cool.”
“What kind of farm is it?” he asks.
“It was a dairy farm, but my grandpa retired a few years back, and he sold the business and all the livestock and equipment. He kept the land.”
Leo seems to contemplate this for a moment before lowering his fork and swallowing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and asks, his tone flat, “Is your dad dead?”
“No,” I say quietly, my gaze dropping to my hands. It’s a touchy subject, one I try hard not to think about, let alone talk about. And the casual way in which he asked makes my chest ache. Not for me, but for him. I know about his mom, and so maybe—in his eyes—only something as final as death could be the reason why parents split.
“So, where is he?” Leo asks.
“He lives in New York.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes seem to be everywhere, all at once, until they finally settle on the garage apartment. I watch so many different reactions fleet across his features before he finally settles on one. Mouth pulled down at the corners, his gaze trails from the apartment to me, right into my eyes. And I see it then, for the first time ever; a definitive emotion from Leo Preston: pity.
I hate it.
My fork lands on the table with a loud clang, breaking through the silence building between us. “My grandpa loves me,” I choke out. I regret it the moment the words are out of my mouth. It’s so pathetic and childish and vulnerable.
He starts to speak, but my mother’s voice cuts in. “Mia, come here! Stop bothering that boy!”
Leo gets to his feet, his jaw tense. “She’s not bothering me!” he sneers, and my breath catches.
I get up, shouldering past Leo as he stands firm on the porch steps. “I should go,” I murmur, then call out to my mother, “I’m coming!”
I’m power-walking toward the apartment when I hear footsteps behind me, and then Leo’s voice. “Wait!” He tugs on my elbow, forcing me to face him. I turn quickly, my nose level with his chest. His heavy breath hits the top of my head. “Sometimes, you wake up early and leave the apartment,” he rushes out. “I see you from my bedroom window.”
A shuddered breath leaves me as I lift my chin, look up at him.
“Will you do it tomorrow?” He glances toward the apartment, where I’m sure my mother’s watching us. “Four thirty. I’ll meet you at the bottom of your stairs.”
I stay quiet, my racing heart making it impossible to speak. Leo’s eyebrows rise, awaiting my response. “Okay,” I whisper.
“Mia!” Mom yells.
Leo lets go of my elbow and takes a step back. “Four thirty,” he whispers, and then he smirks, looks up at my mom, and gives her a two-finger salute as he yells, “Goodnight, Vagina!”
Chapter Three
Mia
It’s still pitch-black outside when I peek through the front door the next morning. Leo’s already there, standing at the bottom of the stairs, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. He must hear the door open because he looks up, smiles, his teeth a contrast to the darkness around us. When he pulls out a bike from under the stairs and says, “Let’s go,” I freeze.
I have no idea what we’re doing or where we’re going, and more, I have no clue what his invitation means.
Last night, he said that he’d seen me leave the house early some mornings. Does that mean that he’s been watching me? Or is he just up early and staring out his window like some kind of teenage psychopath? And now he has a bike, which means he plans on going somewhere, just the two of us. I shouldn’t go with him, I think; I could end up dead in a drainpipe somewhere and no one—
“Are you coming?” he whisper-yells, shuffling his feet and adjusting his backpack.
Great. He has a backpack. And I’m positive it’s full of supplies to kill me… or animals. Please, God, not the animals. Still, even thinking all this, I find myself at the bottom of the stairs, almost toe to toe with my prospective killer.
Clearly, I haven’t had much sleep. I spent most of the night tossing and turning, coming up with a million different scenarios of how the morning would pan out. As embarrassing as it is to admit, the most prevalent of my concerns was how to tilt my head when Leo Preston kissed me. Pathetic, I know, because why—just why?
“You ready?” he asks, and I try