The Truth about Us (8 page)

“Me? I'm fine. And you're too cranky to keel over.” I grab a water spray bottle and mist him.

He wipes the water away and stares at me with a sour expression, but it quickly disappears into a grin. “Cheeky,” he says. “You're cheeky. My Rhea was cheeky too.” He pauses. “Your googly eyes have anything to do with Flynn?”

I don't answer him but instead overspray a nearby pot of flowers.

“Jess?”

Something in his voice makes me stop and look at him.

“Will you look after Rhea's azaleas? When I'm gone?” He coughs, and outside the greenhouse, a gust of wind rattles the cover.

I stop spraying. “You planning on going somewhere, Wilf?” I ask quietly. The cough concerns me.

“We're all going somewhere, Chickadee,” he says.

It's quiet between us, and I walk over to the plant he's pretending to inspect. “I will look after Rhea's azaleas,” I promise him.

He nods, and then his eyes twinkle as he looks at something behind me. “I see I'm not the only one with a crush on the new girl,” he says.

I turn to look. Flynn is back. He's standing right behind me.

“I, uh…” Flynn glances at Wilf and then back at me. “My mom decided to take Kyle to the park and doesn't need me. I'm not doing anything, so I thought I'd come back and see when you're done here, if you could…hang out?”

“Is that really the proper way to ask young ladies for dates these days?” Wilf grumbles.

I shoot him a look meant to silence him.

Flynn smiles though, and then he winks at me and bows at the waist. “Pardon me, madam. Would you care to join me at a waltz convention? Or shall I ask your father's permission first?” He uses a fake accent that is nothing like English.

I snort. Wilf rolls his eyes. “Very funny. That's not even close.”

“You have any suggestions?”

Wilf reaches into his pants pocket and takes out a money clip. He pulls off a twenty-dollar bill and walks forward to hand it to Flynn. But Flynn puts both hands up in the air and steps away from it.

“For God's sake, take the money and the girl for an ice cream,” Wilf says. “There's a parlor a couple of streets over. You can walk from here.”

“I'm not taking your money, Wilf,” Flynn says.

“It's not a crime, kid,” he says. “I couldn't afford to take my Rhea anywhere when I started courting her. You've been working your butt off in this place. Take the money and take the girl. You're doing me a favor. She's always in my hair.”

I giggle. They both look at me. “You said courting,” I point out. “You have to admit, that's kind of funny.”

“Go on,” Wilf says. “See what I mean? She's cheeky. You really are doing me a favor. I need some peace and quiet already.” He takes Flynn's hand and puts the money in it. “Ice cream,” he says. “Go.”

“So then you're paying him to get me out of your hair?” I ask Wilf.

He shrugs and turns his back on us. “Pretty much. Go on, you two. Git.”

I shake my head at Flynn but smile. “Thanks, Wilf. I like ice cream.”

“Everyone likes ice cream,” he mumbles.

“Thanks.” Flynn's cheeks are red, but he seems to know better than to try and give the money back. He holds out his hand. “After you.”

“Wow,” I say to Flynn when we're outside the greenhouse. “He just bribed you to make me go away.”

Flynn smiles. “You know he's half in love with you. How come all the guys I know are half in love with you?”

I laugh. “I'm the granddaughter Wilf never wanted.”

“What about my brother? Or Braxton.”

I giggle like a lunatic, enjoying the attention, and wish we could slip out the side exit instead of going back to the New Beginnings building. I haven't signed out from my shift though, and it's not worth a tongue-lashing from Stella. Besides that, I have to grab my purse.

I check out while Flynn waits and swing my purse over my shoulder as we walk out the front of the building.

“Hey, Jess,” a man calls. I glance over. It's John. He likes dessert, and I always make sure he gets the biggest slices.

“Hey, Chickadee,” another man calls. Ian. He likes to talk and can barely sit still long enough to eat a meal. He gives me a thumbs-up.

“The ice cream place is this way,” Flynn says. He's taller than me, and it makes me feel small and safe, walking beside him. We pass old brick buildings that look like offices.

“Wilf only pretends to be cranky,” I say. “Inside, he's a marshmallow.”

“I know. He's been at this place the whole time we've been coming,” Flynn says. “I like him a lot.”

We're both quiet. The shelter hangs between us.

“My granddad was like him,” Flynn says. “Cranky on the outside. But he was pretty awesome to me. So is Wilf.”

“You have any other grandparents?” I ask.

“No. My mom's parents were in China. I never met them. Only my dad's dad. He used to come and visit me. After my dad died. And then not so long after, he died too.” He shrugs. “What about you?”

“No. I never met them. My mom's parents died when she was young. I never heard great things about my dad's parents.”

