Finally, Easton’s expression shifts, going from blank to agitated. He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, dropping his backpack and making his way toward me. “Could ask you the same thing. Last time I checked, Yale parents were allowed to call their kids.”
“He’s been avoiding my calls ... and emails.” Her phone beeps, and she checks it before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Of course, Patricia cancelled. Some people are so careless. Where are manners anymore?”
Easton sits on a stool, and we’re suddenly one-on-one. His hard eyes are inches from mine, and they’re honed in on me.
It’s unexpected, seeing him look right at me while his mom is in the same room. I guess he doesn’t have much of a choice while I stand right in front of him, but still, the directness takes me by surprise. Just like earlier this morning.
I feign boredom as I shake the foundation bottle.
“I suppose,” Bridget continues, pushing the wrong button on the coffee pot, “avoidingis the wrong word. I’m sure he’s just busy. Have you heard? Isaac is practically running the entire school paper on his own now. It’s about time someone had the sense to get rid of that Stephenson character.”
Popping the lid to the foundation bottle, I watch as Easton’s expression reverts back to the blank slate he wears so well. We both know where this conversation is going.
“Not to mention, that little charity project he started last spring is making big waves. Ruby’s neighbor has a niece who attends Harvard, and she said even students over there have been discussing it.” She’s pushing all the buttons now, figuratively and literally.
Don’t do it, I inwardly beg her.For once, just let it go.
“Now, there’s a boy who is going places in his life and trulyisbusy.”
As far as his mother can tell, Easton is unfazed by her dig.
I know better.
Steaming-hot water pours from the single-cup side of the pot. “Dammit!” Bridget hisses as it splatters her legs. “Well, this thing is broken.”
Easton shakes his head when she pours straight brandy into her coffee cup and looks at him over the rim.
“Tell me. Are you still dabbling with that police nonsense?”
Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “Guess it depends on how you definedabbling.”
The fact Easton wants to be a cop always stirs a flutter in my stomach. Not because I respect cops, but because he does. He wants to be kind and helpful and honest. Everything his parents are not.
“Well. You know my thoughts.” She rolls her eyes as I squeeze a small amount of foundation onto my fingers.
He doesn’t respond.
She places a hand on her hip. “You also know how hard your father worked to dig himself out of the blue-collar lifestyle. To create a better life for us, foryou. Truly, Easton. All this police talk is a slap in the face to him.”
His eyes shut briefly, and I know she’s getting to him. His reply is quiet but rough. Sandpaper to her sugar. “So don’t talk about it.”
Her voice turns venomous. “Whatever your choice, in the end, youwillattend university. Youwillearn a respectable degree. At least Isaac understands the importance of that. Of becoming something. He will make a wonderful senior partner for the firm one day.”
My eyes slide to the closed backpack at Easton’s feet. The backpack I know holds his laptop—the same laptop he uses for online college courses whenever he thinks no one is paying attention.
Bridget pushes a button on the phone piece in her ear. “Cynthia? I know, I know.” She pauses, frowning. “No, don’t leave. I’m coming—” She rolls her eyes. “Your child is twenty-four years old. If he can’t handle a breakup at this age, he never will. Okay, fine. Yes, I’ll see you for brunch. Bye, sweetie.” Bridget hangs up, sashaying across the kitchen to pull open the curtains, then she winces, muttering, “God, does it have to be so bright?” and closes them again. “Maria ... Maria!”
Her heels fade into the living room.
I lean close to Easton. Closer than I need to. If there’s one strength I know how to use, it’s my ability to distract. My lips part as I find the bruise on his left cheek, and I let a slow exhale fan across his skin. I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down, once, twice. My thumb gently connects with his cheek, and his gaze drops to my lips.
My chest hums with satisfaction.
Until his father enters the kitchen.
Easton may get his dark looks from his mother, but he and his father share two things no one could ever overlook: the quiet sharpness in their eyes—always watching, observing—and an effortless magnetic air that attracts attention wherever they go.
Despite that, no one could ever say they’re similar.
