But when we reach her car, parked on the street, she opens thedoor and takes the pie plates from me. She places them in the back seat and nudges the door shut with her hip.
Then she gives me one more up-and-down look and puts her hands on both my cheeks and holds my gaze.
This is it. Here’s where she looks into my soul and sees that I’m not Nate.
But she smiles and shakes her head. “It’s good to see you again.”
My mouth goes dry and I swallow. She pulls my head down to her and kisses my forehead. Then gets in the car.
“Stay out of trouble!” she yells before shutting the door.
Too late for that, Gramma Sharon. I’m stuck in place as she pulls a U-turn in the middle of the street and heads off into the night. I’m in plenty of trouble as it is.
You know what? Screw it. I’ve done the damage and taken Nate’s identity. I don’t want to think about the future when I’ll have to run away again. For the moment, I just want to be here and enjoy this placeholder family.
Maybe I can make arealfamily like this in the future. As long as I stay out of jail and don’t get caught. But for now, why shouldn’t I accept the love Valencia, Marcus, Easton, and Gramma Sharon are willing to give?
There’s a whispering voice in my head that tells me it’s wrong, but the warmth in my chest is strong enough to shove it away. Push it off for now and be done with it.
Because I’ve been homeless for eight months and had shitty parents who thought torture was better than acceptance. I deserve a break, goddammit.
But standing out in front of the house, alone, I can’t help but feel that familiar eyes-on-me feeling. I shiver as I look out at the other houses around us. Lights are on but I don’t see anyone standing in any of the windows. Miles mentioned that Valencia told the neighborhood LISTSERV that I was back. Was that what made someone come to the house earlier? Maybe it was a neighbor who Valencia tasked with watering plants while they were away on vacation and they made a copy of the house key.
And if they were a neighbor, Nate might have trusted them. At school I was taught to never trust an adult who was asking achildfor help. But maybe Nate wasn’t. And when he was outside in his yard that day in July almost ten years ago, maybe a neighbor—someone he knew—showed up to ask him for help.
If they still live in the neighborhood, it means they kept on watching the family after Nate was gone.
My fear immediately shifts to anger. I want to know who would do this to the Beaumonts. This family who only seem to be trying their best.
And why break in? Why not kidnap me again or kill me right there?
Maybe because they can’t for some reason. They got away with it before and now they’re worried they can’t. They knew they could break in, but for now, there’s something protecting me. Something that’s keeping them from doing to me whatever they did to Nate.
Maybe that something is this family? How much they’re paying attention now?
As I walk back to the deck, the dog barks from the yard next door.
Miles is in his backyard with Chardonnay—seriously, is there a worse name for a dog?
I should do some damage control from earlier. Or maybe it’ll cause more damage if I go over there. Still, I can’t help myself. I don’t want Miles to be mad at Nate for not remembering him. Even if it’s a lie.
I’ve already told plenty of big lies. One more little one won’t hurt, right?
Fourteen
Miles is in his backyard wearing a headlamp. He’s scanning the grass and using a pooper-scooper to pick up poop as Chardonnay watches him. Every time he finds a pile of her shit, she barks at him while he picks it up.
“Wouldn’t it be better to do that during the day?” I call out.
Miles jumps and turns to me, holding out the pooper-scooper like a weapon. “Jesus.” He puts the scooper down next to the tall plastic trash can he was carting around the yard and comes over to me.
“How long have you been watching me pick up piles of shit?”
“Long enough to know Chardonnay certainly doesn’t like you doing it.” Chardonnay jumps up again for pets, which I’m happy to provide.
“Yeah, well, Chardonnay doesn’t like anything. Don’t believe the hype, golden retrievers are assholes. She hates me, the mail carrier, the hot UPS guy, the ugly UPS guy, the neighbor’s cat, and our lawn man—who is coming to mow tomorrow, which I forgot. Hence picking up dog shit by moonlight so he doesn’t throw a hissy fit and charge my mom for cleaning his mower blades.”
“Ah, it all makes sense now.” But does it?
