Large windows open the space up and allow the desert inside, and rustic wrought-iron chandeliers dangle from the ceiling. The exposed beams have all been treated with the same honey-hued lacquer, although some of them could use a fresh coat.
“This looks really good,” I say.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not. It’s way nicer than my last storage unit.”
She laughs a full-on star beam of a laugh, and I forget where I am. Planet Earth, somewhere. California. Harlow. That’s right.
“Is everything okay at your parents’ house?” Daisy asks, picking at one of her nails.
“Yeah. You know how they are. They just want to prove a point.”
“This is pretty low, even for them.”
“They love exceeding expectations.”
Having Daisy on my side lifts me up, but questions fly through my mind.What happened between us? What haven’t you told me after the beep? How can I get past these barriers you have—the ones that seem to be built for me alone?There’s only one question I feel comfortable asking out loud, though.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Because.” She walks toward me, focusing her energy on the box of paintings. Daisy thumbs through them, the inky lines of the sun tattoo on her hand dancing, and I have the urge to grab one of the blank canvases and paint her as I see her now—unguarded, with a slight smile blooming on her face. “Your parents are giving you a hard time, and if I can ease that for you, I will. I enjoy looking out for people here. And for now, you’re here.” She keeps her eyes trained on the art in front of her. “Thanks for the sketch you sent.”
“Of course.” When Amy died, I did what I could from afar to support Daze. Scouring old photos and picking up my pencil was soothing for me too, especially because I didn’t go to the funeral. The drawing of her mom was small enough to fit into a sympathy card, but I thought she might like it.
“I’m, uh, hoping to start back up with booking weddings in the fall, so do you think your stuff’ll be gone by then?”
“I—” I can’t tell if she’s simply curious or pressuring me to give her an end date. “Sure, I can do that.”
“I’d like to finish renovations by then. Or the ones I can manage, at least.” The corners of her eyes crinkle as she inspects a perspective drawing of downtown Harlow, and she lowers her voice, almost like she’s talking to herself. “You were always so talented.”
Her russet-colored eyes lock onto mine, and I become hyperaware of how close we are. I could reach out and slip an arm around her waist and pull her to me. I could recount all the freckles on her nose. I could kiss her.
As if she’s reading my mind, her focus lowers to my lips, almost like shewantsme to close the distance between us. Like she’s curious and wants a taste. I’ve only seen her look at me like this once before—but I’d never forget it.
“Um,” she says, brushing her bangs off of her forehead. She backs up, and the connection we have has broken, if it even existed in the first place. “So, temporary.”
“Right.” I take a step back, craving some space from the botanical perfume or shampoo or whatever Daisy’s wearing. “End of summer, and this’ll all be gone.”
Chapter Seven
Max, 14 Years Old
After twenty minutes of scouring the thrift store shelves, the best thing I found was a motion-activated singing fish. My little sister would find it hilarious, but more importantly, my parents would despise it. I examined the rubbery texture of the fake fish’s scales. The price tag listed $4.99, and it would be cheaper with my employee discount.
Daisy slotted into the space next to me, and our arms touched. The sensation made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“I’m sorry they won’t be there,” she said.
I shrugged. Despite giving my mom and dad advance notice, they had a “very important work dinner” next Thursday. Of all the days, they had to pick that Thursday.
“I thought high school might be different,” I said, placing the fish back on the shelf. “This is dumb.”
“It’s not dumb. I just think if you wanna piss them off, you’re going to have to do better than a fish that sings ‘Stayin’ Alive’ every time someone walks by your bedroom door. You need to be intentional but subtle.”
“What says‘here’s a big middle finger for missing my first showcase’?” I looked around the store to find something else, but my frustration boiled over. “God, I can’t wait until I can move out and become famous and go to exhibits, and my parents will never be on the guest list, and if they ever show up I’ll make sure they get turned away. They can’t even pretend to care about what I’m interested in.”
Daisy’s mouth curved downward. She couldn’t understand. Her parents had issues, but at least they were supportive. They watched her horseback riding lessons every week, her dad took her camping on the weekends, and her mom didn’t pressure her for the best grades.C’s get degrees, she’d say whenever Daisy brought home her report card.
