Page 8 of Our Crooked Hearts
CHAPTER THREE
The suburbs
Right now
It was barely eleven and already the day was blistering bright, all the cars and mailboxes glittering in the sun. I sat on the front step, alternating sips of coffee and soupy June air. Billy Paxton’s car was still in his driveway. I’d seen it from the window. And if hehappenedto come out, I could thank him again. Do a better job this time.
My phone hummed in my back pocket. A text from Amina.
AHHHH check Nate’s feed IMMEDIATELY
“Oh no,” I whispered. Another text came through.
It’s not about you btw sorry!! Tell me when you’ve seen it
Nate had posted less than ten minutes ago. There was his pretty, punchable face in closeup, lips parted and lids at half-mast. A piece of the Dairy Dream sign was visible over his shoulder. With its black-and-white filter the photo could’ve been a movie still.
His mouth was swollen, smeared with gunmetal blood. A bruise was rising over one eye. The caption read,You shouldsee the other guy.The first comment was from his little brother, Luke.I hear the other guy was a parked mail truck.
I stared until my jaw started to ache. I unclenched.
Well? Did you see it?
Yeah,I texted back.I saw it.
INSTANT COMEUPPANCE,Amina replied. She’d never liked Nate.WHO RUNS INTO A PARKED MAIL TRUCK???
I didn’t reply. My phone buzzed again.
Am I being a monster? Sorry! I swear I wouldn’t be happy if he were dead. I can 90% promise you I didn’t park the mail truck.
Hahaha,I typed, then put my phone facedown on the concrete.
I touched a finger to my lip, feeling this inchworm of dread burrowing through my belly. It was unsettling, that’s all. When karma worked so clean.
I heard a sound like Yahtzee dice rattling in a cup and smiled. You could always hear my aunt’s truck before you saw it. The thing was older than me, a beater only she could drive, because there were about five tricks to making it run and one of them was prayer.
“Hey, Ivy-girl,” she called as she pulled into the drive. She climbed down with a stuffed Women & Children First tote bag over her shoulder. “Lemme see that lip.”
It was ninety degrees in the shade and still she was rocking the full Aunt Fee thing, dark lipstick and metal jewelry and that split curtain of heavy black hair. She leaned in to cup my chin, eyes narrowing, skin breathing the scent of vinegar and blacktea and the chalky amber she rubbed on her wrists. “Look at that. Somebody’s got a death wish.”
I ducked out of her grip. “I do not have a death wish.”
“Not you, that boyfriend of yours.” She paused. “Ex?”
I nodded.
“Good. Your mom and I are flipping a coin on who gets to help him find Jesus.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you he just drove his car into a mail truck?”
Her eyes flicked past me, toward the house. “Did he, now. No one’s dead, I hope? Or maimed?”
“He’s fine. He messed up his face, though. Just like me.”
She smiled slightly, though her eyes stayed flinty. “Payback’s a bitch.”
I nodded at the tote. “You brought Mom the gross tea?”
