He holds out his hand for me to shake and I can’t seem to get mine out of my pocket.
“Sorry…hand is…stuck.” With a grunt, I finally manage to free my hand. I take Skylar’s and am amazed at how firm his grip is. Strong but not painful, like he’s got you. “Nice to meet you too.”
Our eyes linger just a little longer than feels natural and a corner of his mouth curls upward.
“Cool,” he says, retracting his soft, firm hand and heading off. “Gotta get that water bottle before Madame Em tosses it. Nice to meet you, Max. See you tomorrow Aish!”
The second the door slams shut, Aisha’s mouth drops open into an unbearable grin and I have to look away. I can’t help laughing as well.
“You thought he was cute!” They probably build theaters with walls thick enough so Skylar can’t hear what’s happening from inside, but with the way Aisha is hollering I’m not so sure.
“Stahhhhhhp,” I whine.
“Hey no judgment. Skylar is super cute. I can get you his number if you want.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
I lean back against the wall, huffing and unwilling to look Aisha in the eye.
“You know there are plenty of cute guys out there who aren’t Jasper,” she says, sidling up once more. “Nice ones too. The kind that reply to texts”
“Yeah,” I say. “But that’s just the problem. They’re not him.”
Reluctantly, I turn and face her.
“You’re definitely going to this party?” I ask.
She nods.
“Can you help me find something to wear?”
It’s way past my curfew when I walk through the front door, shopping bags in hand. I could’ve called and asked for a ride from the station but the idea of sitting through Dad’s inevitable lecture about tardiness was all the motivation I needed to walk.
The lights are off in the hall but there’s a dim glow coming from the living room.
“Get in here, kiddo,” Mom says in her stern voice.
Gulp. I know what that voice means.
With a resigned sigh I plonk the bags down in the hall and drag my feet to the living room.
“What time do you call this, Max?” Dad asks from the armchair.
Mom is perched on the edge of the couch, her knees pressed together, shoulders back; she won’t look at me.
“I texted,” I say.
Color rises in Mom’s cheeks, like lava in a volcano, about to erupt.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?” Mom asks, her voice wavering. She still won’t look at me.
“I was just shopping with Aisha. I told you where I was I—”
“Not just tonight.” Her words are clipped and harsh. “Ever since you ran off with Jasper to goodness knows where and didn’t answer your phone for two days.”
What is she on about? That was months ago; I thought we’d moved on from that. “I told you I was sorry about that.”
