We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,23

heard Archer come in late. What were you two up to last night? Not any mischief, I hope?”

“Just a stupid party.”

She peers closer at my face, tipping my chin back with her fingertips so she can examine me thoroughly. My bloodshot eyes and wan complexion are a dead hangover giveaway.

“Well.” She tsks. “If you feel as bad as you look, I guess that’s punishment enough.”

I laugh.

Flora technically has the authority to ground me in my parents’ absence, but we both know she rarely finds occasion to wield it. In my defense, it’s hard to get into trouble when your typical Friday night involves a kindle, a Netflix account, and a new sewing pattern. If I’m feeling particularly extroverted, I might drag Archer out for a night sail or sit up in the boathouse rafters, counting shooting stars.

I know, I know — I’m a wild child.

This social dearth not entirely my fault. These days, Archer is so busy, it’s hard to catch him in a free moment. The closest we’ve come to quality time lately was him inviting me to the party last night — which, given how it all played out, is not exactly my idea of bonding.

Flora rummages around the cabinets for a bowl, then ladles in a large helping from the pot simmering on the stove. It’s steaming hot when she sets it in front of me. She presses a spoon into my limp hand.

“Eat. You’ll feel better.”

“What is it?” I ask, already dipping my spoon into the thick broth, lifting it toward my mouth.

“Asopao de pollo. Chicken stew. My grandmother’s recipe, from back in San Juan. It will help you.”

Flora is an amazing cook. If she told me her soup cured cancer, I’d believe it. I finish my serving in an embarrassingly short span of time. She silently refills my bowl, then settles into the seat across from mine to watch me eat.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

The spoon halts halfway to my mouth. “I know that, Flora.”

“I mean…” She hesitates for a moment. “Even if it’s about Archer. He is my son and I love him, but I know he isn’t perfect. If you two had a fight—”

“What makes you think we had a fight?” I wince at the defensiveness in my own voice.

“I can’t help noticing you two aren’t spending as much time together, lately. I wondered if something happened.” She looks at me so kindly, I want to cry. “It’s normal for friends to fight, mija.”

“We don’t fight. Not really. He’s just so busy, lately.” I shrug to cover my own sadness. “I don’t think he has time for me anymore. Or maybe he likes hanging out with the guys on his team better than me.”

“That can’t be. You two are thick as thieves.”

“Everything’s changing, though.” I set down my spoon and sit back in my chair. Like magic, my hangover is already ebbing away. “Maybe it’s better this happens now. In a few months, we’ll be at different colleges anyway. We were bound to grow apart eventually, right?”

Flora’s eyes hold many truths, but she does not put words to them. I think she knows I’m saying this to convince myself as much as I am her. Thankfully, she doesn’t push me on it. She merely clears my bowl, humming lightly as she carries it to the sink.

“Thank you,” I tell her, meaning it. “I do feel better.”

“What are your plans for the day?”

I glance out the freshly-cleaned windows. Across the expanse of grass, where Miguel is riding the lawnmower back and forth in regimented lines, I spot the American flag whipping around on its pole down by the boathouse.

“Looks like a steady southwestern breeze. I think I’ll head out for a quick sail around the islands.”

“Don’t go too far.” Flora clucks. “You know I don’t like when you’re out there by yourself.”

I roll my eyes. “You worry too much. It’s not even that rough, today.”

“Take your radio, anyway.”

“Always.”

“And your lifejacket!”

“Flora.” The way she’s acting, you’d think I was a rookie.

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop smothering.” She pauses a beat, then says lightly. “You could always wait for Archer. He should be home from practice in about thirty mi—”

“Bye!” I call over my shoulder, already racing for the stairs.

No freaking way do I want to sit around here, waiting for Archer to come home like a pining wartime widow.

Frankly, I don’t want to see him at all.

I yank the jib sheet tighter, grinning as I feel the Alerion pick up speed. Her sails are