Hunter waves a foot beneath the tailgate, and the trunk pops open with a mechanical purr. He shrugs off his heavy backpack and lets it fall into the spacious trunk. He taps a button to make it close automatically.
Jesus. I’ve never seen a car this fancy before.
With the trunk closed, I glance at the bumper stickers again. Hunter notices, following my gaze. He gives me a wary look and clears his throat uncomfortably.
Okay, yeah. Hedefinitelythinks I’m a bigot.
“Well,” he says, stiff and distant. “Have a good night.”
“Oh, yeah. Same to you,” I mutter.
Hunter climbs into his spaceship of a car and drives off with the sound of bubblegum pop music blaring from the speakers.
Chapter Four
I’ve always hated social media. It turns people into inauthentic jerks, obsessed with meaningless likes and follows. It’s full of unattainably perfect men, their faces and abs airbrushed into plastic perfection.
I don’t post anything, but I do have a secret Pixstagram account. I mostly use it to keep tabs on Maddie’s social media activity. The internet’s a dangerous place for teenage girls. There are far too many creeps out there.
Still, I constantly struggle with the balance between protecting her and letting her live her own life. I wish there were a one-size-fits-all rule book for raising teenage girls—something that explains how to do this right. I lie awake most nights worrying I’m screwing it all up.
My biggest fear? That she follows our parents’ footsteps and falls into a life of depression, drugs, and alcohol. I don’t enjoy being an overbearing brother, but I need to protect her. I have to make sure she’s safe. That she makes good choices. That she doesn’t repeat our family’s mistakes.
But right now, I’m not checking her page. I’m typing someone else’s name into the search bar:Hunter Davis.
It doesn’t take long for me to find him. His username isHunterTheGatherer, which makes me grin stupidly at my screen. The biography at the top of his page is short and sweet: a pride flag emoji and a link to a research article about protecting native pollinators.
His feed is exactly what I expected—aesthetic shots of trees, flowers, and golden-hour skies. The photos are high resolution and crisp, probably taken with an expensive camera. Judging by his car, he likely comes from a wealthy family.
His latest post is from three weeks ago: a yellow daffodil with a bee perched on one of the petals. The caption readsSigns of Spring. I actually roll my eyes.
But then I scroll a little further… and stop.
It’s a photo from a few years ago at a Pride festival. Hunter’s wearing a pair of denim shorts and a rainbow tank top. He’s standing with a group of friends, all wearing scantily-clad clothing, but all I can focus on is him. I linger way too long on the photo, studying every detail. My brain tells me to scroll past it, but my fingers don’t budge.
I don’t know why I’m even interested in Hunter’s social media activity. I barely know the guy.
Sighing, I close out of Pixstagram and stare blankly at my phone. To distract myself, I open my banking app, but I immediately regret it. My pathetic balance glares back at me, a row of tiny red numbers. I get paid in a few days, but the second that paycheck lands, it’ll go straight to rent.
I keep hoping Mom will go back to work soon. We could really use the money.
Mom’s depression comes and goes in waves. She has good days, and she has bad days, but lately it seems like all her days are bad. She sleeps for hours, barely eats, her body thinning out in a way that scares me.
I love my mom. I really do. While I sympathize with everything she’s been through, I wish she would get her act together. There are moments I imagine grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her, screaming at her to wake up, to fight for Maddie’s sake.
But I know mental illness doesn’t work that way. Still, the resentment sits heavy in my chest.
My phone buzzes.
Aliyah:Any updates on operation GML?
Mason:wtf is operation GML?
Aliyah:Operation Get Mason Laid. Duh.
Mason:fuck u. my sad sex life is not a mission.
Aliyah:Ugh. You’re boring.
