“Look, someone gave it to me, but I already had one. I didn’t need it. You did.”
I bite my lower lip. “I don’t like owing people.”
“Consider it a thank-you gift for not pressing charges.”
“Charges! I would never.” I fold my legs underneath me and sink onto my comforter. “Maybe your little sister wants a new phone.”
“My little sister’s phone is brand-new.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek so hard I almost draw blood. “Well, thanks.” I hesitate to hang up, but decide to be courteous. After all, he gave me a brand-new phone.Andmy mom’s working for his dad. “Where did you live before here?”
A pause. Then: “New York.”
“You liked it there?”
“I did. Better than here.”
“Why?”
“Because New York isn’t obsessed with country music.”
Why am I talking with him again?Right.The phone…
I think of Rae, of her telling me that she tried to talk Ten into hanging out with her over the weekend, but he acted about as excited as her grandma during Sunday Mass, and she’salwaysdozing off.
“Do you have a girlfriend back in New York?” I blurt out, then wince.
“No.” After a beat, he asks, “What’s with the cross-examination?”
“I’m just trying to figure you out… You’re not exactly forthcoming. But then you patch up my knees and give me a phone, so”—I drum my fingers against the wrinkled white duvet cover—“so I assume you’re not completely insensitive.” I look at Mona’s poster, which hangs next to my full-length mirror. “Mom took me to New York when I was little. It was very…overwhelming. And loud. I was completely terrified of getting hit by a cab.”
“Did you?”
“Nope.” I smile. “I’ve only gotten hit once, and that was in my home state, by an SUV.”
I hear the sound of springs. I wonder if he’s lying on his bed. I wonder what his room looks like. Is it a disaster zone, or has Mom finished decorating it?
“What does your father do?” he asks.
What made him think of my father?
I tuck my hair behind my ears, but my willful strands rush straight back around my jaw. “He was the lead guitarist of the Derelicts.”
“Was?”
“Passed away when I was three. Car crash.”
“Shit,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” I’m about to ask if he’s heard of the Derelicts when I remember he hates music. “What about your mom? What does she do?”
“My mother’s dead, too.”
I gasp softly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Ten.”
“It’s fine. She died a long time ago. Heart cancer.”
“Heartcancer?”
