7

I ARRIVE AT THE TABLE and find Mick sitting next to the only empty seat, the one I usually take. Acting like it’s no big deal at all, I sit down and put my napkin in my lap. I can feel the heat coming from his body near my arm and leg. Shasta and my other sister, Olympia, are busy whispering and giggling, glancing up at him every couple second. Idiots.

My father hands me a big bowl of rice. “So, smiley face, tell us about the doctor’s appointment.”

I keep my attention on the rice. Trying not to spill any of the grains helps me stay calm. “Well, let’s just say it was interesting and leave it at that.”

“No, let’s just have the details,” my dad says, handing me the next dish with a stack of tortillas on it.

“I talked to Doctor Harper Harper Harper and answered all his questions,” Jersey says. “He was nice. He’s always nice. I don’t want a rash. Clowns suck.”

I hand Mick the rice and his fingers brush up against mine. My heart does a flip as I try to pretend like I don’t notice how warm they are or that just being next to him is making me crazy. I swear my legs start to tremble over the idea of my skin being on his. Ugh, I hate myself.

“Did you see a clown at the office?” my mother asks. “No. Mick has a clown face with a rash,” Jersey explains.

Everyone either nods or ignores him. Asking for explanations of his inner brain-workings are always an exercise in futility.

“So, Mick, how long have you known Quinlan?” my father asks. He uses that special father-tone in his voice that says ever so much more than his words actually do. While his mouth asks about the extent of our relationship, his tone is saying that Mick better think twice about trying any funny business with his daughter. My sisters are back to giggling.

I wish the floor would open up and just suck me into a giant sink-hole right

 

now. It’s like I’m fifteen again. I hate living at home. I have to move out, like really soon. I wonder if my parents would let me take Jersey with me.

“Well, not very long actually. I met her at my brother’s garage the first time and then again at a club a few weeks ago where I work. And her friend Teagan is dating my brother, so I see her around.”

“A club, huh?” My dad has stopped serving himself. “And what kind of club would that be?”

“Yeah, what kind of club would that be, Quin?” asks Shasta. “A strip club?”

“Dad,” I drop my fork on the table, “could we not give him the third degree about my life? If you want to know what I’m doing when I’m not here, just ask me.” I don’t even going to look at my sister or acknowledge her comment.

That’ll just throw gas on her teasing fire. Besides, I’m going to give her a nuclear wedgie later when Mick’s gone to straighten her out.

“Hey, hey, no need to get all sensitive over it. I was just asking the boy a question.”

Mick is looking at me; I can sense his gaze on the side of my face. But I can’t return the gesture. Our lips would be just inches apart and I’d probably do something really stupid with that kind of temptation so near.

“Let’s change the subject,” I suggest. “How was work?”

“Same old, same old…” My father goes on to detail the latest drama at the electric company where he works, and it all turns into one giant droning sound in my brain.

I’m casually eating a burrito, conscious of every movement Mick makes next to me. He’s not shy about digging in, a fact that’ll make my mom deliriously happy. She’s one of those people who equates food with love, which explains why my ass is almost an axe-handle wide. Thank God my actual waist is immune to caloric intake.

My mother is responding to something my father said when Mick’s bare arm rubs up against mine.

Deep breaths. It’s no big deal. Just act like nothing’s up.

I keep eating, but then it happens again. And again. I can hear my heartbeat in my own ears. Is he doing it on purpose? Does he feel it like I do?

He leans over and whispers in my ear. “Can you pass the hot sauce, please?”

“Ew, hot sauce,” says Shasta. “I like mild salsa.” “Mild is for quitters,” Olympia says.

The two of them commence a minor girl-slap fight, but Mick ignores all of it. He’s staring at me as he waits for me to comply with his request.

 

Holy hot sauce. Breathe, Quin, breathe. I reach my arm out like a shot and knock the bottle over in my haste. “Oh, fuck,” I say as the cap flies off and lands in my sister’s plate.

“Hey, language, Quinlan,” my mom says, frowning. My sisters high-five each other. Jersey’s tapping the bottom of his fork on the table to some rhythm only he can hear as he stares off into nothingness.

