I unpack my face wash and deodorant and then stuff my empty bag under the vanity before flicking off the light. As I enter the hallway, the door to my left swings open and my eyes dart over.
I swallow a few colorful words and press my back against the wall.
He’s tall. I mean, of course, I knew he was, but he looks gigantic in the tiny hallway. Intentionally messy light-brown hair. Hair I used to yank to get his lips back on mine whenever he started sucking on my neck too hard.
“Oh my god,” I choke out. “What are you . . . How did you . . . Why are you . . . ?” I swallow, trying to get my breath back as his mouth—?a mouth I know way too damn well—?bends into a smirk. It pisses me off to no end.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I finally spit out.
Jay Lanier pops his hands up on the door frame and leans toward me. Leather cuffs circle each wrist, and ropy muscles in his forearms ripple with tension. His smirk morphs into something so self-indulgent that I wish I had long fingernails so I could claw it right off his face. His gaze trails up my body, pausing at every possible spot that I never planned on letting Jay Lanier glimpse ever again, even through a tank top and shorts. I glare at him, but my hands are trembling and my stomach heaves, my mouth watery.
He laughs softly—?demonically, if you ask me—?and leans closer.
“Did I ever tell you that Jay is my nickname?”
My mouth drops open.
He smiles, a maddeningly slow spread of his mouth like the fucking Grinch. “No. I don’t think I did.”
I try to conjure some insult, anything to put me on equal ground here, but only incoherent combinations of four-letter words come to mind.
“Welcome home, Grace,” he says.
And then he slams the door in my face.
Chapter Three
I STARE AT THE BRIGHT WHITE DOOR. BEHIND IT, the guy I planned to avoid all summer bashes around. Something heavy—?I’d think it was a book if Jay Lanier had ever been spotted with one—?thwacks onto the floor. Music clicks on and some sugar-shocked, overly eager male voice filters under the crack in the door.
Son of a bitch.
And son-of-a-every-other-swear-word-in-existence.
“Grace!” Mom bellows from the kitchen. “You hungry? I have some sandwich stuff here!”
Her voice grates on me like an oboe just a nick out of tune. Every affectionate feeling I had toward her a few minutes ago about New York, about my cozy little room, vanishes. I stalk down the hallway, pausing by the dining room window to toss back the curtains and eye what I now recognize as Jay’s Jeep. Not that I’ve ever been inside it. He got it after we broke up last fall, but I’ve seen it in the school parking lot and around town enough times to realize why it looked so familiar on first glance.
I find Mom rummaging through the vintage one-doored refrigerator. Her shorts are so low on her hips, I catch an unwanted glimpse of red thong. Straightening, she tilts her head at the muted TV on CNN, mouth open a little as it flashes live shots of some tornado that ripped through Nebraska last night. Mom sighs and I grit my teeth.
“Pete’s last name is Lanier?” I ask.
She startles and drops a few squares of American cheese. “Yes. Honestly, Grace, I know I told you about him.”
“You didn’t. You told me nothing, as usual. You also failed to mention Jay.”
“Jay?”
“JAY!” I whisper-yell, flinging my hand behind me toward the bedrooms.
“You mean Julian?” She picks up the cheese and tosses it onto the counter next to a package of turkey and opens a bag of bread. “Did you meet him?”
I can only stare at her. Is it possible that she’s really this clueless? Well, yeah, of course it is. I know this about my mother. She can’t remember what grade I’m in half the time. Still, I sort of expected her to remember the name of the boy I dated for six months who then made my life a living hell after I dumped him. I thought our breakup was going to be pretty quiet. I mean, it was clearly time. I was bored. He was bored. But he went ballistic. Right there in the school cafeteria. Knocked his tray full of tacos off the table and stormed out. The next day, a screenshot of every text message we’d ever exchanged that mentioned body parts ended up on his Tumblr page.
I told Mom all of this. Unlike her, I do tell her things about my life, stuff other girls would never tell their own khaki-clad mothers. I guess it’s my pathetic-as-hell attempt to bond or something. As usual, it’s backfiring bigtime.
“He’s a sweet boy,” she says. “Helped me move in all your furniture when Pete was busy learning the ropes here.”
Yep. She really is that clueless.
