Page 10 of Love at First Ride
‘I have a small apartment in Eastvale. Electric Hills. Do you know the area?’
‘Sure, I know it. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.’
I glance in the rearview mirror, but he’s shoved his body too far down inside the car for me to see him. ‘I’m from England.’
‘England? Woah. Like… how’d you end up in Canyon?’
I don’t want to say who my stepmother is, in case it puts him on edge. ‘My father, he’s British. He met my stepmother when she came to London. She’s from Texas. Then eventually, when my parents divorced, he moved out here. I went to Eastvale High for two years.’
‘Thought they bulldozed that place.’
‘They did,’ I say with a mixture of emotions in my chest. American high school as a newly arrived Brit wasn’t the most fun experience. ‘Developers moved in. It’s all swanky apartments now.’
‘Is that where you live?’
‘No,’ I chuckle, because despite being completed a year ago, the Eastvale apartments remain largely vacant. ‘But I do live across the street.’
Nestled between Electric Hills and the eastern city limits, Eastvale spans about a six-block radius, a postage stamp of a neighborhood. On the south side, the affluence of Electric Hills has seeped over the boundary, bringing with it swanky coffee shops, nail salons and organic delis selling kumquat and whole pomegranates. On the north side – and the location of my apartment where I once lived with my father – the streets still exhibit signs of the Eastvale of old, with weeds growing between the paving slabs, of oily gas stations and rundown 7-Elevens where the outside lights flicker, which stock shelves of Cup Noodles and pre-packaged snacks. My apartment is inside a low-rise, three-storey building, surrounded by oak trees, which comes with its own parking space and overlooks the gas station. People argue that it’s an up-and-coming area. Honestly, I’m not so sure.
I park up and switch off the engine. In the back seat, Noah remains crouched down.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask in the silence, looking back through the seats.
‘You got any food inside?’ he asks.
I sigh, because once more, he’s evading the question.
Out of the car, he follows me, hot on my heels as I push open the black security gate, which stopped working a few months ago and which nobody has bothered to fix. In the humidity, the sounds of cicadas are all around us. When we take the stairs in the stairwell, I see Noah’s frightened face in the light for the first time. He has a scrawny build, his jeans two sizes too big. His hair is longer at the front and parted in the middle.
Once inside, I swiftly pick up a few piles of stray clothing and dump it all in the laundry basket, trying to make the place look presentable. Noah sits at the kitchen table and waits while I make him a sandwich. I can practically see him salivating when I slide the plate under his nose, and I watch in silence as he devours almost the entire thing in under a minute.
‘Chips?’ I ask him, holding up the jumbo-sized bag of tortilla chips that I bought at the superstore, the kind I polish off in one sitting when I’m watching a romantic movie on my own, snuggled under a blanket.
Noah nods his head, his cheeks still full. I pour the whole lot into a bowl, and he shovels them into his mouth. I grab some milk from the refrigerator and fill a glass. He downs it in one, then wipes his lips with the back of his hand.
‘Let me fix your face,’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m good. Thanks for the food. You think I could stay here, just for tonight?’
Despite appearances, he’s a confident kid. I know I shouldn’t say yes, but I find myself nodding in agreement. ‘There’s a spare room. You can take that.’
‘I’m happy on the couch. That’s where I normally sleep.’
‘You normally sleep on a sofa?’
‘Got a lotta siblings. We ran outta bed space a while back.’
I crouch down and open the cupboard under the sink, where the first aid kit is kept. ‘Fine. You let me fix your face and I’ll let you sleep on the couch.’
His eyes dart nervously to mine.
‘How old are you, Noah?’ I ask.
He sniffs. ‘Fourteen.’
I blink at him in disbelief. He looks younger.How can a fourteen-year-old know how to drive a car, let alone try and steal one?
‘Come this way,’ I say, indicating toward the living area.
