’m sprawled on our worn couch, script in hand, mumbling Magnolia’s lines to myself when my phone buzzes with a new text.
guess who???
Before I can even process the message to make a guess, there’s an abrupt knock at the door. It’s aggressive and loud, like someone’s banged their fist on the door demanding attention.
My stomach drops. I creep to the peephole and there he is.
Kel standing on my doorstep uninvited, hands shoved in his pockets as he waits for me to answer.
Maybe if I stay quiet, he’ll leave.
My phone buzzes again.
i know ur there. heard ur footstep.
Shit.
I debate for another ten seconds before sighing and opening the door. What else can I do? Make him stand outside texting me ’til Uncle Eddie comes home?
“Hey, babe,” he says, strolling in like he’s been invited over.