I remember when I was younger and my dad called someone a racial slur. I got mad and he apologized, but later he sat me down and told me he was still fighting how he grew up, what his grandpa used to call people. Nasty stuff. It scared me that as much as he tried not to let it, some of the prejudices were passed down to him. I worried some slipped into me. Even now, some thoughts about people at the shelter slip inside my privileged head and shame me.

Flynn and I turn a corner, and the buildings get noticeably nicer. This part of town is trendier now with eclectic shops and restaurants. A lot of artists and creative people have moved into the area.

“How old were you?” I ask softly. “When your dad died?

“Five.”

“Sorry,” I say, but it sounds insignificant. There should be something better to say. “That's really sad. Do you remember him?”

“I have some good memories.” He holds up his wrist and the bracelet dangles from it. “I wear this to remember him.”

I look at it again. It's stainless steel. With the red medic alert symbol.

“He had diabetes. Went into shock. After he died, my mom was so sad. Lonely. He left her money, but my stepdad moved in fast.” He frowns.

I gnaw my bottom lip. “He was really bad?”

“He never beat me up or anything. But he was just a jerk. He didn't work and totally screwed my mom over. I feel bad for Kyle, cause he's his dad, and there's nothing he can do to change that.” He shrugs. “At least for me, he isn't blood. The best thing for all of us is to never hear from him again. I'm sure he's hooked up with someone new to sponge off of. I hope for Kyle's sake he stays away.”

“That's tough.”

“Yeah. But we'll be okay. You know? It might take a while, but my mom works hard.”

“I'm sorry,” I say again.

“Don't be. That's life. Does it bother you? That my family has no money?”

I frown and shake my head back and forth. “No.”

He watches me but says nothing, and then we reach a corner and he stops. He looks down the street. “Ice cream shop, this way.” He looks back at me and brushes his finger against my cheek. “Dirt,” he says. “From the greenhouse.”

He holds out his hand for me, and a shiver scurries down my back. “This okay?” he asks.

Um, yes
. I place my hand in his, and my whole body freaks out while I try to keep my face neutral.

“You really like it in there, hey?” He starts to walk again.

“Uh, where?” I ask. I have no idea what we're talking about anymore.

“The greenhouse.”

I nod. “Yeah, I do. I used to have a garden at home. With my mom.”

“Really? I used to work in the garden with my mom sometimes when I was a kid. I loved the worms and the slugs, but sometimes I liked flowers too. Not very manly, right?”

I'm not sure he isn't messing with me.

“Seriously?”

“Well, the flowers were mostly dandelions, but I was the master of blowing the fuzz off to spread their growth. Our neighbors probably hated me.” He pauses. “I used to pick dandelions and give them to my mom, and she'd put them in her hair. As if they were beautiful flowers from Hawaii or something.” He grins. “That asshole she married hated it and made me stop. Kyle never got to pick flowers.”

He drops my hand and darts off to a patch of green grass in front of a store and picks up a dandelion. Then he walks back and presents it to me.

I laugh but take it and tuck it behind my ear.

“You look nice with weeds behind your ears.” We tease each other until we reach the ice cream shop and walk inside.

There are rows of large white buckets with all kinds of ice cream on display, but I don't even have to look to make my decision. I have the same flavor every time.

“Mint chocolate chip,” I tell Flynn.

“Mmm.”

He picks strawberry. Not fancy. We smile at each other as he hands me my cone.

“You do know, if you agree to another date with me, I won't be able to give you things the guys from your neighborhood can,” he tells me in mock seriousness as he pays.

“You mean lies, attitude, and trash talk?”

He laughs. “I meant expensive dates in expensive cars.” He looks down at his feet and then up at me again, almost shy.

“I don't care about that stuff,” I tell him. At least not anymore. I like him. Not what he has.

“Yeah?” He bites off a chunk of ice cream from his cone, watching me. “You sure?”

We walk outside the ice cream store and sit on the brick window ledge. I lick at my ice cream, and the minty flavor dances on my taste buds. “I like talking to you. I've never been able to…talk to a guy like this. Like with you.”

He nods but he doesn't change his expression, just watches me thoughtfully while he devours his ice cream. “Me neither.”

“You're never been able to talk to a guy like this?” I joke.

He smiles. “You're sure you're not embarrassed to be seen with me? A guy from the shelter?” He says it lightly, but it's obvious he means it.

“Not even a little.”

He finishes off the last of his ice cream cone while I'm still licking mine fast to keep it from melting in the midday sun.

“I haven't been exactly perfect the last couple of years,” I tell him. “You might hear some stuff about me. I mean, if we go out again.” I duck my head.

“I don't listen to trash talk,” he says and laughs. “Besides, I make my own opinions about people. And I'd like to. Go out again.”

