My first day at Blue Belle High begins with me dressed in a cream leather pencil skirt, a sleeveless white silk blouse, and three-inch black stilettos, with my hair up. I’m going for the angelic look. Me. Nova Morgan back at BBHS. I push down my anxiety and smile at Sabine as I walk through the double doors. Adjusting the lanyard with my name on it, I head to the teachers’ lounge while Sabine leaves to find Lacey before class. In my leather satchel are the school-issued laptop and a bundle of materials Principal Lancaster gave me. I crammed this weekend. Me and Julius Caesar are now best pals.
I’m staring down at the floor when I bump into someone, a tall, thin, gaunt-faced boy with caramel-colored hair. He’s maybe fifteen or sixteen, and his pinched face gives me pause.
“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling. “Are you okay? I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
He reels back, grimacing. “Whatever. Be careful, will ya?” He turns around to stalk off.
“Hey!” I call. “What’s your name?”
He flips me off over his shoulder and keeps trucking.
I squint. Well. Good start.
I enter the staff lounge and introduce myself around. I say hi to Miss Burns, the current art teacher, someone I don’t know. She’s older, maybe sixty, and I wonder if she’ll retire soon. Please.
Melinda flits around the room, dressed in a killer blue pantsuit—how many does she have?—her diamond headband in her hair. She studiously ignores me.
I head to a coffee bar, get a large cup, and pour in a liberal amount of creamer.
Someone comes up next to me, and by smell alone, Ralph Lauren’s Polo, I know exactly who. My entire body prepares for war.
Fortifying myself, I plaster on a fake smile and turn.
“Nova, oh my God,” he says as he takes me in, his golden, warm eyes eating me up. “I tried to find you Friday but missed you in the hall. I can’t believe it’s you!” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I drove past your house this weekend, but you weren’t home.”
I flinch. “Why?”
Color rises on his cheekbones. “Oh, I had a congratulatory gift for you on getting the job. Nothing big. Honestly, I felt like I was in high school again, cruising past your house—only now I drive a Range Rover instead of a Corvette. Those were the days, right?”
I nod, my spoon furiously stirring my coffee. He’s tall, about six-one, his hair a blond color that complements his topaz eyes. Wearing gray dress slacks and a blue button-up shirt, he’s still a fastidious dresser. Annoyingly, he hasn’t gained weight. At least he has a few lines in the corners of his eyes.
“You look the same,” he says. “Still beautiful, Nova.”
Ah, but beauty was never enough, was it?
I reply back with the usual “Oh, you look great too” while my head tries to decipher how I feel about him. His smell makes me feel nostalgic, recalling us in his red Corvette, his arms around me, fingers playing with my hair. I remember how he’d moisten his lips with mango ChapStick before we kissed—
“I’m separated from Paisley,” he says quietly, dropping that bomb as easily as saying the sun is shining. A frown flits over his face as he takes in my expression. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you knew, but everyone else does . . .” He shifts around me, his arm brushing against mine as he picks out a mug and fills it with coffee. “It happened several months ago. It’d been rocky for a while.” He takes a long sip, holding my eyes over the rim. “I’m sorry about your mom. I sent flowers.”
I continue to stir my drink. I hadn’t known about him and Paisley. I never checked his socials or asked anyone. “Maybe it will work out.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes fate decides those things for you. What’s meant to be will always be, right?”
“Hmm.”
He eases closer, and I don’t move away, part of me transfixed by him, by the reality that Oh my God, we’re having a normal conversation.
His head dips, then rises up to capture my eyes. “It’s funny. I feel like I want to tell you everything that’s happened since you’ve been gone. I guess once you grow up with someone, once you share everything we did, it doesn’t matter how much time passes—you feel as if you’re still close . . . but then, I’m not sure if you feel the same.”
There’s a heavy silence.
He sighs, overlooking my silence. “Anyway, my daughter is eight now. Brandy. She’s in third grade and a damn good soccer player.” He chuckles, then sobers. “Paisley and I are splitting custody. It’s been hard, the sharing and going back and forth, but for the best.” He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes going to my left hand. “You never got married?”
“No.”
His gaze softens. “Is it nuts that I’m glad?”
