One of Us Is Next(31)

Mr. Santos leans on the counter, arms folded. “I can help you with whatever you need, son,” he says. No mijo for this kid.

“I’m looking for Phoebe. She works here, right?” Mr. Santos doesn’t answer right away, and the guy’s jaw gets tense. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his green hunting jacket. “You understand English or what, se?or?” he asks in a mocking Spanish accent.

Maeve sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth, but Mr. Santos’s pleasant expression doesn’t change. “I understand you perfectly.”

“Then answer my question,” the kid says.

“If you have a food order, I am happy to take it,” Mr. Santos says in the same even tone.

“Look, old man—” The kid strides forward, then stops short when Luis and Manny emerge from the kitchen one after the other. Luis pulls a towel from his shoulder and snaps it hard between his hands, making every muscle in his arms stand out. It’s probably the wrong time to wish I had another guy’s moves, but damn, Luis is smooth. Somehow, he manages to come across like Captain America while wearing a grease-spattered T-shirt and a bandana.

Maeve notices, too. She’s practically fanning herself across the table.

Manny’s not as athletic as his brother, but he’s big and burly and plenty intimidating when he crosses his arms and scowls. Like he’s doing now. “They need you in the kitchen, Pa,” he says, his eyes locked on Intense Guy. “We’ll take over out here for a while.”

Intense Guy might be an ass, but he’s not stupid. He turns right around and leaves.

Maeve’s eyes linger on the counter until Luis goes back into the kitchen, and then she turns toward me. “What the hell was that about?” she says. Her phone vibrates again, and she makes a frustrated sound in her throat. “God, Bronwyn, give it a rest. I don’t care about set design nearly as much as you think I do.” She picks up her phone and angles it so she can see the screen clearly, then pales. “Oh no.”

“What?” I ask.

She holds her phone toward me, amber eyes wide. Maeve Rojas, you’re up next! Text back your choice: Should I reveal a Truth, or will you take a Dare?





CHAPTER TEN




Maeve

Tuesday, March 3

If I text you a Truth or Dare prompt, you have 24 hours to make a choice.

I’m at Café Contigo with a full cup of coffee that’s gone ice cold because I keep rereading the About That post with the Truth or Dare rules. It’s three fifteen on Tuesday, which means I have a little less than three hours before the “deadline.” Not that I care. I’m not doing it, obviously. I was in the middle of the whole Simon mess, and I refuse to take part in anything that makes light of what happened. It was a tragedy, not a joke, and it’s sick that someone is trying to spin it into a fun game. I won’t be Unknown’s pawn, and they can do whatever they want in return because I don’t have anything to hide.

Plus, in the grand scheme of things: who cares about Unknown.

I toggle away from About That to Key Contacts in my list of phone numbers. There are five: my parents, Bronwyn, Knox, and my oncologist. I press my fingertips against the large purple bruise on my forearm and can almost hear Dr. Gutierrez’s voice: Early treatment is absolutely critical. It’s why you’re still here.

I dial his number before I can think too much about it. A woman picks up almost instantly. “Ramon Gutierrez’s office.”

“Hi. I have a question about, um, diagnostics.”

“Are you a patient of Dr. Gutierrez?”

“Yes. I was wondering if…” I scrunch down in my seat and lower my voice. “Theoretically, if I wanted to get some tests run to…sort of check my remission status, is that the kind of thing that I could do without my parents being involved? If I’m not eighteen.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. “Could you tell me your name and your date of birth, please?”

I grip the phone more tightly in my suddenly sweaty palm. “Can you answer my question first?”

“Parental consent is required for treatment of minors, but if you could—”

I hang up. That’s what I figured. I turn my arm so I can’t see the bruise anymore. Last night I found one on my upper thigh, too. Just looking at them fills me with dread.

A shadow falls across my table, and I look up to see Luis standing there. “I’m staging an intervention,” he says.

I blink, confused. Luis is entirely out of context in my mental space right now, and I have to forcibly shove away thoughts of cancer wards and anonymous texting before I can focus on him. Even then, I’m not sure I heard right. “What?”

“Remember that outdoors you don’t believe in? I’m going to prove you wrong. Let’s go.” He gestures toward the door, then folds his arms. After the scene with Mr. Santos and the rude kid yesterday, I kind of can’t stop looking at them. Maybe Luis could do that towel snap another two or three or twenty times.

He waits for a response, then sighs. “Conversations usually involve more than one person, Maeve.”

I manage to unfreeze my tongue. “Go where?”

“Outside,” Luis says patiently. As though he’s speaking to a small and not particularly smart child.