“Oh, right.” I sighed in relief. “The Vermont people.”
“The Vermont people,” she confirmed, then dropped into her sick voice. “My mom called me a little while ago and told me, too. She promised James would be home soon.”
I laughed. “So you have more time.”
She nodded.
“That’s good,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” she agreed, throwing a glance at me. “Because I don’t want to take you home yet. You don’t”—she paused—“you don’t really look like yourself.”
“No?” I pulled down the mirror to see that she was right. My lips were still dyed from the candy, but my face also was too pale and my hair a mess. Somehow, I looked both tired and crazed. Understandably, because my Phillie Phanatic day had been a lot. And, it wouldn’t be over yet. The game would still be in full swing. I couldn’t go home.
Home. The worst part about our childhood adventures with Dad was them ending, him dropping Isa, Grace, and James back at home. You’d think that after an entire day together, everyone would have had enough of each other, but no. It seemed like there was never enough time. No one wanted the sun to set on Saturdays.
“Thank god,” I said. “Because I really don’t want to go home yet.” Grace was absentmindedly massaging my shoulder. I started replaying the stolen waterfall moments in my mind. Grace’s hands, Grace’s lips, Grace’s…I swallowed. “Where should we go?”
She considered—or pretended to consider—then brightly said, “Do you remember the discussion we had earlier about a janitor’s closet?”
I felt the color return to my face, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I do.” I coughed. “A terrible option.”
“Yes, exactly,” she said as she stopped at a red light. “But lucky for us, our options have nowexponentiallyimproved.”
I didn’t say anything.
She readjusted her hands on the steering wheel before looking at me. “Do you want to come home with me?” she asked softly, almost shyly.
“Grace.” I cocked my head, teasing the dimples that I knew she was borderline obsessed with. “What kind of question is that?” I leaned over to brush two fingers across her nose. “Of course I want to.”
We grinned at each other, and a beat later, the traffic light turned green.
Chapter 40
James
When I turned onto Isa’s long tree-lined driveway, she began making a to-do list. “We need to get the car back into the garage and start charging it,” she said in what I called her CEO voice. Thinking ahead, all business. It sounded uncannily like her mom (which I thought was cute), but I’d never tell her. “Hopefully my parents won’t notice the new mileage. I also need to reset the outdoor cameras.”
“What are your parents even watching for?” I asked, zigging in the driveway. “It’s not like you sneak out.” I zagged us. “You know,normally.”
We laughed. Isa’s bubbly giggles gave me goose bumps as the Tesla rounded the last bend in the driveway…which is when westoppedlaughing.
But my goose bumps still grew. They fucking multiplied.
Because two cars sat outside the house. Isa’s cream-colored Mini Cooper and her mom’s black BMW.
“Oh no,” she said, shifting in her seat. I saw her hands tremble as she reached to tighten her perfect ponytail before realizing her hair was no longer in said perfect ponytail—she was about to spiral. “She’s home.” Her voice cracked. “Why is she home? She never gets home until late!”
“Hey, it’ll be fine. We can spin this…,” I assured her, because even if Isadidplan to come clean about her day off, telling her mom right now sounded like a shitstorm.
The house’s front door opened and Mrs.Cruz stepped out to greet us. I cursed myself. Why was I driving? Isa should’ve been driving. Not that I was afraid of taking the heat, but I think we would get in less trouble if aCruzwas behind the wheel. The Tesla was, after all, their car.
An unreadable expression on her face, Isa’s mother pointed to their detached garage. It matched their modern house—all iron and dark woods with glass walls. One bay was already open for us. “I’m sorry,” Isa whispered. “Whatever happens, this is my fault. I let Grace take the car out.”
“It’s not your fault,” I whispered back. “She can be pretty convincing.”
“But I could’ve stopped her,” she said as I eased the car into the garage. “Itispossible to stop Grace Barbour.”
“True,” I conceded, certain occasions coming to mind. “Very true.”
