of a time you fit in.
Whatever that means.
Eventually, my dad picks up his slice of homemade lasagna and takes a bite, dragging the mozzarella from his lips where a bit smudges up in his salt-and-pepper goatee. I sink into my chair and pick up my fork, relieved. I hadn’t counted on the third degree. I wondered if they would object to the late hours, but I’m eighteen. They can’t technically tell me no. (Well, they could. I live under their roof. But they wouldn’t.)
My fingers itch to text Vada and let her know I’m good to work. More. Work more. Truthfully, I’m already on the schedule.
Off the record, Vada Carsewell might be a bit of the reason why. Not (just) because I have, like, deep-seated, years-long feelings for her or anything but because she’s cool. Interesting. Down-to-earth and not at all like anyone else I spend my time with. I hadn’t realized how little I see of her at school. Our paths rarely cross, and that seems wrong. We have a near constant text stream going, but I couldn’t tell you what her favorite shirt is.
Which is definitely something you would know if you were interested interested in someone, right?
She’s practically a pen pal when you get down to it.
Of course, I could just ask her about her favorite shirt. And then I’d know.
“You’ll need to get a ride from Cullen to work tomorrow, unless you plan to board,” my mum interrupts my thoughts.
I glance outside, which is pointless since it’s dark. “Would you mind?” I ask my brother.
“Nope. I can drop you off on my way to Zack’s. But can you get a ride home?”
“I think so.”
“From who?” my dad asks.
“Vada, probably,” Cullen says. “Right?”
I nod, quickly taking another bite of pasta.
“Vada a bird?”
“A girl,” I say after I swallow.
“A woman,” my mum corrects automatically.
“That,” I agree.
“She cute?” my dad asks.
“Ginger,” my brother replies.
“Really?” My mum perks up and sips at her glass of red wine.
I don’t bother responding.
“You’ve always had a bit of a thing for gingers,” my mum says, sly as a game show host.
“Have not!”
“Ginny Weasley.”
“Bonnie Wright is brilliant.”
“That bird from Pitch Perfect,” my dad offers.
“First of all, it’s woman, and in my defense, that shower scene was eye-opening for twelve-year-old me.”
“Fine, Mandi Simonson.” Cullen’s gleam is triumphant, and I snort.
“Whatever. She was my first kiss. And I have a feeling you arranged that so you didn’t have to kiss her and out yourself.”
“Like it was a secret. And you were super into her.”
“Freshman year, I was super into Bonnie Wright. Mandi was a fair candidate.”
“Fair candidate? Who are you? The crown prince?”
“So I like gingers! You people are maddening. That means nothing. I don’t even know if Vada is working tomorrow night.”
“Ten to one, she’s working, and she’ll drive you home, and twenty to one, you are texting her under the table right now.”
“Ha! I don’t even have my phone at the table. Manners, little brother.”
“By two and a half minutes, and that’s only because you left it in your room.”
“Boys,” Mum interrupts drolly. “Enough. You know I don’t tolerate bickering on a single glass of wine.”
Dad refills her glass.
“Two and I lose my inhibitions, Mr. Greenly.”
“That’s the plan, luv.” My dad winks in an overtly cheeseball way, and Cullen shoves away from the table.
“On that note, I have homework to do.”
I grab another slice to go. “Me, too.”
My brother is halfway up the stairs before he shouts, “Remember, dick pics are forever!”
My mum chokes on her sip. “He’s not serious.”
I gather up my plate and glass and grumble, “He would know.”
“Lukas Aaron Greenly.”
“Kidding, Mum.”
* * *
The next night, I’m behind the bar with a rugged-looking University of Michigan student named Ben. He’s the one I’d overheard backing out of his shift the first night I worked. I’ve never really talked to him before, but he’s pretty cool. Rolls his sleeves a lot. And keeps reapplying this beard balm stuff he carries in his back pocket.
Which is a bit weird, but we all have our quirks. I bite my nails, which is objectively more disgusting than smoothing essential oils in my facial hair. Not that I have any facial hair.
I watch as Ben carries on with a couple of college girls, friends of his from the look of things. One seems more smitten than the other, touching Ben’s arm across the bar and licking her lips like she’d like to taste him—and get a mouthful of beard balm, presumably—while her friend keeps scrolling through her