Rom-coms make everything better, I tell myself, feet up on the coffee table. But even drowning in ice cream and watching Bridesmaids isn’t erasing the edgy feeling. This is why conflict is the worst—it nags at you until you resolve it.
My phone buzzes on the couch next to me, and I dig it out from a pile of wrappers.
Mr. Becker
I sit up so fast that I have to grab the bowl of popcorn to keep it from dumping onto the floor. Crap. My instinct is to tell him that first of all he’s not paying us, not unless we succeed, so maybe he should just chill. But I know that’s my frustration talking.
Me
Plus, wasn’t he ever young? Although now that I consider it, maybe he’s always been cranky and middle aged. I tap my fingers as I wait for his reply. But three minutes pass in silence. And I have no idea if I’ve quelled his worry or if he’s still miffed.
The front door closes and my parents’ hushed voices fill the hall, only it’s not their usual chatter. They talk quickly and over each other, and their intense-sounding conversation stops abruptly when they enter the living room. I turn to look at them, trying to figure out if they’re fighting. Mom smiles, but Dad’s mouth is tight. First, they’re all over each other, and now this? Their weirdness adds to my unsettled feeling.
“Valentine,” Mom says, a little too chipper, confirming my fighting suspicion. “Where’s August?”
“Not here.” As my response leaves my mouth, I regret how testy it sounds.
Mom gives me an evaluating look. “You okay, love? Did you two have a fight?”
I shake my head.
“No, you’re not okay, or no, you didn’t have a fight?” she clarifies.
I stand, now agitated that my answer made no sense, but also not wanting to explain. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Valentine, stop snipping at your mother,” Dad says, his expression serious.
“I’m not,” I reply, which proves his snippy point. Ugh. Just stop talking, Valentine. I head for the back door. “I’m going to get some fresh air.”
I grab the handle and glance at my parents to see if they’re going to object. But they wear matching concerned expressions, which for some reason makes the whole thing worse. “What?” I say, physically incapable of shutting up. “You were fighting, too. You don’t see me looking at you like that.”
Mom frowns. “Maybe you should go get that air.” Her tone is controlled and extra mom-like. “It seems you’re intent on spreading your bad mood, and I, for one, am not taking the bait.”
Great. Just great. I pull the door open and step onto the porch barefoot. It snaps closed behind me, not quite a slam but not not a slam, either.
I let out an exasperated groan and shake my hands in the air. Why couldn’t I just say hi to them and keep shoving chocolate in my face like a normal person?
“You good?” a voice says, and I jump.
I scan the yard. And there, silhouetted against the lights from his house, is Bentley. But even in the dimness I can tell he’s freshly showered and dressed to go out.
I shrug, not remotely in the mood.
He grins. “I mean, I’m flattered that you stole my silent routine, but—”
“Don’t you ever get tired of the fake charm act?” I say, ready to torch everything. “’Cause for me, it’s getting really old.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. But instead of snapping back, he says, “Don’t worry. Whatever it is, it’ll pass. Always does.” Then he walks toward his driveway and gets in his old pickup truck.
I stare after him, feeling worse than I did a minute ago. Not only am I a walking tornado of grump, but Bentley Cavendish of all people was more mature than me. This blows.