“Me too.” The rest of my ice cream could melt on my cheeks they're so warm.

He smiles down at the ground. “I don't have a squeaky clean past either, Jess. And you know lots of people look down their noses at me. At my family.”

“It doesn't matter,” I tell him. “My family has problems of their own.”

I frown though, thinking of Nance and her talk about summer flings. And the boys we're supposed to be dating next year.

No. It doesn't matter. Not if I don't let it.

Later than night I run into my dad in the hallway. He follows me to my bedroom and doesn't come in, but his head almost touches the top of the doorframe. “How are things?” he asks, his voice gruff. “You're doing okay working at the shelter?”

“Fine,” I tell him as I sit on my bed, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic in case he figures out something about Flynn. I used to believe he could read my thoughts. Of course, I grew up and learned he's human, just like everyone else.

“It's for your own good,” he says. He's not good at this. This kind of thing was always Mom's job.

I pick up a pillow and hug it close. “Yeah,” I say. I'm not going to make it any easier. Or admit that maybe he's right.

He waits for me to say more, but I've been able to match his silent treatment without cracking for a few years now.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Well, I'm traveling a lot this month, so, you know, make sure you keep an eye on your mom too.”

He walks away, and a flood of sadness brings unexpected tears to my eyes. The sadness curdles into anger though. It's just another dose of rejection, the way he always walks away from me. I blink, hating that I still hope for more.

I think about telling him about taking Mom for a walk. It would please him. It's news. But he doesn't turn around, so I let him go and don't say anything at all.

• • •

Flynn doesn't show up at New Beginnings the next day, and it makes me curse my dad again for cutting me off from the world by taking away my phone. There's no way to reach Flynn. No way to find out where he is. Talk to him.

Wilf isn't in either, and I miss him too. Thing only get worse when Sunny does her best to cloud my day, and then to top it off, when I ask Stella for help for the lunch service, she seems pissed with me, and I don't even know why. My chest is hollow as I serve my first tables lunch until I spot Martha. She stands and twirls around to show off a new overcoat. “I got it here,” she tells me. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” I tell her. “You look beautiful.”

She hides her toothless grin with her hand as she sits back down. “Did I ever tell you that you remind me of my daughter?” she asks, placing her napkin on her lap with shaky hands. I pat her arm.

“Thank you,” I say. “I'll get you your tea before you eat.”

I'm greeted by other regulars who seem happy to see me, and as I'm running to get salad and sandwiches to them, my heart slowly begins to fill up again. When I go to clock out, Stella is in her office on the phone. I overhear her telling someone she'll be staying late to help with the dinner service because a few volunteers can't show up.

“I'll help,” I say.

She looks up from her phone.

“I can stay,” I repeat.

Her expression changes. Her eyebrows go up.

I nod. “I have nothing going on.”

She sits up straighter, watching me. “Never mind, sweetie,” she says on the phone. “I'll be home after all.”

She hangs up and pauses, letting out a breath. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I appreciate it.” She watches me for a moment and then points at her phone. “You need to check in at home?”

“I'll call.”

After I leave a message, Stella stands. “Why don't you get something to eat and you can help out in the sorting area or in the greenhouse before the dinner service? It's going to be a faster pace. You're sure you're okay with it?”

I assure her I can handle it and go to the kitchen and, for the first time, grab a sandwich and soup and sit with a couple of volunteers at the staff table and eat. They're older women, but they welcome me and treat me like a cute grandchild. I even have a slice of day-old Black Forest cake with them. I'm not even surprised that it's delicious.

Later, after the dinner service, I'm exhausted but walk alone to the bus stop. I'm not afraid, even though it's much later than usual. The bus still drops me at the same spot, a block away from home. I walk along, not even noticing the familiar sights, thinking about Flynn and smiling to myself.

A car horn honks and startles me. My face burns bright when I spot the car.

“Hi, Jess,” Braxton calls.

I peer inside his car and try not to show my disappointment that Flynn isn't with him.

“Hey!” he says and pulls his crappy car up beside me. It's noisy and smells like exhaust. “We keep meeting this way.”

“Only once,” I say. “It's been a while.”

“I've wanted to text you. Or call, but I don't have your number,” he says.

“Yeah.” I shift from one foot to the other and glance around at my neighbor's houses. His car sticks out like a dead flower in a fresh rose bouquet. “My phone privileges are gone for the whole summer.”

He turns his car off and opens his door.

“Whoa. That sucks. What'd you do?”

“I, uh, you know, pissed off my dad.” Even I can hear the deflection. Not taking credit for my actions. My dad's voice is in my head again.

Braxton leans against his car, smiling at me. “That sucks. You grounded?”

“Not really. I mean. No.” Not after my shifts are over anyhow. He never told me not to go out. Not that I've had any invitations.

