Chapter 3

The house looks dark from the outside; our small street has no lights to guide me to the door. Around us, the city of Escondido is quiet, getting ready to sleep.

I wave goodbye to Michael and hurry to the front door with my phone flashlight. I unlock it as quietly as I can so I don’t disturb the movie I hear playing in the back room. I slip inside, lock up, and make my way toward the noise.

My mom is sitting alone on the couch. The girls and my dad obviously haven’t come home yet, or else at least one of them would be sitting next to my mom. I can’t tell if Tom is here or not, but his presence is everywhere as always: shoes by the door, a sweatshirt over the back of a chair, clothes folded by the couch and waiting to be put away. I scrunch my nose at his boxers lying flat on the top, the Superman logo staring up at me. (I am never watching any Superman movies with Tom ever again.)

I study my mom from the doorway, hoping she doesn’t see me. She’s crying; I can tell immediately by the way she lifts her thumb to her cheek and wipes at her cheekbones every twenty seconds. It’s silent crying, but she hasn’t stopped since I walked up.

My stomach sinks. I’m frozen, alternating between wanting to give her space and wanting to slip onto the couch next to her for some cuddles. Before I can make up my mind, however, the front door bursts open and Astrid and Millicent rush inside. They’re yelling about some musical and arguing over who can sing the words with the most accuracy. Still in their leotards and tights, they push past me like two fierce winds (“Hi, Bee!” they shout) and sprint toward the couch.

Mama quickly hides her tears behind an award-winning smile while they tell her about their auditions at dance today.

I glance back at the door, but my dad hasn’t come inside yet. I bite my bottom lip.

“Bee!” my mom calls. “I didn’t see you come in!”

“Just got home,” I say, and smile at them from the doorway. Millie (an old soul for her thirteen years) has her hand over her heart like she’s telling an exciting story and losing her breath. Astrid glances at Millie and rolls her eyes. At fifteen years old, she’s the cynic of the family. (I swear, getting a tear out of her is like trying to get water out of a long-dry well.)

The three of them look alike. My mom passed down her long, golden hair to all of us, but that’s where it ends for me. The girls have the shape and color of her eyes, the oval face, the small nose, and the thin lips. I, on the other hand, got my dad’s nose (let’s just say it’s not as small and dainty as my mom’s), his round face, his green eyes, his full lips—and all his mannerisms, too. Everyone tells me I look like him, something that pissed me off when I was younger. How dare they tell me I look like a boy?! I’d rant. But now I understand what they mean, and I take it as a compliment. Papa has a kind, honest face, with eyes that literally sparkle. (And hey, he was pretty darn good-lookin’ in his yesteryears, if his high school yearbooks are any indication.)

My mom sees my smile and smiles back. It’s genuine, which puts some of my worries at ease. “How’d it go, baby? Want some leftovers?”

I shrug. “I’ll have to pick it up in a few days. Michael’s doing a full checkup.”

“He’s so nice.” My mom waves me over. “Want to watch the movie with us?”

I almost comment that she’s already cried enough for one day, but manage to hold the words inside. Instead, I say, “I’m not in the mood to cry right now. Thanks, though.” (Thing You Should Know About Me #17: I’m a crier. I feel a lot of emotions, deeply and with abandon.) “But I will accept kisses goodnight.”

“You’re going to sleep?” Millie asks. She looks up at me with her big blue eyes as I walk over to her, and gives me a quick kiss.

Astrid scoffs. “She’s not going to sleep. She’s going to stay up all night reading and watching YouTube videos.”

“I am going to sleep, actually. I’m tired.” I kiss my mom on the forehead.

“Lies. You always say that, and then we see your light on at midnight.”

I turn to Astrid and smack the back of her head before she can run away. “Which means you’re up at midnight every night, too. Just kiss me.”

She tucks her lips around her teeth. “I never loved you,” she says in perfect old-lady-with-no-teeth character.

I raise one eyebrow, unamused. “Wow. I’ve never seen that one before.”

She breaks into a smile, then, and lightly kisses my cheek. “Goodnight. I’m sure you’ll sleep soundly tonight.”

Her smile turns evil. I grab a pillow and whack her until she’s cowering on the couch.

Laughing, I snatch up my purse and wave at them. “See you tomorrow!” I snag some quick leftovers—cold mac-n-cheese—before disappearing into the rest of the house.

My bedroom is down the hall, and I close the door behind me, sighing happily into the silence. It’s really messy: unfolded clothes at the end of the bed, books lying on the ground because I don’t have enough money saved for a new bookshelf, and three coffee mugs creating rings on my desk. I sling my purse onto its hook before taking the mugs to the kitchen. I rinse them out and hurry back to my room.

Taking one look at the pile of clothes on my bed, I realize I have no energy left. I grab my bowl of mac-n-cheese, shove the clothes aside, and sit down with an exasperated, “No way.”

That’s when I see there are seventeen unread messages from Gretchen. I check the clock. It’s eight o’clock here, so it’s eleven her time. I pray she’s still awake as I stuff my face with mac-n-cheese and read her messages.

Gretchen

Daily song! Get ready. Are you ready?

