Feels Like Summertime(31)

Jake’s voice is soft when he pulls my arms down from on top of my head. “Katie,” he says, his voice no more than a whisper.

“What?” I say, my heart thundering in my chest.

“Did you think I was going to hit you?” His voice is still soft and even.

I avoid his gaze. “No.”

“Then why did you duck? Why did you cower?”

I swallow hard. “R-reflex?”

“You think I’d hurt you?” he asks. I finally get the courage to look at his face, and I see a world of pain there.

“No, Jake,” I protest. “I didn’t think you–”

But he’s already walking away. He’s walking toward the big house on the hill.

“Take the golf cart!” I yell to him.

But he doesn’t respond. And he doesn’t stop.

Adam and Dad walk onto the porch. “You should have told him already,” Dad says.

“I know,” I whisper.

“You could go tell him now,” Adam suggests.

I nod. “I could.” I can barely force the words past the frog in my throat.

Dad sighs. “You should probably go talk to him, Katie.”

I glare at both of them. “You guys could have given me some warning, you know. Instead of just showing up here.” I stomp up the steps.

“How?” Dad asks. “You didn’t bring your phone.”

I turn back and glare at them, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you sure no one followed you here?”

“We were very careful.” Dad and Adam both nod like two dashboard dogs.

“I hope you were.”

God, I hope they were careful, because if they weren’t careful enough and he finds me, he’ll kill me.





27





Katie





I drive Jake’s golf cart back to the big house on the hill and park it in the driveway. I hear heavy rock-and-roll music blaring from the garage and I look in through the open door. Jake’s legs are sticking out from under his dad’s car. Loud knocks and bangs come from under the car.

“Jake,” I call out.

His shoes wiggle but he doesn’t come out. I cross to the radio and turn it down a little. Jake’s shoes stop dancing. He rolls himself out from under the car, but he doesn’t sit up. “Why did you do that?” He glares at me.

I walk over to him. “We need to talk.”

“Great,” he mumbles as he rolls back under the car. “Now she wants to talk.” The banging resumes.

“Jake,” I say again.

He stops banging. “What?”

“Come out.”

The banging resumes. What the heck is he knocking on down there? I tap his knee.

“Jake!”

He starts to sing. Loudly. And poorly. I bite back a chuckle, because I doubt laughing at him would be a good idea right now.

I grab Jake’s ankles, lift them, and back up until he slides out from under the car. “That’s cheating,” he says. He wipes a hand across his forehead, smearing grease from one side to the other. He doesn’t sit up. He just lies there looking up at me.

I point to my forehead. “You got a little dirt right here.”

“You want to do that mom thing you do and lick your finger, then rub it off?”

Actually I did. “No,” I grouse, “of course not.”

“Are moms just born with an excess of spit?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Must be.”

“I’ve seen you do that with Alex and Trixie. And you tried it one night with Gabby but she sidestepped you.”

“She’s too old for me to clean her with spit.” Or so she says. I happen to disagree.

“My mom used to do that too.” He finally sits up, rolling until he can stand up.

That takes me aback a little. “You never talk about your mom.”

“She died when I was twelve.” He shrugs. “There isn’t much to talk about.”

“Cancer, right?”

He winces and nods. “Yep.”

“What was she like?”

He walks by me and puts his tools in the toolbox. “I have the memories of a twelve-year-old. They’re probably a little skewed.”

“What else do you remember?”

He smiles softly. “She always smelled like vanilla. Except for right after she’d sneak out onto the back porch to smoke a cigarette. Then she smelled like cookies and smoke. She tried to hide it from me and Pop, but I think he always knew, just like I did.”

“What kind of cancer did she have?”

Jakes eyes fall to my boobs. “Breast cancer.”

I cover my cleavage with my palm. “Are you seriously staring at my boobs while you talk about you mom’s cancer? Really?” A grin tugs at my lips.

He shrugs. “Those are some impressive boobs, Katie.”

Jake goes to the corner of the room, opens a cabinet, and takes out a few fishing poles. Then he gets a tackle box from the shelf.

“My mom was tough as nails. Kind of like you.” He looks directly into my eyes.

“I’m not feeling very tough lately, Jake.”

“She broke a ping pong paddle over my ass the time she caught me smoking with Fred out behind the storage shed.”