I shake out my hair, wet and smelling of yummy jasmine shampoo from my shower, as I walk across my lawn in the dimming light. I’ve left August alone for long enough to vent over what happened last night. It’s time to get back to work. And well, it’s time to tell him about Bentley before I lose my nerve. I’m still riding high on the feeling of Bentley’s arm wrapped around my stomach on the beach blanket, and I’m hoping that it’ll inspire bravery.
August’s window is open and I slide through. He’s hunched over his desk, buried in a pile of books, and when I say “Hey,” he says it back without pulling his face from his reading.
I stare at him for a moment, considering my approach. August reading books isn’t unusual, but August surrounded by so many books that he could build a fort? Definitely disagreeable. Part of me wonders if I should wait, but I’ll be running the risk of August finding out on his own, making the whole thing exponentially worse and convincing Bentley that I actually am embarrassed of him.
Eff it. “I like Bentley.”
For a second the room goes eerily still.
I fill the silence, figuring I should get in as much as possible before we start arguing. “I spent the day at the beach with him, and I know what you’re going to say, I know you think he’s a dumb jock and a player, but he’s really different from what you’d expect. He takes care of his siblings, and he’s thoughtful and emotional. Believe it or not, he can be mature. And all I ask is that you give him a chance. I know it’s complicated. I know you have your own reasons for disliking him—”
But I stop abruptly as he turns in his chair. The look on his face, a painful combination of hurt and frustration, makes me instantly regret not waiting until he was in a better mood.
“What do you mean, you like him?” he asks, and while his voice is controlled, his expression is hard to look at.
“I mean I’m interested in him,” I say, losing steam.
“From one day at the beach?”
I wince. “No. We’ve been texting. And I’ve hung out with him more than once. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it mattered.”
His eyebrows push together, but otherwise he doesn’t move. “If it didn’t matter, then why did you lie?”
“More like omit?” I don’t know why I say it other than his stillness is making me super nervous. “Fine. Shit. I lied. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to be mad at me.”
“So when I saw him in your house the other day?”
“We were hanging out.”
“And when you said you had to help him with his brother and sister?”
“Lie,” I say with my tail now firmly between my legs.
He leans back in his chair and once again the silence descends.
I clear my throat. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
But he doesn’t move. He’s like an intimidating statue of forlorn disapproval. “What do you want me to say?”
I lift my hands. “I don’t know. That you’re mad at me for lying or that you think Bentley sucks? Something. And then we can argue about it and get over it.”
“I’m mad at you for lying. Bentley sucks.”
I huff. “Good. Fine. Look, I know it’s utter crap that I lied to you. I should have trusted you. I should have told you that I was confused and—”
“Tiny,” he says, his tone biting.
I stop midsentence. “Yeah?”
“Go home.”
“Wait, what?” I stare at him in disbelief. “You’ve never kicked me out.”
“I don’t want to do this.”
Nonresolution is one of the worst things there is, and in this moment my brain has trouble accepting it. “Have an argument? Me either, but I do want to get to the other side of it. We have a case to fix and—”
“Seriously, I don’t want you here.”
Death blow. I actually press my hand to my heart. He’s been mad at me before. We’ve had lots of fights. But he’s never told me he didn’t want me around.
“You really don’t want me here?” I say, my voice small.
But he’s already turned back to his desk. He doesn’t look up from his book. “No.”
And so I reluctantly climb out his window and back down the ladder, my eyes watering and my heart heavy. I don’t even really understand what happened, how it all went so very wrong.