“I might. Do you want to be flirting?”
“I think talking about flirting sort of nullifies any actual flirting.”
She laughs, pulling one of her curls straight before releasing it. It springs up to her cheekbone. “Maybe we should stop talking about it, then.”
“Maybe.”
We lean into each other, and I feel this huge wash of relief. We’re about to kiss again. It wasn’t a one-time thing. It was real.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom in the doorway. I pull back from Eva—?way back—?and stare at my mother. She’s hugging a large cream-colored paperback book with intricate flowers printed all over the cover to her chest. She looks at ease, her makeup fresh, her posture casual, like this morning never happened.
“Hi, baby. I didn’t know you were here.”
For once, she’s right. I didn’t tell her where I was going when I left this morning, and she didn’t ask. She was too busy cleaning up cereal.
“What . . .” I flit my gaze between the two of them. “What are you doing here?”
Mom holds up the book. “I was listening to Bethany’s radio show the other day, and Nina Alvarez was talking about how she struggles with anxiety. She mentioned these fancy-schmancy coloring books for grownups. They’re supposed to be great for relaxation and even mediation. Then Eva told me she uses them all the time, so we’re going to head over to the picnic tables at the park and try it out.”
“You should come with us,” Eva says, sliding her hand over mine. I yank it back. Hurt blossoms in her eyes. I want to apologize, to explain that it’s not about us or even the fact that my mom is standing right there while I sit extremely close to another girl. Mom doesn’t really know about me, but not because I haven’t tried telling her. She just doesn’t listen. Regardless, I’m not embarrassed.
I’m furious.
Because, my god, I kissed this girl last night, and today she’s buddying up to my mother. I know Eva’s having a hard time, and if coloring with Maggie helps, then so effing what? I can’t pretend that Mom doesn’t understand grief or whatever a hell of a lot better than I do, no matter how screwed up her coping methods. Still, I can’t help but feel cheated by both of them.
Standing, I collect my music books and stuff them into my bag. “I have to work.”
And that’s all I say before I head toward the door, Patrick eyeing me as I speed-walk past the history section. I can’t help but think Luca would be proud as hell right now—?I’m already getting better at this leaving thing.
Chapter Eighteen
THE MAGIC OF ALL THAT ADRENALINE AND HAND-HOLDING and kissing from last night is gone. Poof, bye-bye. So when Eva starts her shift at LuMac’s about halfway through mine, I pretend like I don’t even see her side-eyeing me in the break room while she clocks in and I exchange my ketchup-soaked apron for a clean one.
“What happened there?” she asks, nodding toward the bloody-looking apron.
“Harrison Jensen didn’t like his fries.”
“Ah.”
Harrison is a notoriously temperamental three-year-old Luca warned both Eva and me about during our training. He takes to throwing food when he’s displeased, and his server rarely escapes unscathed whenever his parents drag him to LuMac’s. So of course, when he and his harried-looking mother walk in for a midmorning snack, they sit in my section.
I finish tying my apron, sticking my order pad and pencil into the front pockets before turning to leave.
“Grace, wait.”
“What?” I stop and turn around.
“What happened at the bookstore? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” I don’t even try to enliven the flat tone of my voice.
“Are you sure? Because you seem . . .”
“I seem what?”
She tilts her head at me. “Angry.”
“I’m not.” I can’t look at her. If I look at her, I won’t be able to lie, and if I can’t lie, the truth of how much I hate seeing her around Maggie will come tumbling out right here in the break room, and I’m not ready for that. Still, I can’t seem to keep the snap out of my voice. “I’m just tired and smell like ketchup, and my fingers hurt from practicing, okay?”