Anger and hurt flare like a lit torch. How dare he? Does he expect me to be flattered? If he hadn’t cheated, then abandoned me in New York, I would have been married to him. My hands clench around my mug, and I open my mouth to lash out—
Thankfully, Skeeter marches in the lounge, whips his ball cap off, and wipes at his hair. “Lice alert on the baseball and volleyball teams! I knew we’d have an epidemic, and it’s happening!” He looks at Principal Lancaster. “We might need to shut school down for a day or so. Call it a snow day!”
“I’m sure it will pass,” the principal murmurs.
Skeeter ambles over to us, reaches for his mug, and then fills it, not quite meeting my eyes as he turns red. “Good to see you, Nova. Thanks again for, um, Friday. Sorry about, you know, before, um, well, when me and Lois . . .”
Don’t bring it up, Skeeter! You and Lois probably saw my boobs!
“Did you guys ever have lice?” he asks me and Andrew.
Forget lice.
Ronan walks in, filling up the room, towering over everyone, wearing black slacks and another crisp pale-blue button-up. His hair falls around his face, softening the scars that don’t need softening at all.
I tear my eyes off him and check my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. My makeup is superb—lots of heavy eyeliner, smoky eye shadow, thick lashes, red lipstick—and best of all, I have two little buns on the sides of my head. They’re less fluffy and sleeker than Leia’s but stylish. Sabine watched a YouTube video on how to make them and did them this morning. Mighty Morgan Girls for the win!
Ronan’s eyes roam over me, noticing the hair, then the snake cuff around my upper arm. His lips twitch.
That’s right. I look amazing. I stand a little taller, take a hasty sip, and burn my lips.
A broad smile crosses his face as he holds my gaze. “Hey, babe. I would have given you and Sabine a ride this morning. I must have missed your text.”
He doesn’t even have my phone number! Oh, he’s good at this . . .
He came by on Sunday morning, the Heisman wrapped in a blanket. He followed me inside and upstairs, where I set it on my dresser. There was a tense moment when our arms brushed, but we both ignored it. Sabine invited him to eat pancakes, and he surprisingly said yes. We made normal conversation about football, about his mom, about mine.
That afternoon, he showed up with Toby, Bruno, and Milo with Darth Vader. It took the three of them to carefully maneuver him into the house while Ronan gave directions. We moved the chair in front of the window and put him there so he could watch the neighborhood. Sabine placed a boa around his neck, and I waited for Ronan to flip out, but he only smiled.
The room goes quiet, eyes darting between us. Andrew lets out a surprised sound at Ronan’s babe while Principal Lancaster’s face glows at me approvingly. Melinda slaps down her mug on the table a few feet away.
Let the games begin . . .
I smile brightly. “Oh shoot. Sabine and I wanted to get here a little early, darling. Sorry. I meant to text you.”
“No problem.” He stalks toward me and kisses me on top of my head. “Excuse me, Andrew,” he says curtly. “I need coffee.”
Andrew moves, giving me a curious look as he takes my hand for a brief squeeze. Mine feel clammy; his are warm, the grasp achingly familiar.
“I’ll talk to you later, Nova. We have a lot of catching up to do. I want to hear all about New York.” He gives me a lopsided smile, the one that used to tug at my heart, then walks over to Skeeter and Sonia.
“I see you’ve reconnected with your past,” Ronan mutters, watching Andrew with a hard gaze. “You all right?”
Is it Andrew or Ronan or my new job that has my nerves in a twist? Likely answer is all three. “Yes.”
“Are you aware that you’re dressed similarly to Princess Leia?”
“Really? What a coincidence.”
His lips curl. “I don’t believe in coincidences. Regardless, you look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you dress for me, then?”
“Obviously. Tomorrow it’s Chewie. Then . . . um, what’s that guy’s name, the one who saves everyone?”
“Luke Skywalker?”
“No, the green one. I think he was a wise man?”
“Yoda.”
I snap my fingers. “That’s it! Hmm, wait. I could dress as one of those robot thingies, the gold one . . . what was he called?”
“C-3PO. God, you know nothing.”
I smile as I take a sip of coffee. I know some of their names, but it sure is fun messing with him. “I’m picturing a gold dress, lots of buttons.”
“He didn’t have buttons. He had wires in his midsection—dammit. You need to watch it. No one hangs with me and hasn’t ever seen Star Wars.”
