“Shut. Up. You don’t know a damn thing about my mother. Your oaf of a father might be in her life for now, but that doesn’t give you the right to make judgments, to comfort me like we’re some sort of sick family. You don’t have a right to anything, Jay. So butt out.”
He straightens his shirt, his expression an angry cloud. “What the hell, Grace? Look, I’m sorry about the other night, okay? You think I’m happy about this whole act our parents are putting on? I was supposed to be in Chicago with—?”
His expression darkens even more and closes up. He takes a deep breath, hooking his hand on the back of his neck as he stares at the gravel.
“Look,” he goes on, “I knew you moving in here would piss you off, so I went with it, okay? But now I’m just trying to help. Jesus, I’m trying to say you deserve better.”
My next string of words gets stuck in my throat. I hate Jay Lanier. He betrayed me out of spite. Took my right to move on from him and turned it against me. He mocked this situation we’re in, like it was all a big joke. Even when we were together, in those quiet name-whispering moments, he never knew me. Never. And yeah, that was my fault, my choice, but it still stings that he never even realized it. Never knew I was holding back.
“Don’t pretend like you give a shit, Jay. Just don’t.”
And then I toss my leg over my bike’s seat, the knot in my throat thick enough that it pushes hot tears out of my eyes. I pedal away from him and convince myself it’s just the salty wind making them water.
Chapter Thirteen
IT’S NOT HER FAULT.
It’s not her fault.
It’s not her fault.
As Luca babbles on and on about the right way to roll silverware, this phrase echoes in my mind over and over again. I watch Eva weave through LuMac’s tourist-packed dining room pouring coffee through a smile, tucking her tips into her aqua-blue apron.
Well, that will pair just beautifully with the necklace . . .
Ugh. Stop. It’s not her fault.
And it’s not. I know this. It’s not like Eva threw herself into my mother’s arms and begged her to love her and share with her all the secrets of life. She’s not even aware of how fucked up my relationship with Maggie actually is. On top of that, I know Mom gets like this—?she hooks herself on to a sad story and rides it until the bitter end.
But this is the first time that story has been a person I know, someone I have to see and interact with and work with. Usually it’s cats at the animal shelter and orphans in some war-torn country or flood victims along the Mississippi. Usually I can ignore Mom’s fluttering and heart-clutching, and she’s over it in a couple weeks. Usually it’s not quite so . . . real.
Okay, that one time Mom brought home a worm-filled dog from the pound was pretty real, because I was twelve and I had to take care of him, get all attached to him, and name him Noodles because of his curly, sand-colored fur, only to realize there was no way we could afford him and then I had to find a good home for him and say goodbye. That was pretty real. But still. Noodles was a dog.
Eva is a whole live girl.
“Hey,” Luca says, bumping my elbow. “Earth to Gray.”
“What? Sorry.”
He follows my gaze over the counter to where Eva’s delivering an armful of plates to table . . . eleven? No, twelve.
“Uh-huh,” he says after few more glances between us.
“What?”
“Did you hang out with Eva last night?”
“Yeah,” I say, dragging out the word. I’m just going to assume he means the bonfire and not the lighthouse at two a.m.
“What did you talk about?”
“Stuff.”
“Stuff.”
“Yes, Luca, stuff.”
“Like, serious stuff or fun stuff?”