“Cool.”

I fake a smile and look around, ready to move along.

“So. There's a party not far from here. I don't want to seem like a stalker or anything, but I was about to pop by your house and see if you wanted to go. And here you are.”

“Here I am.”

He takes a breath. “I was kind of stressing about having to show up at your door, like a kid in first grade, you know, ding dong, can you come out and play?” He grins and babbles on, because apparently the boy has no filter.

“So the party,” he finally says after a few topic changes. He glances at his car. “Do you want to come?” He looks back at me. “It'll be fun. Sounds like you could use some fun.”

He reminds me of one of the boys from the Nickelodeon shows I used to watch with Penny. Wholesome and mischievous but trustworthy. I almost expect him to add an “aw-shucks.”

“It's a few blocks over. On Setter Street,” he tells me, nodding his head in the direction.

Our neighborhood. Actually the extremely executive end of the neighborhood. Brittney Mendes lives there. It has to be at her place. She's had a few wild parties this summer because her parents are out of town.

“I left a friend there,” Braxton says. “The place was already hopping.”

Flynn? Was he the friend? I stand straighter. I can't really imagine Flynn at a party at Brittney's, but I wouldn't put Braxton there either, and here he is.

I glance around, trying to play it cool, as if my stomach isn't doing a rain dance at the thought of seeing Flynn outside the shelter. “I should change,” I tell him.

“You look fine to me.” Braxton smiles. “Better than fine actually.” His enthusiasm reminds me of a wagging tail on a dog again and makes me a little uncomfortable, but I choose to ignore it.

“Okay,” I say and decide the chance of seeing Flynn is worth not putting on cooler clothes or touching up my long-gone makeup. Dad's out of town, but there's a chance Mom is up. She'll have gotten the message I was working an extra shift and won't be expecting me. If I go home, she might want me to stay in.

If Flynn happens to be at the party, well, he already knows what I look like. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who cares if a girl spends a ton of time getting ready. He's more of the jeans and tank top type. And I'm wearing my version of “dress up for work” clothes. Not jeans and a tank. Shoot.

A woman walking her little black dog steps around us so she can pass.

“I wonder if Nance is at the party,” I say out loud and walk to the passenger side of his car. Braxton hurries over to open the door, surprising me. “I'm not sure how I feel about seeing her since she's totally abandoned me,” I add under my breath. Braxton moves some fast food wrappers from the seat to the floor so I can sit.

“Nance?” Braxton asks, and then he goes to the driver side and climbs in.

“A friend,” I tell him. “Or she was. I haven't heard from her since my phone was taken away.” We talked once on my landline the day after the boob baring but not since.

Braxton's car smells like Christmas trees instead of hamburgers, and sure enough, there's a tree-shaped air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. Music blasts from his speakers when he starts the car, but he reaches for the volume and turns it down. He revs his engine. I tug on my seat belt as Braxton throws the car into drive and squeals off.

“Confession,” he blurts out with a guilty puppy-dog expression. “I saw the party posted on Twitter and drove to your hood, hoping to see you there. When you weren't, I left and headed over to see if you were at home.”

“Oh,” I manage and twirl my earring. I don't want to flirt with him, but I don't want to blurt out that we're only going to be friends right away. He might dump me on the street.

“These houses are fricking huge,” he says as we pass the homes of people I've known since elementary school and drive toward Brittney's.

“Size matters in this neighborhood,” I tell him.

He laughs out loud.

“Where do you live?” I turn to his profile.

He rolls up to a stop sign. “Clover Lawn,” he says and narrows his eyes.

I nod noncommittally as if I don't know it's the seediest part of town. It does have beautiful trees though. Big trees.

“My whole house is probably smaller than your bedroom.” He pulls out from the stop sign and takes the first right.

“Wasn't passing judgment,” I tell him.

“No?” He whistles again as we get closer to Brittney's house.

I shrug. “Do you think it matters?”

“Shit, yeah,” Braxton says as he pulls into the next street. “Whoa. It's gotten busier.” Cars are lined up and down both sides of the street. He pulls his car into an empty spot, in front of a driveway.

“You're blocking them in,” I can't help pointing out.

He laughs, so I shrug it off and climb out. Braxton's already on the street, jumping up and down, like a kid in a LEGO store. “This is going to rock,” he yells with his “golden retriever fetching a stick” enthusiasm.

“You don't have a lot of inhibitions, do you, Braxton?” I ask.

He grins widely. “Not really.”

“I only get remotely close to that when I drink,” I admit as we walk side by side on the sidewalk.

“Well, let's go get you a drink!” he says and whoops again.

“That's not always very pretty,” I say, trying to be honest and wondering if I'm giving him the wrong impression.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he says.

This can't be a good idea.