“But I kind of like being one of the few people who haven’t. It’s the same with Titanic. Mama and Sabine watched it over and over, but I never could bring myself to see Leo drown. He’s too pretty. I mean, there was room on the boat!”
“You mean the door.”
“What?”
“Rose was saved on a door, not a boat.”
“See, I didn’t know that. I never saw it.”
“The Star Wars franchise is not Titanic. It’s about hope in the galaxy, with laser guns and starships. It’s the belief that one person can conquer an empire.”
“Wow.”
He rolls his eyes as I chuckle. See, we’ve got this. Just friends. Keeping it light.
The bell rings, signifying we have fifteen minutes before class starts.
I let out a gusty breath. “Here I go.”
Ronan gives my shoulder a squeeze for good luck, and since Melinda is still watching, he places his lips over mine in a gentle kiss. He smells like virile man, and his pale-blue eyes are warm (fake!) as he gazes down at me. “You can do anything you set your mind to, babe.”
I glance over as Melinda flounces out of the lounge.
“It’s working,” he whispers in my ear, his lips skimming my skin.
I push down the tingles as Sonia approaches.
We ran in different circles in high school, but she and I had a horrendous PE class together senior year. I remember her as a little awkward but feisty when the time called for it. With straight dark hair to her shoulders, big white glasses, and a pert nose, she’s pretty.
“I like your shirt,” I say. It’s white with a peace sign and says PEACE LOVE AND VEGGIES.
“Thanks. Want me to show you around?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m room 333.”
Telling Ronan goodbye, we exit the lounge and head down the left side of the hall in the opposite direction of where Ronan led me last week. She points out the cafeteria, the way to the gym, and other important landmarks. We work our way back, and I peek into different classrooms, wincing when I see that mine is directly across from Andrew’s.
She checks her phone. “Looks like we still have six minutes. Awesome! Follow me to the special place. You can’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Um, okay?”
Walking briskly, she rounds a corner, ducks down a dark hallway near the student restrooms, and then opens a door and ushers me inside.
I blink at the dim light. “Oh my God, how many storage closets are in this school?”
She waggles her brows. “Three. I know them all. The lounge is always crowded, and these are the best places for alone time. There’s a rumor that Melinda tried to corner Coach in one, like, she locked the door and wouldn’t let him leave, but I don’t know if that’s true. It might have been his office? It’s no secret she’s after him.”
“Tell me about it,” I grouse.
She reaches in the pocket of her black pants. “Here, take a toke on this. It’s my extra. Hope you like peppermint flavor. I might have a vanilla or strawberry. I have so many. I get them off the kids on the daily.” She holds out two e-cigarettes and a handful of pods.
My mouth opens. “You vape on school grounds?”
“Don’t be a snitch, Nova, but hell yeah. Everybody needs a break.”
I giggle. “I always thought you were a goody two-shoes except for those times we skipped PE.”
She sucks on an e-cigarette, the vapor billowing around the closet. She grins. “Are we gonna be friends?”
“Definitely.”
“I can tell you’re nervous about the deviants you’re about to face—”
“Deviants?”
She smirks. “I’m kidding. Trust me—I love these kids, and teaching science is amazing, but the English teachers will have given you the kids they don’t want. Mrs. Pettigrew is head of the department and a wanker. I have a thing for British words, by the way.”
“Bloody hell, all kids should be wanted,” I mutter.
She giggles and takes another toke. “I spent a summer abroad there, and it stuck with me. So yeah, here’s the skinny: there’s good and bad teachers just like in any profession. All I’m saying is, Petty Pettigrew cherry-picked who got your class, and guess who her bestie is?”
“Melinda?”
“Yep, and Melinda also teaches junior English. But don’t worry about your first rodeo into the life of horny teens. I’m going to help you.” She flashes a smile. “Also, Principal Lancaster asked me to be your mentor.”
“And my mentor smokes.” I grin as I take the e-cigarette and take a toke, then choke on the flavor. I hand it back. “I’ll pass on this, but thank you, and yes, I’m nervous. Any tips?”
“My advice is to walk in there like a badass. Pretend they’re prisoners, even though they aren’t, of course. Come out of the gate tough. Slam your fist on the desk, march around like a sergeant, rant and rave about how mean you are, and don’t let them give you any lip. If you start out soft, they’ll eat you alive. You can always be nicer, but they won’t buy it if you suddenly become hard. You’ve already lost them.”
