Riot

“You’re an ass,” I say.

“You’re a—”

I flick a threatening finger into the air, and he grins.

“What, are we not fighting anymore?”

I glare at him, and he chuckles, settling back against the opposite arm of the couch as I open my laptop back up.

“I was going to say ‘a goddess among men.’ ”

With my attention back on my screen, I snort out a laugh. “By all means, continue then.”

“A rose in a garden full of weeds.”

“What else?”

“A . . . plum . . . on a tree full of . . . bananas . . .”

I chuckle at my laptop. “Maybe leave the songwriting to Adam.”

“Made you smile,” he teases, and I quickly whitewash my expression. “Still smiling,” he says again, and I shoot him a look, rolling my eyes at the way he’s grinning at me, but he’s right—there’s no disguising the smile on my face and it’s pointless for me to keep trying.

Joel and I fall into a comfortable silence while I type my paper and he divides his attention between his phone, the TV, the cookies on his lap, and my notebook. Eventually, my paper-writing is interrupted by him asking, “Did you draw this?” He holds my notebook out for me to see, and I pale when I realize he’s stumbled onto one of the high-fashion designs I sketched during class. I never intended for anyone to see those—him least of all.

“Yeah,” I answer, all of my energy concentrated on not freaking out.

“Dee, this is really good.” He continues flipping through the pages, and my fingers itch to yank the notebook out of his hands. It’s like he’s reading my freaking diary right in front of my face, but I know doing anything about it will just make it an even bigger deal than it already is. “Damn . . . this one is hot.”

Too curious to resist, I peek over at him and say, “Which one?”

Joel turns the notebook toward me again, and this time it’s open to a sketch I did of a dress. It’s basically just a slightly longer and more fitted version of the shirts I’ve been making, but it would require some measuring and sewing, neither of which I’ve ever really done before with the exception of those last-minute birthday capes and a sixth-grade home sciences project that can’t even count because Rowan did most of my work.

“You should make this,” Joel says.

“I can’t.”

His brow scrunches. “Why not?”

“I’ve never made a dress before.”

“That’s a shitty reason to not try something.”

When I don’t respond—because how can I?—he goes back to flipping through pages, and my stomach coils into another knot with each and every sketch he looks at.

“Aren’t you still trying to pick a major?” he asks with his focus still glued to my notebook.

Guessing where he’s going with his question, I answer, “Fashion isn’t a major at my school.”

“Then maybe you’re at the wrong school.” When he glances my way, I’m nibbling on the inside of my lip, wondering if he’s right and trying not to wonder about it. “I think there’s a fashion school here in town, actually. You should apply . . .”

“Know what I think?” I ask, and he flashes me a smile since he knows I’m going to say something smart. “I think you think too much.”

Joel gives a little chuckle and says, “I’ve also been thinking about what to draw you for your birthday. Am I allowed to think about that?”

“It’s over a month away . . . but yes.” If all he ever thought about was buying me presents, we’d be a match made in heaven.

“What do you want me to draw?”

“I don’t know . . . something special.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Make it a surprise.”

“I think I can do that,” he says with a soft smile. I go back to typing, and he adds, “You’re going to miss me so much while you’re gone.”

I am, but that’s for me to know. “You’re going to miss me more.”

Chapter Seventeen

THE ACHING IN my chest starts about an hour into the six-hour drive back home. The feeling is foreign and uncomfortable, and if I could physically claw it out of my heart, I would. The entire ride, my ears are half tuned in to Rowan and half tuned in to my phone, listening for text messages that never come. I drop her off at her house and finish the drive to my dad’s, parking in the driveway and double-checking to make sure my phone isn’t on silent. When I verify that it isn’t, I huff out a disgruntled breath and climb out of the car.

My dad opens our front door even before I step up to the porch, and I set my overstuffed suitcase down to give him a big hug.

He’s a few inches taller than I am, with a lean build and soft smile. He and my mom were both twenty years old when she had me, but he looks even younger than his thirty-eight years, with smoky blond hair and dark brown eyes. When I was in middle school, I banned him from chaperoning school events because all of my classmates developed creepy crushes on him, and even though he hasn’t dated since my mom left, he could have started his own phone-book company with all the numbers women have tried to give him.

With his hands on my shoulders, he pulls away to smile at me. “Alright, let me look at you.” He turns my chin from side to side. “No facial piercings.” He lifts my arms up one by one, and I giggle while he inspects me. “No tribal tattoos. Turn around.”