dating his little girl. Period. If I keep them away from her? He’ll hook me up with the right law firm to push me on an early fast-track to law school. To meeting all the right people. Shit. Last week, he cc’d me on an email to Miguel Gutierrez. Said we should meet for coffee. Hooked me up, even though he was pissed about Grace’s accident. I don’t like the way he makes me feel about things. Like he can ruin my career before it ever starts. Like he has the power to take my dreams from me before I even really get a chance to pursue them. That’s messed up. But then he turns around and does me a favor. Says he knows I’ll take better care of Grace.”
I ball my hand into a fist and pound the bed of my truck a few times, until the side of my hands hurts. “It all sounds stupid when I tell you. Okay, I’ll say out loud. I’m a tool, man. Why’d it take me so long to see it? Sometimes, doors slam shut. For a good reason. It’s so obvious now. Her old man doesn’t want anybody dating her, period. And if I ever date her, he’ll have me blacklisted with every firm in town.”
I pound my truck one more time. “That’s it, dude. And you know what’s crazy? There’s a smart, beautiful girl at the office who actually seems into me. She asked me out. And there’s no off-limits signs messing with my dreams if I date her. Sometimes when one door gets slammed shut, another one opens. Brianna’s my open door.fy">pen’
twenty-three
Anxiety is the reaction to danger.
—Sigmund Freud
Ford squeezes my shoulder as he drops me off. “Come over to my place tonight and have dinner with my folks. Mom is making her famous chicken enchiladas. Deal?”
“Yum!” Ack—I frown. “I’ll have to ask permission.” Things at home are unpredictable again. I don’t know if it’s the cases my dad is working on, but blow-ups have been way more frequent in general and over the past week for sure. It makes me feel like I’m being sucked out in a riptide and I’ve forgotten how to paddle.
“Don’t you ever think your folks are kind of uptight? You’re always asking for permission. It’s summertime. It seems like their panties must be in a perpetual wad.”
I shrug. His hand hovers over the back of my jean shorts, ready to put my panties in a wad.
I shoot him a wicked grin. “Don’t even think about it. I’m going commando.”
His hand hovers there as his cheeks turn red. “Really?”
From the look on his face, I think he might have trouble concentrating on the way home. I give a little wave good-bye as he drives off.
Mom’s car is parked under the laurel. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. My odds of getting permission are decent as long as I make sure she realizes it’s a friends-only dinner.
I search the front of the house—no mom. I call her name throughout the hallway—no mom. I peek in the office—no mom. My heart beats a little faster. Beads of sweat trickle at my hairline. Last resort, I knock on my parents’ bedroom door—rap, rap, rap.
“Mom?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
I hear a rustling sound on the other side of the door. Jeez, could my heart pound any faster?
“Mom?”
The rustling sound moves closer to the door. I hear sniffling?
“Yes, Grace?”
Her voice sounds wobbly.
“Um, are you okay?” I tuck and untuck my hands in and out of my hoodie.
“I’m fine. What do you want?”
“Can I see you?” Tuck. Untuck. Tuck. Untuck.
“I’m bus">peace="Ay right now. Do you need something?” Sniffle.
“Can I eat dinner at Ford’s tonight?” I pull at the zipper.
“Yes, that’s fine. Be home by eleven at the latest. Leave your father a note telling him where you are and that I said it was okay.”
Deep breath. I shift back and forth like a waddling penguin. Tuck. Untuck. “Okay thanks. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“No. I’m fine. Go to Ford’s.”
Holy shit. Something big must be going down. I sure as hell don’t want to be here for the fireworks. “You sure you’re okay?”
More sniffling. “Yes, honey. See you later.”
I put my hand on the door and lean in. “Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetie.”
I speed down the hall, grab my backpack, and hurriedly scribble the note for my dad. I tape it to the refrigerator and rush toward my bike. This is one time when it’s probably good I don’t have a car—I’d be