“Sorry.” I hand the bottle to Mick.

He wraps his whole hand around it, trapping mine against the glass container.

I turn quick and open my mouth to complain, but he’s smiling and his mouth is just two inches from mine. “Nervous about something?” he asks, flicking his eyebrows up once.

I yank my hand away. “No. Should I be?” I take a bite of beans, acting like I’m not having a heart attack right here at the dinner table.

My family is so busy arguing about which is better, mild or hot salsa, that nobody notices I’m being freaked out and messed with by a true master player. Mick is just plain dangerous. I seriously underestimated his skills.

“Maybe you should be. Depends.” His leg brushes up against mine, and I both hate and love the fact that I chose to wear shorts today.

“Shut up,” I whisper under my breath. I’m about to give him a heavy dose of reality when his hand goes under the table and touches my bare thigh.

“You’ve got great legs,” he whispers. Then in a louder voice, he says, “Quinlan, could you pass the guacamole?” He takes his hand off my thigh and uses his napkin to wipe his mouth. “Mrs. Torres, the food is amazing. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages.”

“What? Are you serious? What are you eating?” she asks, totally falling for the charm that oozes out of every pore of his body.

“Hot Pockets, I’ll bet,” says Olympia.

Shasta starts singing a Hot Pockets song I’m pretty sure she made up since it involves mention of bodily functions.

I want to hate him for what he’s doing to me and my entire family, but I have to respect him on some level. I’m pretty sure my mom’s about to offer to adopt him and my sisters are just turning into complete and utter fools in his presence. Thank God at least Jersey has found his happy, calm place. Dinner usually chills his gills and I’m glad tonight is no exception.

“I eat frozen pizza and TV dinners, mostly. Life of a bachelor non-cook, I guess.” He shrugs like he didn’t just invite himself to the next fifty family meals. Man, he’s good.

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime,” my mom says, while my dad nods.

 

Suckers. I drop my fork in frustration. It’s ridiculous how naive my parents are. Can’t they see he’s just working us over?

“No, he’s not,” I say, a little sharper than I meant to.

Everyone stops talking at the same time and looks at me. Jersey’s expression goes into the land of the lost. My sisters appear excited over the events that are about to unfold. Apparently, I’ve thrown down the gauntlet without even realizing that’s what I was doing.

“Quinlan, what is wrong with you tonight?” My dad leans in and squints his eyes at me. “Are you feeling okay?”

I throw my napkin on the table next to my plate, flustered and angry at myself and the current circumstances I’ve created. “I’m fine. I guess I’m just a little pissed that you blew off my best friend Teagan when she needed a place to stay and you’re about to adopt this guy right off the street without even knowing him. No big deal.”

I leave the room in a huge hurry, knowing I just showed off the very worst part of my personality - the one that speaks before thinking and the one that is sometimes stuck with the brain of a twelve-year-old girl. Something about Mick completely throws me off my game, and it’s freaking me out. Why am I an idiot whenever he’s around? Why can’t I just be cool?

I storm off to my bedroom and flick on my stereo, flopping down on my bed, stomach-first. Smashing my pillow over the back of my head, I force myself to block out the sounds of anything but the music. I don’t even want to hear my own thoughts.

I don’t know how much later I feel someone tugging on my foot. I roll over, ready to blast whoever it is, but I zip my mouth before I can. My mom is sitting there with her sad face on. I can never fight the sad face.

“Sweetie, I want to talk to you for just a second.”

“Fine. Talk.” I throw my pillow behind my head and punch it on the sides a few times to fluff it up.

“You had a hard time at the doctor’s office today, didn’t you?”

I sigh heavily but say nothing. I don’t need to burden my mom with that crap. She has enough on her plate.

“What did he say? Is Jersey okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine. It’s nothing. I’m just in a mood. My period’s coming or something.”

“Mick seems nice,” she says, giving me a tentative smile.

“Mom, don’t, okay? He’s not interested in me.” It makes me almost cry to say that. “He came with Teagan and Jersey snagged him and he felt obligated to follow through. That’s it. He’s not here for me or for him. He’ll be gone soon

 

and you’ll never see him again.”