When We Collided(9)

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, cutting her off. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t mind being introduced to people’s skeletons firsthand, in person. I more than don’t mind it. I prefer to reach right into the closet and shake their bony hands and say hello for myself.”

Whitney laughs. “You’re a good girl, Viv.”

“Why, thank you.” I give a little curtsy. “Besides, it takes a lot to scare me off, especially when the boy is completely unaware how hot he is, which amplifies it, if you ask me. Like, the responsible-older-brother thing is pretty sexy. Don’t you think?”

Whitney laughs. “I’m twenty-six, Viv. I don’t evaluate the sexiness of sixteen-year-old guys.”

“Well, then, take my word for it.” I wink, laughing as I grab my purse from behind the register.

On my quick walk home, I’m sure of my choice to not know Jonah’s secrets. I’ve been through a lot in the past year, too, and I would never want someone handing out my personal information like it’s a flyer to a concert or a coupon for a new restaurant. Those are my truths to disclose in my own time, if I ever do at all.

None of that’s very fun to think about, though, so by the time I reach Los Flores Drive, I’ve switched to thinking about my paintbrush gliding across Jonah Daniels’s skin.

Richard’s house is a mod beach bungalow that is very middle-aged-single man, all sleekness and hard edges. There are industrial-looking lights suspended over the kitchen island, and the couch rests on spiky wooden legs. Basically, the house is very chic, but the furnishings are not cozy. It’s the newest-looking house I’ve seen in all of Verona Cove, which is a bummer, but house crashers can’t be choosers, I guess. I hung strands of lights on every wall in my room here, trying to cozy it up and make it look as close to a Yayoi Kusama exhibit as possible.

I do give the house points for the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. They’re not even windows, really—they’re walls made of glass. They meet in the right corner, which points directly to the ocean. It’s positively magnificent. When the sun sets in the evening, it sets across the entire living room.

Big curtains drop down with the push of a button, but my mom and I can’t bear to use them because it seems like such a waste. At night we gaze over the ocean, and we can’t believe the vastness or the blackness or how busy the waves are while the rest of the world sleeps. And oh Lord, the way the moon fills up the cosmos—there is divinity in this view, I’m telling you.

It makes me believe my mom when she says Richard may be a gajillionaire businessman, but he also has a very deep soul—like a tide pool with a drop-off you wouldn’t expect from such a serene surface.

Inside, my mom is sitting at her easel, which is set up in the living room corner. She’s the captain, steering at a glass bow that points seaward. She’s been working on this same painting since she first set eyes on this glorious view, and my instinct is that it is almost done.

The painting is an abstract, like tangled ribbons of color all over the canvas. Most of her pieces look, to the untrained eye, like a total mess. A joyful, colorful, total mess. It is not so hard to see how she made me, too.

She twists around, finally noticing me. “Hey, chickie.”

“Heya.”

“How was work?”

“Oh, delightful, really.”

When she stands up, she stretches her arms over her head. I’m sure she’s been in the same position for a while. She looks at me, then the look turns more intense, and she steps closer—close enough to rest her soft hand against my cheek. “Have you lost a little weight?”

I stiffen, pulling away from her touch. “No. I don’t know. No.”

“Are you sure?”

I sigh because I hate this for two reasons: One, I don’t want to go back to being a beanpole. Fuller hips look gorgeous on me, though I’m still hoping my chest fills out more. Two, I know what she is implying. “Well, Mom, it’s summer in California, so I’m probably sweating more or something.”

“Viv.” She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment, like a tiny prayer for strength. “Please don’t make me ask.”

“I won’t make you do anything.” I glower at her. “How about you just don’t ask?”

I hate to be reminded, and I hate that she still thinks about it. I don’t think about it—at least, barely, because I don’t see the point in reliving the bad parts of your life. Earlier this year, I got too low. And then too high. They put me on medicine that pulled me out of my rabbit hole, and one of the side effects was weight gain. That’s why my mom is being suspicious and suggestive and unfair.

I try to do this thing when I get upset, when I start to float upward in a rage: I push all my anger down my arms. And then I snap my fingers, with both hands, trying to crush those feelings. The sound, the feel of that snap. Sometimes it brings me back to earth.

My mom follows me as I go up to my room. I look over my shoulder, snapping my fingers once on each hand. Nope, still furious. “I’m almost seventeen. It’s very hurtful and insulting that you don’t trust me.”

We stop outside my door, and she looks sad—so sad, like she’s helpless to silence what she’s about to say. “Viv, tell me that you’re taking your pills. Just say it, and I’ll believe you.”