My eyes widen. “Got it. Be tough.”
“Now, let’s get to the good stuff. Spill the tea—you and Megacoach a thing?”
I pause, then nod and smile. “Oh yeah. He is . . .” Off limits. “Amazing!”
She narrows her eyes. “That sounded fake. You put your accent in. What’s going on?”
Another bell chimes.
“Bullocks. No time.” She stands up and waves at the air frantically. “I’ll see you at lunch. Good luck, and let me know if I need to beat anyone up. Cheers!”
We slip out of the door and into a crush of students rushing to their lockers. I tell her bye, then walk toward my classroom.
I pause as my eyes catch Andrew as he stands at his podium. A few students are around him, and he’s smiling, his stance easy and confident, and it hits me that he loved US History in school. I wonder if he’s a good teacher, not one of those boring ones like Sabine talks about. He glances over at the door, sees me, and smiles tentatively.
My chest does a weird tightening thing.
After he left New York, I forced myself to become stronger, to wear armor around men, to never get too close. I packed him away in the dark closet of my mind like a forgotten sweater. I told myself I moved on.
Have I?
He comes to the door. “You okay? I can go in and introduce you?”
A memory hits me, one of him giving me a promise ring on our graduation day in front of the entire class. Dammit. Why am I remembering the good things about him? He hurt me. Horribly.
“I’m good. Thanks.” I’m about to turn when he says my name. “Yes?”
He sticks his hands in his slacks. “Does it feel weird to be back here, you know, where we . . . dated?”
I stiffen. “We’re different people now. It doesn’t feel the same.”
“You and Ronan, huh? That was fast.”
“We met in New York years ago.”
“Ah. I’ll be honest. I’m disappointed . . .” He stalls and looks away from me, then rubs his neck. “Sorry. That’s not really appropriate since . . .”
“No, it isn’t,” I snap.
He winces. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
And I’ll have Ronan as my buffer.
I turn to go in my classroom.
Bruno leans his elbows on his book. “Ms. Morgan, this crap is boring.”
I zero in on him. A dark-haired boy with a big smile, he’s part of my third period.
I cross my arms and blow at the hair that’s falling around my face. Also, my lipstick is gone, I stapled my finger, and I got a paper cut.
I’m worn down to a frazzle.
When I walked in my first period, everyone was talking, two girls were out of their seats arguing over a boy, and the boy was in the middle egging it on. One girl was at my desk going through the teacher’s textbook, and another was trying to be her lookout. Someone had written Suck My Cock on the whiteboard, and my chair was turned upside down.
I raised my voice and pretended like they were the worst toddlers I’d ever encountered. I crossed my arms and glared as I announced my one and only preschool rule: Sit down and listen with eager ears!
By the time everything was put back together and I called roll, I realized they hadn’t read their homework from their previous teachers, so we read Shakespeare aloud. Some of the students grumbled, one called me the b-word under his breath, and one student—a guy named Caleb Carson, the one who’d bumped into me when I’d walked in this morning—abruptly stood and left my class when I called on him. Something about his hunched shoulders pricked at me, but I couldn’t leave my class. I wasn’t taking my eyes off this bunch.
Second period was minimally better, and now I’m on my last class.
Bruno flashes me a charming smile, but I don’t trust him an inch. “You agree it’s boring,” he announces.
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head, my face in what I hope is a “This literature is fabulous” look, then sweep my gaze over the class, mostly football players, with a few girls. Most of this period read the assignment, and we had a decent discussion earlier.
“Do we have to answer the questions at the end of the scene? We have a game Friday, and I need to focus.” Bruno again.
I pinch my nose. “Friday is four days away.”
Milo, who’s sitting across from him, gives him a fist bump. “Ms. Tyler let us talk and hang out in class. And she was going to let us watch the movie instead of reading the play. She was cool.”
“I’m not cool,” I reply.
Bruno lets out a jaw-splitting yawn and stands up. “I need to hit the restroom. Where’s the hall pass?”
I ease up from my desk. “Sit down, Bruno. You’re a big boy. Running back, right? You can hold it for five minutes, then hit the bathroom between classes.”
He lingers near the door, debating, and I narrow my eyes at him.
“Don’t test me. I will give you a time-out.” I have no idea what a time-out means for a teenager, but I can come up with something on the fly . . . “You can stand in the corner for the rest of the period. Your choice. Your consequences.”
