A small smile.
I’m gifted with a small, brief smile that flickers at the corners of his lips before he lifts his eyes to me and adds, “If there’s enough syrup.”
A huge grin breaks out across my face, and I laugh. “There is.”
He holds my gaze again, and this time, his smile seems to spread just enough that his eyes twinkle a little. It’s not quite the smile I’m hoping for—that smile of his that I just know can light up the whole room. But it’s getting there. And that’s good enough for right now.
Chapter Seventeen
Nico
Iscrewmyeyesshut as I hold the phone up to my ear, listening to it ring once, twice, three times. Just when I think she’s not going to answer, the next ring cuts short, and her voice attacks me through the phone’s speaker.
“I hope you’re calling to tell me you have my money,” she spats, and my stomach drops.
I push my head back against the headrest and open my eyes, staring out the front windshield of my car across the now-empty parking lot of the library.
“Not until next Friday, like I told you.”
“Well, what do you want, then? You’re not getting another extension. I need the money.”
“And you think I fucking don’t?!” I can’t hold it back. Imeantto. I tried. I fully intended to stay levelheaded and calm. But it’s impossible. “I’m hanging on by a thread here, Mom. I haveforty dollarsto my name, and I’m wearing the same fucking set of clothes to work every day because I can’t afford anything else right now. And next Friday, I’ll get myfirstpaycheck, and it probably won’t even be enough, and you’re expecting me to hand it all over like I don’t need the money tolive. What the fuck, Mom?”
She doesn’t respond, which is probably a good thing. I take abreath to try to steady myself, and then I continue. “I was just calling because I’d really like to keep my cell number if possible. But that requires you to call T-Mobile and authorize it since you’re the current—”
“No.”
My hand balls up into a fist, and I press it down into my thigh hard. “But—”
“You asked, I answered. My answer is no.”
“Wh-why?” I stutter, and my jaw clenches tight. I should probably just hang up now. It’s not worth it, is it? To try to convince her of this? I should just hang up and make sure I’ve copied all of my contacts and everything before my line is canceled and I’ve lost my number. But I can’t understand her hostility, and it’s tearing me up. “Why are you being like this, Mom? I-I don’t understand.”
She sighs audibly—a sharp, frustrated sound, and then she grumbles, “I’m busy. I don’t have time for this. Figure the phone stuff out for yourself. And get me my money by next Friday.”
And then the line goes silent.
I pull the phone away from my ear and glare at it, gripping the plastic case so tight my fingers go white. The anger sizzling in my chest feels hot and uncontrolled, and I don’t like that. I force myself to move, to set the phone down gently on the passenger seat, fasten my seat belt, and start the car. Then I force myself to make the drive back to Alex’s house, following every speed limit sign and stopping completely at each stop sign.
The anger doesn’t really fade, though maybe part of it does, because by the time I turn onto his street and see multiple cars parked outside along the curb—his cousins, I’m sure—I’m overcome by a new sort of numbness. It spreads through my chest and down into my toes. And it’s cold.
I shiver, despite the heat of the late May afternoon, and I park my car behind an expensive-looking newer Jeep with a vanity platethat readsOMYDOG. I should get out and go inside, but instead, I just sit there and let my eyes wander up to Alex’s window on the second story.
He texted me earlier, around lunch time, when I was on the phone with T-Mobile, trying to get things sorted out for my cell phone. He’d been sending texts all morning long. Emojis and memes and pictures of all the food his mom was cooking. Then, at just about 12:30 p.m., he sent a text that saidI can’t wait to see you tonight.
And I’m fucking confused as hell.
Last night after dinner was awful enough. I don’t think I slept much. Periodically getting texts from him all night long hadn’t helped, especially the one he sent at four in the morning or whatever god-awful time that was.
I can’t wait to see you in the morning.
Why was he up at four in the morning? And... why was he thinking about me?
Now this text, too.
It feels like he’s trying to tell me something—because why else would he use thatexactwording?—but that can’t be true. Can it?
I’m too tired, though. I’m too tired to think about it more or worry about it or try to make sense of it.
