The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(60)

I was going to win that damn contest. That scholarship money was mine. As long as I kept my head down and didn’t let any emotional family weirdness distract me. Which wasn’t easy.

“Hey,” I said. “Can I ask you something about Joy?” She was Ms. Lopez’s daughter.

“Sure.”

“Would you ever lie to her about something big? Like if, let’s say, your mother stole money from you—”

“My mother? She’s deeply religious. She would never steal.”

“Let’s just say she did, and let’s say you were hurt by it and worried that she might be a bad influence on Joy. Would you lie to Joy and tell her that her grandmother was worse than she really was, just to discourage Joy from having anything to do with her?”

“Did you steal staples from the storeroom? I thought it was someone from the new janitorial service.”

I groaned. “No, I didn’t take any staples. Why would I need—” I shook my head in frustration. “It doesn’t have to be stealing. Maybe your mother’s got a violent temper—”

Ms. Lopez made a little anguished noise.

“I’m just trying to say, is there any reason you’d tell Joy a lie or an exaggeration about someone in your family because you thought it was the right thing for your daughter?”

Ms. Lopez stared down at me through narrowed eyes. “I would do anything to keep Joy safe and happy.”

“So the answer is yes?”

“Why don’t you ask your own mother the same question?” she said, pointing one perfect, glossy red nail in my direction as she strolled away from the register with a knowing glance.

Dammit.

What good would it do me to mend things with Dad anyway? Would it magically make me all better? And how did I expect to even try? Would I sneak around, meeting him and his little Suzi-Q for lunch on the weekends? Because no way in hell would Mom ever let me go see him with her blessing. And if she found out I’d been seeing him behind her back, it would wreck her.

It would tear my mom and me apart.

And Dad wasn’t worth that risk, because she was there and he wasn’t. She’d stayed and he hadn’t. And that was that.

A half hour before my double shift ended, I was counting my register till in the office when I got a text from Jack: Is Nurse Katherine working a night shift tomorrow?

I replied: Think so. Why?

He texted: My parents are leaving for Sacramento tomorrow afternoon and they won’t be back until noon the next day.

I reread the text several times. What was he saying? Was he … did he mean…? Maybe it was just an opportunity for us to spend time alone, nothing more. Did I want there to be something more? I would’ve answered, “God, yes,” to that question five minutes earlier, but now that he was putting it out there (was he?), my nerves twanged.

When I didn’t reply right away, he texted again: Do *you* work tomorrow?

Setting down a stack of twenties, I leaned over my till to squint at the schedule tacked to the bulletin board. I’d just worked a double for Mary, so she could damn well return the favor. I texted: I don’t now.

Jack’s reply came a couple of minutes later: I can pick you up any time after 4 p.m.

“I pointed the cameras up the street,” Jack said when he saw me eyeing the one over the Vincents’ side gate the following night. “Just don’t step past the edge of the fence and you’re golden.”

“You take sneaking to a whole new level.”

“If your father was king of the city, you would, too.”

Since I had to wait for Mom to leave for her graveyard shift before I could escape with Jack, it was right at 8:00 p.m. and still light outside. “Your neighbor’s watching us.”

Jack waved and mumbled “nosy bastard” under his breath. “Let’s go in through the front door so it doesn’t look like we’re doing anything wrong.”

“Are we?” I asked. Because it was all I could think about since he’d asked me over—doing wrong things with him. And when he sent me his standard good night text last night, I was doing more than thinking. I considered texting him back with an explicit description but lost my nerve. Now I sort of wish I had, because maybe I’d have a better idea of his intentions tonight. The ride over here gave me no clue; we just chatted about work (boring) and how Jillian was doing (pretty good) and why his parents were in Sacramento (a fund-raising dinner for education). We didn’t even kiss.

“Are we doing anything wrong?” he repeated thoughtfully. He was having trouble getting the key in the lock. He showed me his shaky hand and laughed at himself. “I guess that means a part of me must hope so. That milkmaid thing is sexy as hell, by the way.”

It was the most flattering of my braid repertoire. I kept the plaits loose and pulled out a few wisps to for a natural and romantic look. Knowing he liked them made heat flash through me. “I feel like there’s a good joke here about the farmer’s daughter, but I’m too anxious to think of one,” I admitted.

“Let’s just … uh, get inside before Mr. Martinez marshals the rest of the neighborhood watch.”

He finally got the front door open. I stepped inside and looked around while he locked up behind us. We stood on dark wood floors in a foyer. Buttery-gold walls were loaded with large paintings in gilded frames. A modern wooden staircase shot up through the floors, dominating the narrow space, and because it was open, I could peer through at the floors above and below. Beyond the staircase was a living room with a fireplace and a wall of windows that looked over the decks in the back. We were on the second story, and I spied the roof of Jack’s guesthouse bedroom at the far corner of the yard.