Page 47 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
So when Ro squeezes the back of my neck as I slide through the space he’s left for me between his chest and the doorframe, I ignore my body’s response to his touch. I ignore the goosebumpsthat prickle across my exposed flesh—my skin reaching out to get even a fraction of an inch closer.
“You cool to hang for a few?” he asks, pulling his hand away before I can embarrass myself by leaning into it.
“This is your day,” I say, regaining some physical distance and my composure. “I’m only here for a change of scenery.”
Ro disappears up the stairs, seemingly oblivious to the way my body briefly betrayed me back there. I unlock my phone for company as I wait. Scanning the weekly ads emailed from my pharmacy and scrolling through other assorted nothingness to look busy.
Ro’s dad’s voice booms through the lobby as the garage doors shut behind him. “He gotcha on payroll now?”
I return his easy smile, because it’s good to see him—but also because, considering my professional prospects, that’s actually not a terrible option.
“Ro just ran up,” I explain, as Mr. Jackson takes me into one of those dad half hugs and leads me toward the register.
“You two headin’ out soon?”
I nod, leaning my hip into the counter. “Yeah, in a couple minutes. He’s just wrapping up.”
“Sounds about right,” Mr. Jackson says with a laugh. “That boy’s always needed ‘one more minute.’ Used to drive his mother nuts. The mind of an artist, I suppose.”
“I wouldn’t know. Only thing I paint are my nails, and even those look like I do ’em blindfolded.”
“Yeah?” he says, grabbing a towel to wipe the grime from his hands. “I just assumed. Ro doesn’t usually take us laymen to these shows. He’ll share his finished stuff sometimes, but otherwise keeps all that to himself. Been that way since ol’whatshername.Glad to see he’s breaking his own rules today.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize—”And what is her name?I can’t ask aloud.
“You ready?” Ro says, walking up with a black leather bag slung over his shoulder.
Mr. Jackson winks at me before shaking Ro’s hand, like they’re finalizing a business deal.
“Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”
I expect those words to come from Mr. Jackson, but it’s Ro saying them. “Mom’s on her way,” he continues. “Try to go easy on her.”
Mr. Jackson must be confused by the exchange, too, because when I turn to say a last goodbye, his eyes are clouding over. Searching for understanding, and a million miles away.
—
Between Liv’s certainty that I’m on an accidental date, that thing my body did at the shop, and the bomb Ro’s dad casually dropped before we left, my mind’s working overtime as Ro and I start our drive.
It might be time to unpause those apps again. Breaking Zo’sno sexrule with a guy lying about his name, age, height, income, relationship, and felony status might actuallyhelpclarify things in my life for once.
“You good?” Ro asks, finally. He’s been watching me since we passed the Connecticut–New York state line. “You still want to do this?”
“Of course! Sorry, I’m just stuck in my head.”
“Should I be worried?”
I wince at the memory I know we’re both revisiting now. The last time being “stuck in my head” and stuck in this truck resulted in me not so politely asking Ro toshutthefuckup.“I think you’re in the clear.”
His elbow nudges mine on the console, and I appreciate the gentle ways he checks in. Though his next inquiry isn’t nearly as subtle.
“Anything specific going on up there?”
“Kinda,” I start, attempting to meet his directness. “I’m trying to figure out why I’m here. Why you wanted me to come. Your dad said something about you only doing art stuff with art people.”
“Those technical terms?Art stuffandart people.” Ro’s words are as relaxed as his posture. “Don’t listen to Pops. I just don’t bringhim.Last time he was at a show, he was all loud, talking ’bout Banksy like he’d discovered an unknown artist on the come up.”
His sarcasm is laced with an obvious affection for his father.
