“Because she’s canoodling your dad? I totally get that, but I swear you’ll love her. You just have to get to know her. She’s got these ideas on how to secure donations and raise money. She’s a mad scientist, you know? She knows how to push buttons and get folks to cough up cash. And her ideas . . .”
“I get it, Kay. She’s got ideas.”
“Yes! Ideas!”
8
Brielle
Jake’s sitting on the porch swing when I pull into the drive in Mom’s old bug. I slide Slugger into Park and climb out wondering how many more trips down Main she can handle. She’s a 1967 Volkswagon Beetle with a rusted rack on top. Dad’s done everything he can to keep in her shape, but she’s starting to sound a little tired. I pat her hood gently and make my way toward Jake.
His hair’s damp and he’s changed out of his work clothes. He looks relaxed, much more relaxed than the last time I saw him. The swing moves slowly as he thumbs through his old Bible. I love that thing. It’s old—really, really old. The paper has yellowed and the leather has cracked, but he continues to cram the margins with words I can’t decipher, his handwriting’s so bad.
We still haven’t talked about the thing with my dad—just cryptic text messages conveying our undying devotion in the face of adversity. I hate texting. It’s all so melodramatic in tone and underwhelming in content. Nothing like seeing him face-to-face.
“Hey,” Jake says, smiling at me, closing the Bible.
“Hey.” I drop my dance bag at the foot of the stairs and climb toward him. I’m still wearing my dance clothes, but Jake doesn’t seem at all offended by that. “Whatcha reading?”
“A story from the book of Acts. Philip and the Ethiopian. Have you read it?”
“Haven’t gotten there yet,” I say, climbing onto the swing.
“One of my favorites. Angel fingerprints all over it.”
“Do angels leave fingerprints?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“So you were being histrionic.”
“I don’t know what that means,” he says, smirking. “But I was being figurative.”
“Ah.”
“Speaking of histrionic,” I say. “I really am sorry about my dad.”
Jake kicks off the ground, swinging us back and forth. He takes my hand in his, running his index finger down each one of mine. I let him, relishing the butterflies dancing like idiots in my tummy. I wonder if we’ll have a porch swing one day. If we’ll do this every night till we’re a hundred.
“You heard me, right? I was apologizing for my dad.”
“I heard you,” he says, turning toward me. I love the darkness of his brows juxtaposed with the brightness of his eyes. A brilliant green iris with a tawny starburst exploding at the center. “And you don’t have to apologize for him. Look, Elle, I don’t have many good things about my dad to cling to. In fact, I don’t even know his last name. My real last name.”
I feel the shock on my face. “I never realized. I thought you took Shield to avoid questions.”
“It helped, but if I ever knew it, I forgot. It’s been a pain lately because I’ve been looking into possible connections between Marco and myself, but it’s near impossible without a last name.”
“I’m so sorry, Jake. That’s hard.”
“It’s fine, and I didn’t mean to change the subject. What I’m trying to say is that I envy what you and your dad have. You’re close, and that’s rare. I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want you to have to choose between us, between family and me.”
“You are family,” I say, wishing he’d relax again. Wishing he’d smile. “At least you will be soon enough.”
“Right,” he says, his eyes searching my face. “Soon enough.”
“Tell me you won’t worry about my dad, please.”
“Okay,” he says. “I won’t worry about your dad. Not tonight.”
“Good. Thank you.”
He stops the swing. “I, um, meant to tell you. Marco’s home . . . er, here.”
“Is that my surprise?” I ask. “I had no idea he was coming home today.”
“No, Marco’s not your surprise. I didn’t know either. He was crashed out on the couch when I got back from work today.”
“You really should lock your door.”
“If I had, Marco would have been sleeping on my doorstep.”
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“Ran into town to pick up a few things. Canaan’s making dinner, and I wanted to invite you.”