I texted a few times a year, no matter where I was or what was going on, doing my best to keep that connection alive, even if just barely, hoping she knew that she could come to me if she needed to. Hoping that the few times we went out for ice cream or played board games in her kitchen—she never wanted to play catch with me, despite Hunter telling me to do that with her—would be enough to let her know that I was there for her.
But here she is, showing up on my doorstep, looking much hotter than the middle schooler I remember, wearing cutoff shorts and a T-shirt that clings and drapes over her curves, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail just like I always remember her, her big brown eyes sporting a lot more makeup than that middle schooler did.
Hunter’s little sister turned out hot. And thinking that feels like a betrayal. But I would’ve thought that even if he hadn’t died.
She’s clearly having money problems, though, if she’s delivering food for extra cash and nearly in tears about her junker of a car breaking down.
“Hailey, do you remember my mom, Rhonda? I doubt you talked to her much, but maybe you remember when she dropped me off at your place when we were kids.”
Tucking her hands in her pockets, her shoulders hunched around her ears, she nods, clearly uncomfortable.
So much for keeping an eye on her for Hunter. I’m a total fuck-up on that front. She can barely meet my eyes and wouldn’t ask me for help unless she were actively on fire and I was the only one around.
Jerking my head toward the kitchen, I smile reassuringly. “Let’s have some dinner, and you can call a tow truck.”
“Sure,” she says after clearing her throat, finally stepping off the mat inside the front door. “Thanks.” To my mom, she says, “Nice to see you again.”
“You too, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I got her, Mom.” Because I might’ve been fucking up without realizing it this whole time. But I’m definitely not going to anymore.
CHAPTER THREE
Hailey
Jason’s mom,Rhonda, offers me a smile as she watches me follow her son to the kitchen. She’s probably around my mom’s age, but she looks much better. Her silver hair shines, falling in loose waves to her shoulders, and even though she’s dressed for comfort, her clothes are nice and fit well. Her skin is smooth, glowing even, her smile warm and welcoming.
My mom, by contrast, constantly looks pinched. Sad. Her eyes droop, and she has deep furrows around her mouth from over a decade’s worth of grief.
Dad’s not much better.
They used to be happy. I remember them laughing a lot when I was little. But they haven’t found much to laugh about since Hunter.
It’s part of the reason I can’t live there anymore. It’s just too depressing. It’s not worth the money I’d save on rent. And it’d basically be a wash anyway with all the gas money I’d have to spend to get to the studio where I teach violin lessons and to andfrom rehearsals during the symphony season, not to mention the other gigs I do all over the greater Madison area.
Jason stops at a big island in the open plan kitchen, dining, living area and sets the bags of food on the counter. He pulls out two plates, then begins to take the containers of food out of the bags, opening them up and turning them to face me. “Help yourself,” he says, picking up a plate and getting a few wings from each of the containers.
He wasn’t lying when he said he’d ordered a lot of food. There’s enough here to feed at least a family of four and maybe have some left over. I glance around, wondering if his mom’s coming out.
Jerking his head at the food, he licks his fingers and raises his eyebrows. “Seriously. Dig in. There’s plenty. Unless …” His brow furrows. “I mean, if you’re not hungry, of course?—”
My stomach betrays me by rumbling loudly. One of the suckiest parts of being broke and delivering food is that so much of it smells delicious, and I can’t have any of it.
Grinning, he sets his plate down, picks up the other plate, and practically forces it into my hands. “Eat. Sit. Tell me what’s going on with you. Oh, and find a tow place to call. Or do you want me to do it for you?”
I have to blink back tears again. What am I gonna do without my car?
“Hailey,” he says softly, his face earnest, his clear blue eyes meeting mine. He’s always looked striking with those blue eyes contrasting with his black hair. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
I have to fight back the hysterical laughter trying to rise at that. It’ll be okay? He promises? Ha. Not likely. I needed fifty more bucks to make my rent, and without my car, I have no way to get that. And I can’t pay to fix my car or for a new (to me) car, and I can’t afford a rental either. Without a car, I can’t make money. But I don’t have the money to get my car working. I don’teven know who to call for a tow truck, much less how I’m going to pay forthat.
My credit card’s supposed to be for emergencies, and I guess this qualifies, butughhh.
At least I can get some free food …
Dipping my chin in a nod, I take the plate and stare at the open containers of wings on the counter.
“The one on the left’s Buffalo,” he says, “then there’s honey garlic in the middle, and traditional barbecue wings on the end.”
