Page 86 of The Breakup Artists

“Are you asking me to be your date?” he says, the corners of his mouth curving.

“I absolutely am,” I say, surprised by how refreshingly simple this is. I don’t know why, but I thought hanging out with Bentley for more than ten minutes would involve stilted conversation and personality clashes, but there’s been none of that. It’s easy. Nice easy.

“Good, because I’m definitely accepting.”

Charlie laughs raucously a few blankets over, claiming he just shot a jelly bean out of his nose into an open soda can. “But Charlie’snotinvited,” I clarify.

“Are you kidding? I don’t even let him come to the twins’ birthday parties. Not mature enough.”

I laugh.

“So your parents are gonna be there,” Bentley says.

“I mean, yeah. Is that a problem?”

“Not a problem. Just a big deal.”

I look at him sideways. “You’re my next-door neighbor; you’ve seen my parents like a thousand times.”

“I know,” he says, and the look on his face is so cutely nervous that I smile. “Just never as your date. It’s different.”

“If I were you, I’d be more worried about August.” I try to make light of it, but he doesn’t laugh.

“Right,” he says. “Because you guys both work for your dad.”

And suddenly I don’t think it’s funny, either. Bentley doesn’t know about Summer Love. No one does. While it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he found out, I’d be violating August’s trust if I told him. However, if I don’t tell Bentley and he asks my dad about my made-up music internship, Dad will be not only confused but furious I lied. How did I not think of this possible disaster earlier?

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august

Swee’s nails are poking my side, but he looks so comfy I hate to disturb him.

“Today sucks,” I tell Swee, who snores in response.

My phone buzzes, and I grab it off the bedside table so fast that I drop my book and lose my page. Swee stares at me, bleary eyed and indignant. But it’s just a text from Mom.

Mom

Hey honey, could I ask you to do me a big favor and bring my set of detailing brushes to the Kellermans’? They’re on the kitchen table.

I stare at the screen, a queasy feeling rising in my throat at the thought of going to the Kellermans’. While I’m grateful Mom has work this summer and I don’t mind supporting her doing it, she’s also an adult—if she forgot her brushes, she should just come home and get them.

Instead of texting Mom back, I open the thread with Tiny.

Me

You around? Need help with something.

I figure I’ll drive and Tiny can run the brushes onto the porch. Two minutes and done. When Tiny doesn’t respond, I look out the window to discover her Jeep isn’t in her driveway. But our station wagon is in ours, which means Mom walked to work this morning.

“Damn,” I say to no one and get up. Because as much as I’d like to tell Mom no, I know I won’t.

* * *

The Kellermans’ white colonial house looks just as buttoned up and snobby as it always did with its wraparound porch and manicured garden. And while Mom’s obviously made progress with repainting, I can’t help but wonder if it was actually necessary or if it was just a pity hire.

I sit in our old Volvo calling her cell for the third time, but she’s not answering. I push against the steering wheel. “Come on, Mom.”