…I don’t think you’re ready.

Well, I don’t know why you’re not answering me because Facebook tells me you’re online. I think Facebook is lying to me. *shakes fist* ZUCKERBERG!

I laugh outright and continue to scroll.

Gretchen

Anyway, new song. GET READY.

Below this, there’s a link for a song called “Moon”. I press play and turn up my Bluetooth speakers.

Gretchen

ISN’T IT THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SONG EVER?! I AM SO IN LOVE.

Bee

WHAT IS THIS MAGIC?! I am in love with it only twenty seconds in. Why haven’t we heard this before?

I smile wide when the green light appears next to Gretchen’s name. It takes a minute, but soon new words pop up on my screen.

Gretchen

I DON’T KNOW. BUT WE CAN DIE HAPPY NOW.

Dude, where were you all day? I miiiiiissssseeeddd youuuuuu!

I give her a quick update on all things Bee & Car. I think about the beautiful, yellow-sweater-wearing boy in the shop and nearly mention him, nearly say something about my rude staring, but then Gretchen’s reply comes in, and I forget.

Gretchen

I’m shaking my head right now. Only you, Bee, would get two flat tires. Only you.

I take the last bite of my leftovers and set the bowl on the desk, right where the old mugs used to be.

Bee

I know. But that’s why you love me, right? Because I provide amusement and entertainment to combat the everyday mundane?

Gretchen

I love you; this is true, but not just for that reason.

Also, I hate to be rude, but I need to go to sleep now. I’ve been staying awake just for you.

Bee

Thanks. You’re the best. Sleep well.

Gretchen

I think you’re crap.

I smile. I’ve heard this a thousand times before—it’s our way of saying goodbye, because goodbyes are stupid, and we don’t like them. It’s our coping mechanism for living three thousand miles apart and missing each other every single day. (I love her parents, but I also resent them for taking her away from me all the way to Pennsylvania.)

Hearing Gretchen say “I think you’re crap” makes me forget that we’re so far from each other.

It’s the biggest lie ever, but I don’t care.

Replying to her message with those same, sacred words, I exit the app and pretend I’m not super-tired as I stand up and start stuffing my unfolded clothes into my drawers. The mess will still exist, but at least I won’t have to look at it or sleep on top of it. I’m folding up my favorite pink shirt when there’s a knock on my door

“Come in,” I mumble, hoping whoever’s there won’t actually hear me.

He does. My papa stands in the now-open doorway, hands in the pockets of his paint-splattered jeans, his shirt equally messy. The Flash lightning bolt logo looks sad with paint splattered across it. I shake my head and tsk, saying, “You and Tom.”

My dad ignores my teasing and steps into the room. “What? We love our superheroes. Just like you, so don’t try to pretend you aren’t as nerdy as we are.” He looks pointedly at my Clark Kent t-shirt hanging half out of my drawer, then holds out his arms to me. “I didn’t realize you were home and I’m offended that I didn’t get a hug.” He sniffs with pretend vexation.

I smile and hug him tight. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you build an attic today?”

I groan. My dad loves to compare his job with each of his kids’ to remind us that we don’t work nearly as hard as he does. (I admit: It’s true.) “No, Papa.”

He chuckles. “I’m just messing with you.”

I’m about to take a swing at his arm when my mom appears behind him and practically pushes me out of the way to hug my dad. “Matt Wescott, you have to come snuggle me—I’ve been crying over that movie!”

Ah, the aftermath of sad period dramas. This happens every time.

“Oh, baby,” my dad says dramatically, “I’ll snuggle you anytime.”

Ew, gag me. I mean, I love my parents, and I love that they love each other, and I wish more parents loved each other like they do, but really? They’re standing in my doorway, making out like teenagers.

“Um.” I choke. “Um, please?” Then I realize I haven’t actually asked them to do anything. (The struggle is so, so real.) I try again, much louder, in the sternest voice I can muster. “Mom, Dad, can you please exit the doorway and find your own secluded area of the house to…suck face?”

They stop and look at me, my dad wrapping his hand around my mom’s. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” he says.

I raise my eyes to the heavens and close my door on them.

“Young lady,” my mom starts, but then she breaks out in a giggle.

I lean against the door. It eases my worried heart to see them like this, as they usually are: totally in love, my mom happy, my dad there to catch her if she loses it again. I wonder, for the millionth time, how my parents can love each other like newlyweds after twenty-five years of marriage. It’s like our own personal fairy tale; I’m constantly telling my sisters and Tom that we are the product of true love.

Thing You Should Know About Me #395: I’m a hopeless romantic. Any book with a love story in it is more likely to grab my attention. I love weddings so much that I crave them. I cry during most romantic movies. I even have my favorite engagement ring picked out at the local jewelry store. (Who am I kidding? I have an entire Pinterest board full of similar rings. My future man will surely get the hint.)

I look back at my closed door one more time, smiling to myself. I almost peek outside to make sure they’ve gone, but I think better of it. Then I pull on my pajamas and collapse onto the bed in a sudden wave of exhaustion.

I’m asleep before I remember to turn out the light.