He heaves out an egregious exhale and plops down at his desk.
I walk to the front of my desk and lean against it. “You’re more than just football players; you’re smart young men who need this class. You need to pass to play football.”
Bruno rolls his eyes. “Just give us an easy A. Or a B. We won’t tell.”
I resist the urge to tap him on the nose like Sparky.
Toby shifts at his desk. “We can do the questions at the end, Ms. Morgan.”
Bruno guffaws. “You’re just being nice because you like Sabiiiiine.”
I take a step to Bruno’s desk, my voice sharp. “No talking about my sister.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, eyes widening. “She’s a nice girl. Real cool for a freshman. Like super awesome.”
I open his book, flip the pages, and point. “Read this aloud. Act one, scene two, here.”
Looking annoyed, he leans down. “‘But, for mine own part, it was Greek to me.’”
“Good,” I say. “It’s a common saying we use every day, although most people get the actual quote wrong. Instead, we say, ‘It’s all Greek to me.’ Do you know what it means?”
“That the speaker didn’t understand what was said.” He smirks. “A lot like this play. I keep reading it, and nothing makes sense.”
Everyone laughs.
I nod. “Maybe reading it is like slogging through mud . . . or tackling a big defensive player. Do you let those players beat you?”
“No,” he mutters.
“Right. So let’s pretend Julius Caesar is an opponent, one you must beat to get to state. One step at a time.”
He sighs and opens his notebook. “All right. You did save us from the goat thing. I’ll cut you some slack and get to work.”
One of the girls raises her hand.
“Yes?”
“Is it true you’re dating Coach? Is that who left you the rose on your desk?”
I glance over at the long-stemmed yellow rose that was here when I came in. Andrew. He said he had a gift for me this weekend—
“Granny told me you were dating Coach,” Milo says.
“Milo told me,” Toby says.
“My hot cheerleader girlfriend told me,” Bruno adds.
“Does everyone know?” I ask as I raise my arms.
They all nod.
“He’s pretty hot,” a girl murmurs under her breath.
“Don’t tell him,” I mutter, and then I’m saved from further comments when the bell rings and they grab their books and laptops.
Bruno stands and walks to the door, grinning back at me. “You sure we have to do the questions?”
“Yes!” I call out. “Ask me again, and I’ll double it.”
He scoots out of the room, and I wilt and lean over the desk with my head in my hands. God help me. I need a drink. Maybe a toke of that e-cigarette.
“Ms. Morgan?”
Shit, I thought they were gone. I rise up from my desk. A long sigh comes from my chest. “Toby, what do you need?”
He shuffles his feet. “Uh, I wanted to, you know, talk to you about Sabine. I—I really like her.”
Yeah, buddy. I’ve noticed, and Sabine and I have discussed her going out with you, but . . .
“She’s a freshman, and you’re a junior. In the grand scheme of things, that may not seem like much of an age difference, but for her . . .” I squint. I really don’t know what kind of young man he is, but I’m protective of my sister. And the truth is I’m winging this.
He nods, his throat bobbing. “The first day I saw her, I—I thought she was the prettiest girl in the whole school.”
“But do you know her, Toby? Her personality? How she’s different, and when I say different, I mean that in a brilliant way.”
He straightens his shoulders. “She has autism. I got some books about it from Dog’s.”
“Okay.”
“I want to, like, ask her out, officially, on a date. Maybe to the movies. Actually, I’ve already asked her, and she said I had to ask you, so . . .” He shrugs.
Movies? In a dark auditorium? Hell to the no.
But at least she told him to ask me . . .
“She isn’t allowed to date yet, Toby,” I say gently.
He looks at the ground, then back up at me. “I know you don’t know me, but I think she’s incredible. Smart. She helps me with my history. I know she doesn’t like to touch her eraser and that the fire alarm makes her jittery. She rubs her ring when she gets anxious. She doesn’t always get what people say, and I like that about her. She’s not like other girls. She says what she thinks, too, and there’s no pretending.”
“How many girls have you dated, Toby?”
“A few. I had a girlfriend last year.”
“How long did you date her?”
“Six months.” He gives me a wary glance.
“And you kissed her and . . .” More . . .
