She hops down, looking up with her hazel eyes playfully slanted at me, grateful to see she’s moving on from our conversation, too.
“I could’ve opened my own door.”
I scoff as I take her hand freely, wanting any excuse to be close to her. “Not when I’m around.”
The soft chirp of crickets and the dimly lit sky trick meinto feeling like we’re entirely alone as I trail the path she leads to her door, and I don’t want to leave her.
“Thanks for tonight. I really don’t ever go out withactualfriends,” she says.
“Friends?” I push back, stepping close to her.
“You know what I mean,” she says, the tilt of her head sending her curls cascading down her shoulder. I catch one between my fingers, pull it taught before caressing the side of her face, finding myself once again lost in the mosaic in her eyes.
“You kiss all of your friends?” I ask, my voice coming out lower than I intended.
“Just the one.” She peers up at me through her dark lashes, this knowing smirk plastered on her face.
Capturing her mouth with mine for the second time tonight feels like I’ve won something rare. The chance to taste her, to experience her plush lips pressed against mine, to feel her sharp intake of breath as I kiss her harder, the harmonious tangling of our tongues sending something hot down my spine—I don’t deserve it. Something this good can’t possibly be mine.
Like she hears the echoes of my internal dialogue, she breaks our kiss and smiles against me. “When’s our date?” she whispers, still so close to me as her eyes look straight up to meet mine. It feels part joke, part serious question, and my stomach pitches at the idea that she really only sees this—us—as a means to an end.
But this was always the plan—to promise this date, promise that we’ll sleep together, to drag it out until it no longer matters and she inevitably moves on. The feelings were not part of the plan.
Fuck.
“There’s a place I want to take you. I’m still working on it.” A lie, but I see the moment she buys it.
“Sounds fancy,” she says, the slightest grin on her face as she turns to open her door. “Goodnight, Fielder,” she throws over her shoulder, the door shutting softly.
“Night,” I utter to myself, the same dread I felt when I made this deal with her rolling back in.
12
Grant
Twelve years ago
Sloane’s rolling backpack is loud against the gravel of our uncle’s driveway. The sun is bright in my eyes as it emerges from a flimsy cloud. The air is kind of wet, like the daytime sun hasn’t had a chance to dry it out this early in the morning.
“Come on, Grant,” my Uncle David drawls. “Don’t be keepin’ these people waitin’.”
I didn’t notice when the wheels of Sloane’s bag stopped rattling, but when I slide into the back row of the Oldsmobile parked in front of the doublewide, I see her buckled in, sketching. Her knees bob up and down, making it hard to keep her lines smooth.
When she feels me watching, she glances up, her eyes a little glassy, so I smile. I try to make it reassuring, and I think it works because her legs calms down. My nerves, on the other hand, are threatening to bring up my nonexistent breakfast. I feel my stomach acids churn, nothing to absorb them, and I contemplate asking my uncle to stop for food.
Mrs. Chapwick, our last foster placement, would’ve. She was nice. But there were six of us, and she didn’t really want or need two more kids, and Sloane and I fought hard to be a package deal. We were the latest addition to the well oiled machine of their mixed family so we were the first out. Back with our uncle, who begrudgingly houses us between placements. I should be grateful—I don’t know where kids end up when they have no one. We have someone. Even if every time we see him, he’s three bottles deep and looks at Sloane a little too long.
I pull a breath deep through my nose and it quells my nausea a little bit.
The social worker who came by a few days ago barely told us anything about these people. I’m guessing she told my uncle more than she told us, because he at least knows where we’re going. Sloane was so sure she was coming to bring us back to our mom, to put us on a plane back to Chicago. I had to remind her that mom’s probably not even there anymore. She wasn’t the last time we saw her.
Our mom’s kind of a nomad—no roots anywhere, it seems like. Her brother lives down in Smyrna, Georgia, but she found out she was pregnant with us when she was an artist in residence in Chicago. Twins weren’t part of her plan, though, and the only family we know is our uncle so…here we are.
I think if she knew how bad the system was, she would’ve figured something else out. Something that would let her find her footingandkeep a roof over our head. But we would never tell her, never make her put her life on pause for us. Sloane thinks it’s just a matter of time before we can stay with her again, something we haven’t done since we were three. I told her maybe, but I hope she’s right.
Not thirty minutes later, we’re pulling down the most manicured street I’ve ever seen in my life. Grass clippings still line the sidewalks, like they just finished cutting it. Huge magnolia trees blossom, the colors so vibrant and movie-like. The houses are bigger than I’ve ever seen, and glossy, flashy cars sit in each driveway. I feel my nerves kick back up and check on Sloane. She’s asleep, clutching her sketching pad to her chest like a stuffy.
“Y’all be good for these folks. It’s not gettin’ better than this.” All I can see in the rearview mirror are my uncle’s eyes, narrowing on the two of us. The car comes to a halt in front of the largest house on the street, I think. Our social worker stands beside one of the many pillars of the wrap around porch, a clipboard in her hand, excitement coating her face. Beside her is a petite blonde woman, probably in her early forties. She’s smiling, but I can tell she’s nervous, like me.
