Starry Eyes(14)

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

“So anyway,” he says, setting down a pile of envelopes on the desk, as if nothing is amiss. “I was told to come here and drop off your mail. It got delivered to our shop this morning.”

Oh.

I can barely control the low groan of misery that’s burring from the back of my throat. If I’d just kept my mouth shut . . .

“Uh, thanks.” I shift the letters toward me with one finger and try to recover what little of my pride is left. “These seemed to be sealed, so I guess you guys didn’t open them by mistake this time.”

He tugs his ear. Chipped black fingernail polish glints under the light. “She really didn’t mean to open it. I was there when it happened.”

Crap on toast. He knows. Of course he does. It’s not as if I didn’t wonder or consider that possibility. But this doesn’t stop embarrassment from washing over me now. I busy myself neatly stacking the letters and avoiding his judgmental eyes.

“Hey,” he says in an unexpectedly gentle voice.

I look up and he has a strange expression on his face. I can’t tell if it’s pity or tenderness, or maybe something else entirely. But it feels like he knows something I don’t know, and that only increases my panic-fueled pulse.

The door to the clinic swings open. My dad rushes inside. “Forgot my . . .” He spots Lennon and halts. His brows narrow to a dark point. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

Lennon raises both hands in surrender, but the look on his face is baldly defiant. “Just delivering mail, man.”

“I’m not your ‘man,’?” my dad says, voice thick with displeasure.

“Thank God for small favors.”

“Show some respect.”

“I’ll show you mine when you show me yours,” Lennon quips, and then adds, “Sir.” But he sounds anything but polite.

I’m not sure what to do. Why did Lennon come over here in the first place? He knows how my dad is. To stop things from escalating, I pipe up and say, “Lennon was bringing over misdelivered mail.”

It’s as if my dad doesn’t even hear me. He just points to the floor and says, “You aren’t supposed to step foot on my property.”

Lennon shrugs. “Your property? Last I checked, you rent this place like the rest of us.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Better a smart-ass than a dumb-ass.”

Oh, that was a bad thing to say. My dad’s expression goes from angry to furious. “Get out.”

Lennon gives him a dark smile. “On my way.”

“Damn right, you are,” my dad mumbles.

Footsteps pound in the hallway behind the desk, and my mom emerges, breathless, head swiveling in every direction as she surveys the scene. “What is going on?” she whispers loudly. “I’ve got a client on the table!”

“Mrs. Everhart.” Lennon nods politely. “Your husband was just throwing me out.”

“Dan!” my mom chastises.

My dad ignores her. “Don’t come back,” he tells Lennon.

“See you, Zorie,” Lennon tells me as he pushes the front door open.

“You talk to my daughter again, I’ll call the cops,” my dad calls out.

Oh, for the love of Pete.

Lennon turns in the doorway and stares at my dad for several long seconds before shaking his head. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Everhart. You’re a beacon of civility and chivalry. An absolute gem.”

Now my dad is livid, and for a second, I’m worried he might punch Lennon. Worse, I’m concerned that Lennon will bring up the Bahamas photo book.

But Lennon’s gaze flicks to my mom’s, then mine. Without another word, he leaves. The door shuts behind him, and I watch his dark form disappear down the sidewalk.

“Dan,” my mother says again, this time in quiet exasperation. In defeat.

Silence fills the waiting room. My father reins in his anger, and just like that, all of his tumultuous energy dissipates into a slant of sunlight that beams through the front windows. He turns to me and calmly says, “Why was he in here? I thought you weren’t speaking.”

I wave the envelopes Lennon brought. “We aren’t. He was telling the truth.”

Does he understand how humiliated I am by what just happened? Whatever issues Lennon and I have are ours alone, and I’m sick of being stuck in the middle of my dad’s squabbles. All of it: his beef with the Mackenzies, and what he’s done to my mom. If he only knew what I was hiding in my bedroom desk . . .

Maybe I should show him the photo book privately and see what he says.

Would he try to talk his way out of it? Or would he come clean?

I don’t think I have the guts to find out.

Dad stares at me, seemingly expressionless, but I can tell that gears are turning inside his head. Does he have some inkling about what I’m thinking? I relax my features to match his.

After a moment, he sniffles softly and jingles the car keys in his hand. “If that boy bothers you again, Zorie, please tell me. Immediately.”

He can hold his breath, but I don’t think I’ll be confiding anything to him any time soon.

Maybe ever.





5




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