“They’re not. We’re doing inventory or something.” It’s scary how easy the answers come to me. I hike the tulle skirt up and start making my way back up the footpath. “Tell me if it looks like I’m dragging this through dirt.”
“And if it looks like the chicken you’re wearing has been electrocuted—should I tell you that?”
I snort appreciatively. “I know. I’m dying to ask Kristen what she was thinking.”
We make our way back up the footpath to where it connects with the paved running path and eventually up the lawn to Wisper Pines.
“Do you need your phone this afternoon?” I ask once we get to the apartment.
Mo puts the camera on the coffee table. “Maybe. Why?”
“If you don’t need it, I want to call home before I drop by for a couple of boxes. Just some shoes and stuff.”
“I thought your parents were on a cruise.”
I wander into my room, trying to reach the dress hook-and-eye, but it’s midback and I can’t quite get it. “They’re supposed to be,” I call. “But it’s been a few weeks, so . . . I don’t know. I assume they’re gone, but I want to call and make sure.” I don’t tell him I want to call Sam too. He’ll make a big deal about it—or he’ll worry, and he doesn’t need to worry. I just want to ask her some questions.
“But . . .” Mo pauses, the corners of his mouth turned down like they do when he’s thinking. “Just make sure you answer it if it rings. I’m expecting a call.”
I come back out of my room. “Okay. Can you unzip me?”
He sighs dramatically. “Bridezilla.”
“I’d like to see you try to get out of this on your own.”
“We should’ve arranged for a fake maid of honor too,” he says, fumbling with the closure at the top. “Who makes these things? This is insane.”
“So, who are you expecting a call from?”
I feel the zipper slide open and his fingers brush my spine.
“Mo?”
“What?”
“Who are you expecting a call from?”
“Oh. Bryce.”
“Don’t freak out. I’m not going to tell him anything.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried because up until a few days ago the left side of your face still looked like a banana peel.”
“He probably won’t even call me back. I’m just saying if he does, answer it. Or wait. Maybe you shouldn’t. Never mind. I don’t know.”
I don’t turn around or walk away. I stand open-backed and stare at my easel. It looks like a skeleton gripping my canvas. I wish I could say the right thing, but I know before it leaves my lips it won’t be. It never is. “I get that you want him to forgive you, but I don’t think he’s going to, because you can’t really apologize. Or not honestly.” I wait for an answer, but he says nothing. “Mo?”
“Sorry, I’m having a hard time focusing. I’m being blinded by the whitest back in Kentucky. Have you ever considered getting some sun? It’s supposed to help with this glow-in-the-dark disease you seem to be suffering from.”
“It’s called being fair, moron. And mocking my skin color isn’t going to make you feel any better about Bryce being mad at you.”
“Exactly. But apologizing to him will.”
“You can’t apologize without explaining. Not really. And explaining is too dangerous. You know that.”
He pauses, and I feel something. Not quite his breath, but his gaze? It tickles my neck right before I feel him step away from me.
I swallow hard. I’m such a hypocrite. If Mo knew what happened with Reed last night, he’d be furious, and if he knew that Reed had guessed the truth, he’d completely freak out. And after the freak-out, he’d go and tell Bryce everything. I wouldn’t even be able to blame him. Why shouldn’t he get to unbreak one of the hearts he smashed too?
“I just want to feel a little less guilty about . . . everything,” Mo says.
I clutch the dress before it slips off my shoulders. “I know.”
Mr. Twister is dead, even for a Sunday afternoon. I pull in, my hands suddenly shaking, and drive around the front parking lot twice before circling around to the back. Flora’s car is in its usual spot, a rusted sedan— Rachel’s, I think—on one side and Reed’s car on the other.
I pull into a spot facing the oaks trees so I can watch the door from the rearview mirror, but I don’t put it in park. I sit there with my foot on the brake, my way of reserving the right to peel out at any moment. I’ve got no ideas. I can’t just walk in the front door and order custard, but if I sit here and wait for long enough, he might come out. Or Flora might come out, and then I’d have to have a reason for sitting here staring at the back door like some crazy ex-employee.
It’s not smart, being here like this. But I am here.
On the seat beside me, Mo’s cell is begging to be used. I should call Reed to tell him I’m here, but I can’t. It’s not even that I’m afraid of getting caught, since I can think of a thousand reasonable explanations for a single call to Reed. I just don’t want to have to make them to Mo. The lies I’m already telling are heavy enough.
But I do need to talk to Sam, and that call will be easier to make up an excuse for. I find her number in Mo’s phone and dial, noticing first that Mo changed his background photo from that picture of Bryce giving him the finger to one of Sarina.
It rings once. “Hello?” Sam says, twangy country music playing in the background.
“Hi. This is Annie. Annie Bernier.”
“Of course. How are you?” The music is suddenly softer, still twangy.
“Fine thanks. I hope I’m not bugging you.”
“I gave you my cell number so you could bug me.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m just cleaning,” she says, and I picture her wearing one of the kerchiefs my mom sometimes ties her hair with for chores. “I don’t mind an interruption. So, what’s up?”
“Um. I wanted to ask you about the two years part.”
“The two years part. You mean between your interview and conditions being removed on Mo’s permanent residency?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like a learner’s permit.”
“Right, but what if something happens during that two years? Wait, do I have to start speaking hypothetically?”
“Please don’t. It hurt my head last time.”
“Okay. So, what if I want to go to art school in North Carolina, and Mo wants to go to Harvard next year?”
“Well, that would be why getting married in high school isn’t the best idea in the world.”
I pause, not sure what to say. Mo would thank her for the advice as sarcastically as possible, but Mo doesn’t care what Sam thinks of him. “You don’t know—”
“Sorry,” Sam interrupts before I can make some stupid excuse. “I shouldn’t have said that. A regular married couple could choose to live apart, but they don’t have to prove their marriage is legitimate. You guys do, so you two have to choose one place or the other.”
“One of us has to lose.”
“That’s pretty much what married people do—one person sacrifices for the other. Hopefully it isn’t the same person every time, though.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your dreams shouldn’t always be less important than his.”
