Broken Knight
In the car, Josh glanced at me. His eyes told me April had given him the rundown. I liked April, but I hated the way she butted into my business.
“I know you said Knight is the one, and I respect that,” he signed. “But would you ever give me a chance to try to be that other one? The second big love? The one you end up marrying? Because I’d like to apply.”
I wondered how much of it was him wanting me, and how much of it was him finally finding someone like him. The same age. Who liked the same bands and studied at the same school. Of the same heritage—more or less—who spoke sign language.
We had everything going for us, other than one thing: our hearts.
I squeezed his hand, biting my lip in answer.
He knew.
Three nights after the phone call with Knight, I was lying in bed, doing my usual Instagram routine to look for pictures of him. There were none. Maybe he didn’t go to parties anymore? The prospect made me physically sick. For all my jealousy, I wanted him to have fun. I wanted him to be happy and meet girls and get over me. Because even if I didn’t get over him, I desperately cared for his wellbeing.
When I came up empty-handed, I decided to log into Poppy’s profile. I didn’t expect to see much. I wanted to count the Likes on that kissing picture and cheer up when I thought about the amount of money they had collected for Rosie’s cystic fibrosis foundation.
Poppy had posted four new pictures since the one that broke my heart. Three of them accordion-related, and of no importance to me. It was the last image that gave me pause. I clicked on it. She’d tagged a restaurant in La Jolla. It was of a giant milkshake with chocolate-covered pretzels, an entire donut, an enlarged Tim Tam to use as a straw, and three different ice cream scoops mounted on the glass. Next to the milkshake, was something that made my heart beat faster. Car keys.
Aston Martin car keys.
A distinctive Aston Martin car key, with a keychain that said My Favorite People Call Me Daddy, something Knight had found in Dean’s drawer and thought it’d be funny to use.
Had Knight taken Poppy on a date? It was easier to tell myself they were hanging out with more people, but why wouldn’t he go out with her? He’d said to leave him alone. That he wanted some space. This was perfect. She was perfect.
I knew it would drive me mad to think about it, so I chose not to. I threw off my covers and padded to my desk. Not, God forbid, to my typewriter, which was still untouched, but to my MacBook. Briefly, I wondered if something, or someone, would ever give me the courage to pick up a pen and write. I did write essays and short stories for school, but I never wrote anything I didn’t absolutely need to.
I opened my search bar and Googled the one name that always sucked me into a black hole and made me forget. The perfect diversion from Knight.
Valenciana Vasquez.
I hit enter, sat back, watched the results roll in neatly, and started to dig.
Footsteps thudded in the hall, and I stretched in the large bed, nudging the woman sleeping on my chest to wake up.
“Your husband’s back. Pretty sure he won’t be so happy to see a stud like me in his bed.”
Mom looked up, blinking the sleep from her eyes. She swatted my chest, then coughed. “Hide. I wouldn’t mess with him.”
“I wouldn’t mess with me.”
I flexed my biceps behind her, and her coughs became loud barks that made me want to kill someone. Dad threw the door open, already untying his tie. He reached the bed, planted a kiss on Mom’s nose, and flicked the back of my head.
“You’re too old to cuddle with your mama.”
“Don’t say that!” Rosie shrieked.
“Seems like she’s not really in agreement with you.” I yawned.
Dad went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. I squeezed Mom into my chest and kissed the crown of her head.
“He’s probably crying while listening to Halsey on repeat like a little bitch.” I yawned again.
“Language, boy.”
“C’mon, we’re not one of those fake families.”
“What kind of family are we?” she asked.
“A real, kick-ass one.”
Mom laughed so hard, I thought she was going to puke out a lung. When the laughter died and she looked up at me, she had that let’s-get-real expression I perpetually hated.
“Have you spoken to Luna lately?”
“I have.”
And had I fucking ever. She actually spoke. Which I didn’t share with anyone, naturally. It was bad enough I’d ratted her out for sleeping with FUCKING JOSH (forever in capital letters, thank you very much) in front of everyone at a family dinner. There was no need to completely shit all over her trust.
Trent Rexroth had spent the day after Thanksgiving running after me across a park with that baseball bat. I had better stamina, but I’d let him catch me when I got to our deserted treehouse, because let’s admit it, I deserved a good beating.
When he’d finally pushed me against the old trunk, he just gave me a scary-ass look and promised, “If you disrespect my daughter again, in public or in private, I will spear your fucking head to my fence and feed the rest of you to the coyotes.”
Plus, I kind of liked that Luna and I had our own secret, even though I was working through purging her out of my system. I’d lied. I didn’t want to get even. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I was done letting her hurt me, and that was something.