nosy-ass ears floating around the lunchroom. There are a lot of those around this place, especially when it comes to Abby. She’s considered “famous” around our parts.
“I’m more like a half adult,” she says, laughing at her definition.
“How so?”
Her long lashes flit against her cheeks, golden brown like her hair, which she’s tied into this messy knot at the base of her neck. She has the faintest dusting of freckles on her round cheeks, partly covered with makeup but never so thick that the real her doesn’t shine through. She mashes her lips together, the satin red on her lips glimmering as she forms a wry smile.
“I guess my parents are considered investors in the start-up of my career. All the modeling classes, acting classes, photo sessions for headshots, clothes and makeup.” She waggles her head side to side as she twirls her finger around her face with a giggle. It pulls a breathy smile from me in response.
“Okay, yeah. But that’s also parenting, right? I mean, my mom and dad put Hayden and me in youth basketball for years, then club, and there were shoes—oh how there have been shoes.” I make the same head waggling motion and finger twirl she did, only this time at my feet, which are in loosely laced Jordan Ones that I literally shined up with a baby wipe this morning.
Abby is amused at my comparison, and she lets her legs fall loose from her hold, her feet landing on the ground as she straddles the bench in front of me, leaning forward and bracing her palms on the wood as if she’s a gymnast about to lift herself into some sort of hand stand. She stares at the carved-out G+T for long seconds while her laughter fades.
“It wouldn’t be a big deal if this was all just my mom. She’s my manager, and I have never once felt like one of those abused child stars. I know what my savings account looks like, and I know she doesn’t pull shady shit you see in the tabloids. It’s always been me and her, and then the world. But the fact that my dad is like, I don’t know, forcing his way on the team? It feels more like the custody hearings have turned into employment ones. I mean, the last time he actually came in with all these receipts from when I was six and seven.”
I’m not sure she realizes she’s trembling, but she is, so to stop her from digging any deeper in a place so public and so filled with the fumes of microwave pizza and Coke machines, I reach forward and rest my hand on top of hers. We both freeze, and I’m pretty sure my palm is already sweating. Her gaze lifts to meet mine, but I don’t let go of her hand just yet. I don’t make this touch a big deal, even though it sort of is. That’s not why I did it, and I don’t want to cheapen it. With our eyes locked on one another, I let the air fill with silence just long enough for a ragged, emotional breath to fall from her lips.
“You have every right to feel the way you do,” I say.
“And how’s that?” she fires back. Her hand shifts under mine, but she doesn’t pull it away.
“You feel like your dad sees a business opportunity where he should see his daughter.”
She swallows and keeps her gaze on mine for a beat before finally leaning back, pulling her hand away and glancing off to the side. With a snort sniffle, she runs the sleeve of my brother’s hoodie across her eyes, erasing the tiny break that she let herself have.
I’m suddenly not hungry. I don’t think I have ever not been hungry, but I couldn’t eat the rest of my burrito if I were forced at gunpoint. It’s not that I feel sick, but more that I feel . . . envious. I was fooling myself thinking that Abby was a passing crush I could easily dismiss. Two months of riding shotgun with her through all things June and Lucas was just long enough for me to get hooked on having her around. But while it’s my advice she’s listening to, it’s my brother’s fucking sweatshirt she’s dabbing her tears with.
“So, see you at the game?” My move to leave is abrupt, especially after she just bared part of her soul. If I stay, though, I’m going to say things I don’t