“It’s no problem.”
“I’m good, really,” I say and awkwardly stick my hand into the car and toss the scarf over my headrest and onto the back seat. “Thanks for finding it.”
Then we stare at each other, and I’ve suddenly forgotten how to gracefully exit a conversation. Can I just, like, point some finger guns, get into the car, and drive off? Is that better or worse thanthis is too hard?
He shoves his hands into his pockets, and it’s unfair that he’s pretty like this, his hair loose and his coat open, under the ugly parking lot lights. I think, briefly, of Bart and the mistletoe and all the signals that I apparently misread.
Behind me, Bastien clears his throat, and ohfuck, they’re both standing next to the car, watching us like we’re a mildly interesting weather report.
“Right. That’s all. See you around, I guess?” Javi says, and then he turns and walks away. His siblings are both watching me across the roof of the car, wearing the exact same expression, and I choose to ignore it.
“They’re probably done with Monopoly by now, right?” I ask, and both of them sigh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JAVIER
The evening after cosmic bowling,I’m over at Silas’s because he told us to come over, eat leftover Christmas cookies, and hang out.
Iwantedto head up to my cabin in Wildwood after my shift at the florist tonight because I’ve got the day off tomorrow. But since I’m a responsible adult who doesn’t disappear for no reason, I told Wyatt what I was planning and he pointed out that there’d been a huge snowstorm two days ago, there was no way the road to Wildwood was clear yet, and weliterallyknew someone who was stuck in a cabin in the mountains because of the snow. Thank god for Wyatt because I’d replayed the Worst Fist Bump in the History of Celebratory Gestures so many times that I kind of forgot that Gideon was still up there, counting birds and rescuing damsels in distress.
Or…something. All I know is he rescued a woman who was chained to a tree and now he’s being real fuckin’ cagey about it.
“So,” Lainey’s voice says behind me as I’m staring into Silas’s fridge, looking for a soda behind the beers. Would anyone notice if I just grabbed one? This is exactly the kind of situation where people drink and then feel better, I’m pretty sure. And it’s not like booze wasreallythe problem.
“So.” I finally spot a cherry soda way in the back. I’m not in the mood for everyone tolookat me tonight. Also, I only just convinced them that they were allowed to drink casually around me, and like hell I’m gonna go back to square one.
“You want to talk about it?”
I twist off the cap, open Silas’s trash—it’s in a drawer because he’s fancy—and take a long swig before I answer her.
“Talk about what?”
“Ah.” She nods. “You’re gonna be like that. Cool.”
“I’m not being like anything.”
Lainey scrunches her face in anare you sure about that?kind of way and takes a sip of what I’m pretty sure is red wine in a whiskey tumbler.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Wyatt mentioned that he basically had to tackle you and pin you to the floor to keep you from driving up a mountain in the snow today,” she says. “Though I’m glad you told him you were gonna go. Good progress.”
“One, I don’t need ‘good progress’ fromyou,” I grump, and Lainey laughs at me. “Two, he wishes he could pin me down and keep me from doing anything.”
“Was it family stuff?” she asks, grinning like I didn’t just tell her off a little bit. “That’s always a mind fuck at the holidays. One year my dad’s older sister insulted my mom’s potatoes and my dad was pretty much ready to fight for her honor. Words werehad. We were nearly asked to leave.”
I’ve met Lainey’s parents once, briefly, and her dad is a very amiable older Black man who wears glasses and has a moustache. I can’t quite imagine him throwing down over a side dish.
“What kind of potatoes?” I ask.
“Mashed,” she says. “My mom tried a new recipe that deviated from the one passed down by my grandmother, whichwas practically Scripture, so people got mad. Mainly my aunt.” She looks over her shoulder, toward the door to the living room where everyone else is doing whatever they’re doing, and leans in toward me. “Shebakedthem first, instead of boiling.”
“Heresy,” I agree. “Were they good?”
“They were mashed potatoes, so, yes,” Lainey says. “Point being, every family is crazy once you dig a little, so don’t worry about it.”
I think about it for a moment. Lainey is literally a therapist—she works mostly with teenagers, I think, but still—and she would probably not judge me for banging my stepsister. And she would probably not tell Wyatt. And it’s tempting,sotempting, to just tell someone the truth after all these months. Even Castillo only knows half of it.