He reddens. “I know she’s never had a boyfriend. I’d treat her with respect. I haven’t even kissed her.”
That’s good to know. There’s a silence as I study him. The earnest face. The boy-next-door looks.
Sabine dashes in my door, sees Toby, stops for a moment, and then rushes forward. “You’re dating Coach?” she calls. “I thought you told me everything I needed to know, and everyone knows but me!”
I close my eyes. She didn’t hear me tell Jimmy during the goat incident. “Yes. I’m sorry. It happened fast. Is everything okay?” I’ve been putting off telling her because I can’t tell her it’s pretend. I’m not sure she wouldn’t tell someone—not with the intent to make trouble but because she doesn’t always understand the necessity for a white lie. If I asked her if my butt looked big in this skirt, she’d tell me the truth.
“If you’re dating Coach, then I want to go out with Toby,” she says.
“Sabine, it doesn’t work that way. You can’t use this as leverage—”
“We can double-date,” she says. “You and Coach can be there. Everyone does that. Even Lacey’s mom lets her boyfriend come over while she’s home.”
I pick up my satchel and stuff my materials in. “We’ll talk later.”
“When is later?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I need to know when later is. Tell me!”
What would Mama say? She’d stay calm. She wouldn’t yell back at her. I inhale a deep breath. “Watch your tone, Sabine. This isn’t the place. It’s where I work and where you take classes.”
“But . . . when?”
“Later is when we’re at home. Get to where you need to be.”
She exhales, and Toby murmurs to her gently, takes her hand, and laces it with his.
I watch them go, my head tumbling. What to do, what to do . . .
Eating my peanut-butter-and-strawberry-jelly (Mama’s jelly) sandwich on the run, I head to the administrative offices to check in with the guidance counselor about my student who walked out. We chat for fifteen minutes as I cram food in, and she explains his situation.
When the bell chimes, I realize I’ve missed seeing everyone in the staff lounge. I fast walk to the field house, my makeup melting in the warm October air.
I reach the offices and read the names on the doors to find Ronan’s. His is last, the biggest one next to the locker room. It’s big, about fourteen by fourteen. Two TVs on the wall, several chairs, a table with folders on it, and a big desk against the wall. Two phones are ringing. His cell is on the desk next to them, vibrating with text messages.
I plop my satchel on a chair and answer one of the landlines. “Coach’s office.”
There’s a short pause. “Who’s this?” a woman’s voice says.
“Nova Morgan, his PA.” I roll my eyes in case this is one of his admirers. “And his girlfriend. Can I help you?”
“His girlfriend?” the woman asks. “Really? Oh, um . . . hi. I’m his mom, Bernice. I’ve been trying to reach his cell, but he must be on the field.”
I flounder. “Hi! Great to meet you on the phone. I’m not sure where he is, but I can take a message.”
“I didn’t realize Ronan was seeing someone—well, there was Jenny, but we never met her.” She pauses. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
She lets out a hum of satisfaction. “And you work together?”
“It’s actually my first day.”
“That’s wonderful! He needs someone, and if you work together, well, that’s progress. I mean, you’re going to be spending lots of time together. How serious is your relationship?”
Holy shit. She’s one of those moms . . .
“Um . . .” I stop when I see the closet door to the right is open and Ronan is unbuttoning his dress shirt. His head is bent, his finger working down his shirt, one slow button at a time. He tosses it on a small table in the closet. Pulling by the neck, he tugs off the white T-shirt underneath. His broad shoulders flex, his six-pack rippling, the V of his hips clear from his low-slung slacks. He reaches up to a rack and pulls down a polo, then eases his muscled arms inside. His pants are next. I swallow as he unzips them and bends over and pushes them off. His legs are massive, toned, and hard. He slips on a pair of blue shorts, then sticks his feet in sneakers. He slides his fingers through his messy-pretty hair—oh, wow—then settles a cap on.
He turns his head and sees me.
I start, then send up a wave and point to the phone and mouth, It’s your mother.
He stalks out and takes the phone from me, our bodies close. He smells divine, and I don’t move away. Plus, the electricity is addictive.
He looks up at the ceiling. “Mom . . . stop . . . no, it’s not serious . . . no, she’s a girl I met here in town . . .”
He keeps chatting as I move away to one of the chairs.
Not serious. A girl I met in town.
We’re playing pretend. Just pretend.
