My stomach twists. “You’re spying on me in the bookshop?”
“I’ve got two eyes, Josie. That’s not spying.”
“It’sexactlyspying!”
“If you don’t want people to see, stop doing it in public. You’ve always been terrible at hiding things, so that hasn’t changed, just for the record. You left a printout of Los Angeles airfare comparisons next to the register two weeks ago. I swiped it and dumped it in the trash before your mom found it. You’re welcome.”
I’m stunned—stunned. And furious. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Sorry?”
I lower my voice and point at him. “You cannot say anything, okay? This isn’t a joke. This is … I’m just looking at airfare. It’s not a crime to look!”
“Whoa,” he says, dark brows knitting together. “Not accusing you of murder. Jesus.”
“I don’t have firm plans or anything,” I insist. “But you know my parents aren’t friends, right?”
“I remember.”
“Well, my mom would be really upset if she knew I was even thinking about it. Please.”
He straightens his posture and holds up both hands in surrender. “Hey. No judgment. And I won’t say anything. It’s just something I noticed, is all. I wasn’t snooping. I just happened to see it. Okay?”
I nod and scratch my arm, feeling exposed and uncomfortable.
We don’t say anything. Behind the shrubbery, the dance music thumps on.
“Have you gotten to know him better?” Lucky finally asks.
“What? Who?”
Lucky lifts his chin. “Henry Zabka—your dad. He’s gotten a shit-ton of big projects over the last few years. His work is gorgeous.”
“Uh, yeah. He’s amazing. He’s still … tough.”
“Tough,” Lucky repeats.
I’m not sure how else to describe a man I barely know. He’s candid in both his photos and his manner. Interviewers call himrude. “I still don’t get to see him much. Every year or so he visits or we’ll meet up somewhere for the weekend. He took me to see a bunch of photography galleries in New York the year after I left Beauty. I was thirteen. I shook Annie Leibovitz’s hand.”
“Yeah?” He seems impressed.
“It was pretty great,” I say. Truth be told, I was so nervous that it’s hard to remember anything about it other than I felt overwhelmed, and that her hand was cold.
Lucky studies me. It’s hard to read his expression.
I sniffle and scratch my nose. “But, anyway … yeah. Henry—my dad. He’s, still, um … very much a tough-love kind of guy. Nothing for free. He takes on apprentices every year, but you have to earn it. Aspiring photographers fight for those slots.”
“At his home in Malibu?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s where you plan on going after your grandmother comes back?”
“You do remember what happened the last time my mom and grandma spent more than a few hours together, right?” Ticking time bomb.
Something clicks behind his eyes. “So, that’s why you’re bailing and going to Malibu?”
“I’m notbailing. It’s not a sure thing, but yeah. After I graduate, maybe. I don’t know.”
