A full-body bristle swept through me. What did he expect? Someone smarter, someone like Dad? A kind, charming studious type, not a sarcastic mess? “Yeah, well, you’re not who I was expecting Dad’s assistant to be, either.”
He blew out a breath, his cheeks puffing as he did so. “Don’t I know it.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked away. One arm dangled off the back of his chair. “I’m used to being underestimated.”
“I’m not underestimating you. I’m not estimating you at all.”
“Aren’t you?” His gaze snapped back to mine. “You haven’t been—estimating—me for years?”
Shit. Caught. “Why would I?”
He smirked. “Because I’ve been doing it to you. I’ve heard about you for ages.”
“Doesn’t mean you know me.”
He leaned forward, the front legs of his chair landing firmly on the ground. His expression was a strange mix of satisfaction and curiosity. “I think I do.”
I scoffed. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He gave me a look suggesting how patently false my statementhad been; how we knew each other rather intimately, as of a few hours ago. “I know you’re going to UMass next year and you’re undecided but leaning math. You loved to run until you hurt your knee. Cilantro tastes like soap to you, and you and your best friend have worked at Lulu’s Diner for three years. And—” He snapped his mouth shut.
Possibly because I was gaping with the same amount of horror as if he’d pulled his face off. I felt exposed. How could Dad tell Ethan so much about me? “And what?” I demanded.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
He opened his mouth, shut it, then raised his chin. “I know you have a crap dating record.”
I picked up my wrapped straw and lobbed it at him.
It glanced off his chest and lightly fell into his lap. He raised his brows as he placed it back on the table. “Ow.”
“And you have such a good one?” Even as I said it, I realized I had no idea what his dating record was. What did I know about Ethan? He was rich, outdoorsy, and a rising sophomore at the University of Chicago. Not much else. Apparently, Dad had gossiped about me but had protected Ethan’s secrets.
I really hated this boy.
Dad returned to the table, smiling brightly. “What have you two been chatting about?”
Just all the private details of my life you felt comfortable sharing, Dad.“Who was that?”
“Oh, it was, ah—it was no one.”
Please let it be a date. “It wasn’t no one.”
Dad cleared his throat, his nervous tic. He’d never been able to lie to me. “Uh, there’s some things at the house I’ve been meaning to get fixed. I was getting a quote from a contractor.”
Oh. “Dad, we don’t need a disposal or for the window to work. They’re not a big deal.”
“Ah, well, they’d be nice to fix.”
I wanted to protest more—to tell him they weren’t important enough to spend the money on—but I didn’t want to admit to money struggles in front of Ethan Barbanel. I’d bring it up later. “Okay.”
Our food arrived, and talk turned to what to do on the island during the summer—Dad pitched me unnecessarily hard on Nantucket, given I was already stuck here. “And there’s Gibson’s comet this year and the meteor shower,” Dad added enticingly. “Won’t that be fun? It’s a big deal to see them at the same time.”
Despite myself, I felt excitement flicker. Dad had instilled his love of astronomy in me. We’d spent my childhood going on late-night drives to open fields with little light pollution. Wrapped in coats and blankets, we’d stared up at the inky heavens, waiting for our eyes to adjust so we could spot shooting stars. “I suppose.”
