Mo groans. “But how are we going to gush about how cute Reed is if I’m not allowed to check out his shirtless so-plastered-over-the-weekend pics?”
“He’s not even cute. Forget this conversation ever happened. And log out of my Facebook now.”
“Fine. Whatever. Back to the Danube. Did you know it touches ten countries?
“Ten. Wow.” I brake for a red light ahead.
I’m not lying to Mo. Cute is the wrong word for Reed. Rugged. That’s a better one. Like that hint of gold stubble on his cheeks that makes me think of camping and autumn. And there’s a thickness to him. I’m pretty sure I could run into him and he wouldn’t budge, like he’s all muscle and bone and density. His hair hangs in his eyes and it’s that same buttery color as the caramel sauce: blond and brown and red all mixed together. If warm was a color, it would be that.
The heavy black-framed glasses—those aren’t rugged—but even the strangeness of that is intriguing. One mismatched piece of him. They make me wonder.
Not cute, though. Cute is boy-band shine and skinny jeans and varsity swim team with a gleaming smile and greedy hands. Chris Dorsey was cute.
Reed is either shy or he dislikes everyone. We’ve worked the same shift every day this week, and he has spent most of the time avoiding eye contact. During his break he sits in the back room and reads a cookbook (which seemed a little weird until I found out he’s in between years at culinary school) and drinks his complimentary iced tea, rather than smoking with Flora and the college girls.
I’ve sat out there with them once or twice just to be social, inhaling their secondhand tar fumes and listening to their charming sorority stories about getting wasted in their dorms and getting wasted at football games and getting wasted at every possible place between the two. But they aren’t my friends. They know who I am, whose sister I am.
People at art school will be different. More interesting. They have to be.
Mo is nattering about Budapest now (calling it Budapesht like he’s Polish or whatever), but I’m trying to remember the exact expression on Reed’s face when Soup asked him to give me the Twisty Tower tutorial. Annoyance? Not really. But he wasn’t jumping at it either. It was like he was being asked to babysit. The look lasted for only half a second but long enough to make me feel dumb.
But after, there was that feeling like he was looking at me. Just once, but when I looked up, he wasn’t.
“You have no idea what I just said,” Mo says.
“You were talking about the Danube.”
“Five minutes ago.”
“Sorry.”
“Apology not accepted. This guy’s melted your brain already. Where’s he from? I don’t know any Reeds.”
“Nashville, I think. He goes to culinary school there. His grandma lives next door to the Cleets—you know, on Newberry. He’s helping her out with some painting and stuff for the summer.”
“Wow, older. Way to go. More
I shudder. “Please stop trying to girl-talk before you sprain something. Just go back to rambling about European capitals.”
I don’t point out that at nineteen, Reed is only a year older than me. Sometimes Mo forgets about my lost year.
“Fine,” Mo says. “But if you aren’t going to tell me anything about him, why did you bring him up?”
“Temporary insanity. I’m better now.”
“Good. You want to come get me for a 7-Eleven run? I am in dire need of high-fructose corn syrup. The higher the better. I’m thinking Sour Patch Kids and cream soda.”
“I’m just pulling into my driveway,” I lie. “Mom is waiting for me to help her mulch stuff.” I’m still a good ten minutes from home, and my mom wants my gardening help even less than I want to give it. I’d screw something up.
“You’re lying.”
I sigh. He can always tell. He says it’s because I’m crappy at it, but I lie to other people just fine. “Okay fine. I’m ten minutes from home, and my mom won’t let me near her garden. I’m just dying to crack open these cans of paint and start on the coral.”
“Lame. Fine, work on your mural. I’ll go suck on a Froot Loop or something. Or maybe I’ll just eat straight sugar. Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“Good-bye, Mo.”
“A raisin. We probably have raisins. I’m sure nature’s candy will hit the spot.”
“Bye.”
I drive the rest of the way home listening-but-not-listening to the radio. Out my window, sunlight rolls over the bluegrass hills of horse farms. It’s distractingly pretty, with velvet green slopes and regal white fences. Before I’d started the mural, maybe I’d have pulled over and taken a few pictures to work from later.
But it’s different now. I’ve got winding ocean currents waiting at home and fresh paint begging to be used. I’ve never even dipped a toe in the real ocean, but I can almost sense waves pulsing when I stand in the center of my room.
That makes me sound crazy.
There’s no reason I shouldn’t want to tell Mo about Reed. Mo’s been my best friend before, during, and after both of my boyfriends (if we’re counting that three weeks of holding Jordan Mailer’s sweaty hand in ninth grade) and all the insignificant crushes in between. Sure, he mocks—he’s Mo—but I’ve never had a problem shrugging it off before. I shouldn’t be embarrassed just to admit that I think someone is interesting.
Interesting. Another good word for Reed.
He makes me want to know things. I want to know what his favorite song is, and if he’s ever been in a fight, and what kind of movies he likes, and why he isn’t friendly with the college girls at Mr. Twister. I want to know if he’s ever had his heart broken.
He has no idea that every time he walks by, my spine tingles and my stomach drops, or that I’m trying not to stare at his hands and wondering if his neck smells like what I’m imagining it might. Interesting is indefinable, but it’s what keeps me imagining what it would feel like if he touched my cheek. Or the insides of my arms, the ticklish side. Or my back.
I should stop myself. I have jingling bracelets that are supposed to remind me why. Maybe I’m ignoring them because I really could feel him looking at me, and it felt kind of sweet.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m certain. I’m never letting Mo at Reed. He’s a genius at finding faults, and if he rips Reed apart, that sweet feeling might turn sour. It didn’t matter so much with the other guys—I already knew they were all cocky idiots—but Reed just might be different.
I’m not going to feel guilty about it either. Just because Mo’s my best friend doesn’t mean he has to know all my secrets.
Chapter 4
Mo
Annie knows all my secrets. Every single one of them. I can’t trust Bryce with my locker combination, and whatever I tell Sarina in confidence has at least a 20 percent chance of being accidentally blabbed to Dad, but Annie’s different. Since the fifth grade I’ve been telling her things she could’ve easily fed to the bloodthirsty masses in a weak moment, but she’s never leaked. Not once. She’s tighter than a submarine.
I’d say the first secret was a mistake, but that’s too mild. It was a calamity, a natural disaster so horrific I’m still amazed it didn’t kill me.
We’d only just moved to the States, and I was certain life could not possibly suck more. Chemically speaking, if my life was a solvent, and misery the solute, saturation point had been reached. I missed Jordan so
