Be the Girl(65)

Mom’s eyes trail him. “He’s a nice boy.”

She’s in an awfully good mood. “How was your date?”

“Good.” She smiles secretively. “We’re going out again next week.”

“Wow. A second date.”

“I know. So … we’ll see.” Her lips press together. “I’ll put the peas in the freezer if you don’t need them? You should go and get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Yeah. A long day followed by an exciting night. I find my own lips pressing together, the feel of Emmett’s against them still alive.

“’Night.”

I’m curled under my blanket, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars, unable to sleep, when I pick up my phone and text Emmett.

Thanks. Tonight was fun.





That seems safe enough for any parental filter.

He answers not ten seconds later.

Tomorrow night will be even better. Good night.





I grin, my fingers itching to type out so many other things. You’re an incredible kisser. I’m head-over-heels crazy about you. I wish we could have stayed on your couch all night. Thoughts I wouldn’t have the nerve to send, even without my mother’s supervision.

But she can see these messages and, for the first time since we shut down my old social media accounts and disconnected my Calgary number—basically, since we deleted me from online existence—this bothers me.

I’m three thousand miles away from my old life. Things are good now.

I finally settle on a simple Good night.





18





The delicious scent of hot coffee and frying pancake batter meets me at the top of the stairs the next morning.

“I don’t need a new bed! Stop wasting your damn money!” Uncle Merv’s gruff voice booms, followed by Cassie’s burst of laughter.

Murphy stands at the kitchen’s threshold, brushing his wet nose against my fingers in greeting when I enter.

“Sleeping Beauty’s awake finally,” Uncle Merv grumbles, but then he follows it with a smile that lifts his loose jowls.

“Oh, hello, AJ.” Cassie grins at me as my mom sets a plate of pancakes in front of her, the bottle of maple syrup gripped in her hands.

“Hey, Cass.” I glance at the clock on the wall, though I know it’s only a few minutes past the time I last checked—9:42 a.m. “Mom, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I figured I’d let you sleep in. Cassie took Murphy out.” She pours pancake batter from the soup ladle onto the hot griddle. “How’s your knee today?”

I lift and bend it. “A bit sore but it’s okay. I should be good for regionals.” My speed and endurance is another story. But, if there’s anything I dwelled on last night besides thoughts of Emmett—of his smile, the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his body against mine—it was running in that race.

And beating the hell out of Holly’s time.

“Here. Why don’t you take this seat.” Uncle Merv slowly eases out of his chair, collecting his plate and mug. He hobbles toward the sink. “That was good, Debra. Thank you.”

“Just leave it there. I’ll load the dishwasher after,” Mom instructs. “I found that audiobook you wanted. The one about the Vietnam War? It’s all set up and ready for you on your tablet.” Another purchase my mother made that he insisted he didn’t need, along with the Bose headphones that he uses daily.

“Well … good.”

“What’s the Vietnam War?” Cassie asks, her eyes laser-focused on the steady stream of maple syrup she pour onto her pancakes.

“A big war in the 1960s.” He shuffles toward the living room.

“Did people die?”

“It was a war. Of course people died.”

“How many?”

“Lots.”

“Did you know any of them?”

“Nope.”

“Have you been in a war?”

“Nope. Murphy?” Merv snaps his fingers. The poor dog peers back and forth between him and Cassie, looking reluctant to leave when staying will guarantee him at least one pancake from the floor, the way Cassie eats.

“I used too much maple syrup,” Cassie announces, licking her finger and eying the pool of sticky liquid on her plate with delight.

Maybe it’s the sickly sweet smell of it that finally drives Murphy away, toward the beckoning of the other old man in the house.

My mother lifts the edge of one pancake, tipping her head to the side to check its readiness. “So, Aria, I made an appointment for manis and pedis for eleven—”

“Can I come, too?” Cassie blurts out.

“Uh …” My mom shrugs, exchanging glances with me, as if to ask, “Are you okay with that?”

I shrug, not sure how to answer. “Have you ever been, Cassie?”

Cassie’s head bobs vigorously.

“That means they’ll be touching your hands and feet,” my mom adds warily.

Cassie grins, holding up her hands to show off her chewed-up fingernails, the cuticles torn and red. “I won’t pick. I promise.”

“Well … if your mom says it’s okay, then we’d love to have you come along. Right, Aria?”