Begin Again(44)

I search his face cautiously, but Milo just seems like Milo—edges rough and eyes soft, no trace of the awkwardness I worried we might be putting off. I feel my shoulders loosen in relief as he lifts his hand and jingles car keys at me, his long fingers fanned out just above my head.

“Not for long,” he says.

Only then does a plan B occur to me. “Does Sean need help at Bagelopolis?” If I can get more work-study shifts in now, I won’t have to worry about them during finals. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Milo cuts me off with a sharp shake of his head. “It’s Skip Day. It’s illegal to work a shift.”

“Ha ha,” I deadpan. “But actually.”

“But actually, the store’s closed. Skip Day means everyone’s going to be getting hammered tonight, so Bagelopolis is changing its hours to capitalize on the drunk upperclassmen wandering the streets in need of cream cheese come nightfall.”

“White cheddar Cheez-Its,” I mutter under my breath, pointing myself toward my door. “Well, I’ll see you later, then.”

I’m expecting another quip about my ensemble, but instead Milo lets out a sigh, leaning against the wall. “You really want to knock off some of your hours today?”

I pause, turning back.

“I got some extra hours with one of the groundskeepers, is why I ask. And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind an extra hand.”

“Really?” I ask, way too quickly.

Milo pulls out his phone, leaning farther into the wall and making himself comfortable. “Can you be ready in five?”

I hold up a finger. “Give me six.”

Once I’m in my room I yank my wet hair into a quick braid, slap on some tinted moisturizer, then tug back on the outfit I’d met Valeria in—dark-wash jeans, a cozy red cowl-neck sweater, a pair of ankle boots that were clear Old Navy knockoffs of the ones Connor’s mom wore all last year. Even then I feel bare walking out in the middle of the day so much less polished than usual, but Milo doesn’t even bat an eye when he looks up from his phone.

“I only have one rule for this excursion,” he tells me. “You have to be nice to Stella.”

By “Stella,” Milo means a navy blue 2006 Jetta that has seen better days, likely several Flynn siblings ago. The bumper has several layers of crusted-over stickers like the car itself is having an existential crisis, with a Disney half-marathon-finisher sticker half ripped off next to some kind of faded Star Wars sticker half hidden under a sticker that appears to say MY LABRADOR IS DUMB, BUT CUTER THAN YOUR HONORS STUDENT. The interior is perfectly clean, but smells like coffee and old french fries. Still, there’s something about watching Milo seamlessly jam the keys in the ignition, check to make sure my seat belt is buckled, and back out of the lot behind the dorm that makes Stella feel like a getaway car.

On the ten-minute drive through the campus and arboretum we mostly talk about The Knights’ Watch—I am still patently refusing to take over the Friday show, Milo is still patently refusing to try tea as a coffee alternative, and by the time we get out of Stella we’re both laughing so hard at each other that I don’t even see the woman approaching until her very tall shadow is over me.

“Who might this giggly person be?”

I uncurl myself from the doubled-over laugh and stare up into celery-green eyes too distinctive to mistake. I straighten up immediately—the plaid-coat-wearing, curly-haired woman in front of me can only be Milo’s mother.

“Hi. I’m Andie,” I say, extending my hand out to her. “A pleasure to meet you.”

She takes my hand in both of hers, shaking it hard enough to rattle me. “Jamie.” She turns to Milo. “You said you brought reinforcements, but she’s dressed like a doll.”

I turn to Milo in mild panic, but he just shrugs at her. “She can still paint just fine, Mom.”

“Not in this cute sweater, she can’t,” she says, clucking at Milo. She hooks the crook of her arm in mine. “C’mere, I’ll get you something we can wreck. We’re painting the chicken coops today.”

I follow her. “Oh—I don’t want to inconvenience you, Mrs. Flynn—”

She snorts. “Jamie,” she corrects me. “With an ‘ie.’ How about you, doll?”

“Also an ‘ie,’” I tell her.

She pulls our elbows in close enough to knock our bodies together. “That’s what I was hoping.”

Jamie leads me into a redbrick house on the edge of the arboretum, one with bright blue shutters on the windows and a big yellow door and Christmas lights that still haven’t been taken down. In the front hall there’s a bench loaded with dozens of mismatched shoes and boots and sneakers and loafers and sandals, all splayed out like people are coming as often as they go. There’s this quick cinch of nostalgia in my chest for something I never had—the big family, the chaos of holidays, the perpetual undercurrent of noise—but before I can feel it too deeply, Jamie lets my arm go and says, “I know exactly what you need.”

I stand uncertainly in the hallway for all of thirty seconds before she comes back with a gray Henley and a pair of overalls, beaming as she plops them into my arms.

“Milo’s, from back when he was short as you,” she says, bopping me on the head. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Go change and we’ll get you a paint roller.”