been dealing with some difficulties lately, and I needed to get away.”
“You lived with your parents while you were going to college?”
“No, they live with my younger brother in Baltimore. I lived on campus.”
“Columbia. Right.” Mom analyzes him skeptically. “New York City wasn’t far enough away from your family problems?”
“Mom!” I step between them. “I’m sorry, Ty.”
“It’s okay,” he insists, but his jaw clamps tight, drawing my attention to the scar just above it on his cheek.
Mom doesn’t apologize for her rudeness. Instead, she sends me a silencing look. “How long do you plan to stay in Silver Lake, Ty?”
“I’m not sure.” He glances at me, then back to her. “I can definitely stay another week or so.” With a short laugh, he adds. “I wouldn’t get far if I left now, anyway. I’m a little short on gas money.”
“I can’t pay much.” Mom quotes a ridiculously low amount.
Ty nods. “I’m fine with that.”
“Well, then . . .” She clears her throat. I suspect she was hoping he’d reject her offer. “I’ll be in touch,” Mom says. Leaning into the cane, she walks toward his car, a not-so-subtle hint that she’s ready for him to leave.
Ty and I follow, but I ignore her monotone chatter about Dad’s tools and kneepads and nails and her instructions that, if she hires him, she’ll expect Ty to clean up and put everything away in the storage shed when he finishes each day.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I risk a sideward glance at Ty and find him watching me, too. We both smile, but I look away first, self-conscious and giddy. I can’t recall ever being so aware of another human being in my life.
The three of us pause beside Ty’s beat-up old sports car, which is faded turquoise, with double white stripes down the center of the long, narrow hood. It sits so low to the ground that I don’t know how he gets around on our rocky dirt roads. It’s great, though. It’s just like him—cool, but not trying to be.
Mom tells Ty good-bye, then heads for the cabin as he backs out of the gravel drive. Reluctantly, I follow her, pausing when Ty calls, “Hey, Lily!” I look back to find the car stopped and Ty rolling his window down.
I shoot a glance at Mom, but she concentrates on climbing the steps to the porch. “Did you forget something?” I ask Ty.
“No, I wanted to ask about your dog. Cookie, right? I was hoping I’d see him.”
“He’s inside. He’s been so lazy since he came home from the clinic that he hasn’t been good for anything,” I say jokingly, not wanting to reveal just how worried I really am about Cookie.
“He’s better, though, right?” Ty’s grimace crinkles the space between his brows in the most appealing way.
I nod. “Yeah. He’s getting there,” I say, even though I’m not really sure.
“I’m glad.” A hint of a smile plays around Ty’s lips. He rests his elbow on the opening of the window and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Hey, I was thinking . . .” He clears his throat. “Even if your mom decides not to hire me, I hope you’ll still call when you’re ready to go for coffee.”
The fluttering wings in my chest take flight, lifting me off the ground. At least that’s how I feel—like I’m floating. “I will,” I blurt out, thinking he seems a little nervous. Which is completely surprising and really sweet.
One of Ty’s brows lifts as he tilts his head to the side. “Even if your mother doesn’t think it’s a good idea?”
“She won’t care,” I assure him, although I know that isn’t true.
“After that grilling she just gave me?” He laughs, and I immediately love the sound. It’s unrestrained and without an ounce of bitterness.
Wincing, I say, “Sorry about her interrogation.”
“I don’t blame her. I’m just some strange guy she doesn’t know from Ted Bundy; she’s smart to be careful.”
“Please tell me you aren’t that strange,” I say, teasing. Ty laughs again, and I add, “Mom’s just extra cautious lately. Because of what happened. Don’t take it personally. I’m sure she doesn’t think you’re a serial killer.”
His face is suddenly serious and filled with compassion. I look down at my boots, struck by emotion again. One thing I’ve learned about grief—it can catch you off guard and grab you by the throat. “I promise I’ll call you,” I say, to keep from crying.
“Good,” he says. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.