Accidental

by Alex Richards

  “It’s okay.” He smiles and dips his chin. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Awkwardness creeps back between us, a heavy fog seeping into my gut. He says it’s okay, but is it? The niggling feeling inside me only grows. Any of my friends would have seen me squirm and asked what was wrong. Anyone who knew me. That’s the thing, though. Robert doesn’t know me.

  “You don’t get it,” I murmur. “Of course I wanted to know you. You’re the one who didn’t want to know me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?” I demand. “Then tell me why you left. Or where you’ve been all this time. Don’t I deserve to know?”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Then, come on, already.”

  Chairs scrape against the floor beside us and a middle-aged couple plops down, so close I can smell hazelnut syrup in the woman’s latte. She smiles apologetically for bumping my elbow and then faces her partner, the two of them using outside voices and big hand gestures to discuss an upcoming trip to Peru.

  “Not now,” Robert says.

  He’s right. We can’t talk with Machu Picchu over there, gesticulating wildly.

  “Somewhere quieter,” he says, face whitening with each passing second. “My place, this weekend?”

  Maybe I should say no—I still barely know him—but it’s not like I can invite him over to my house. And I need answers. So, after a second, I nod. He types his Airbnb address into my phone, and we both bundle up, heading outside as the sun begins to cast an electric amber glow over the Jemez Mountains. I start to walk to my car, but Robert doesn’t budge. At first, I think he’s all gaga over the sunset like every other tourist in town, but his eyes are cast down, glassed over.

  I pause. “Robert?”

  He inhales his way back to reality and looks at me, opening his mouth as if he’s going to say something meaningful. But then … nothing.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  Finally, he shakes his head, backing away with a meek smile. “It’s not. But it can wait.”

  9

  It’s not. But it Can Wait.

  I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

  “It’s probably my fault,” I grumble, reluctantly nibbling the slice of pizza in my hand. We’re all in our PJs, sitting in the middle of Leah’s too-coral bedroom with a large green chile pie and juice boxes like we’re little kids, dissecting my second encounter with Robert.

  “Your fault?” Gabby sputters. “I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have to feel like shit when he’s the one rolling into town acting shady.”

  “Come on, he’s not that shady.”

  “He’s so shady, he’s translucent.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Leah mutters.

  Gabby shrugs, mouthing shay-dee again, for emphasis.

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, so he’s not entirely shade-free. I mean, I wish he would have told me there, at the café.”

  “Yeah,” Gabby says. “Why does he suddenly need to see you alone?”

  “What do you think he’s not telling you?” asks Leah. “Ooh, do you think you have siblings? Holy crap, a little sister!” She drops her pizza, clearly envisioning future trips to Disneyland. Just as quickly, her face falls. “Unless she’s like my sister. In which case, hard pass. No, I take it back. Rachel gives great foot rubs.”

  “Rachel rubs your stinky feet?” I start laughing, thinking Gabby’s going to join in, but her face is aglow with judgment. “What?”

  “It’s just—why now?” she asks. “After so long. Do you think he needs money?”

  “You’re not helping,” Leah singsongs.

  But Gabby huffs. I swear, her temper is like drawing straws—you never know when you’re going to get the short one. “What if he’s missing a kidney?” she adds. “He probably needs your bone marrow!”

  “He probably needs my bone marrow? Do you hear yourself right now?”

  I drop my pizza back in the box. Appetite, lost.

  Gabby pauses for a second then scoots closer, honey-brown eyes wide and apologetic. “I’m sorry. That was harsh. You know I’m only saying this because I love you, and I get that you’re curious, but who is this guy? Out of the blue he writes you and expects to pick up where you left off? Isn’t that fucked up?”

  When I don’t answer, Gabby keeps going, working to keep her voice even. “He needs to apologize and explain why he left. As far as I’m concerned, he should be down on his knees, begging for your forgiveness. It’s what you deserve.”

  The room goes quiet. So quiet, we can hear Rachel through the wall, listening to the Hamilton soundtrack and laughing into her phone. I chew on my lip, appreciating Gabby’s calmness when I bet she probably wants to scream at me for not doing this her way. But does she honestly think this has never crossed my mind? Before classes, after homework. Through washing and folding laundry. Even through helping Grandpa take measurements for the windows because, yep, we need new ones. And yet, all day, all I can think about is Robert Newton. One big, fat question mark.

  “Are you going to say anything?” Gabby asks after a minute.

  I shrug and exhale, puffing out my cheeks. “You’re acting like I haven’t had these same exact thoughts. Which kind of makes you sound like a know-it-all.”

  Gabby stiffens. For someone who basically does know-it-all, she really hates being called out on it. But, after a second, she nods. “I’m sorry.”

  And she is. I can tell by the weakness of her smile. I smile back.

  “Besides,” she adds, grin regaining its twinkle. “I’m not a know-it-all. I’m right.”

  I snort with laughter. “You’re such a bitch.”

  “A bitch is a female dog,” she taunts. “And I love dogs.”

  And just like that, Gabby burrows her way back into my heart. As always.

  “Can we change topics?” Leah whimpers. “You guys want to raid the liquor cabinet? Remember last time? With the peach schnapps?”

  “I don’t think Jo’s in the mood for a sexy, drunk photo shoot.”

  I scrunch my nose.

  “Okay. What about a movie? There must be a documentary about baby pandas or something. Maybe a rom-com? Dealer’s choice, Jo. What do you want?”

  “Hold on.” Something wicked spikes the corners of Gabby’s grin. “I have. The. Perfect. Idea.”

  • • •

  We roll up in front of Milo’s house at 10:02 p.m., but I won’t get out of the car. Because even though we’ve texted and flirted, no actual date has been scheduled. Showing up feels kind of, I don’t know, stalkery?

  “It’s not stalkery. It’s romantic. And gutsy,” Leah clarifies. “We all know he only gives that sexy I’m-James-Dean-reincarnated pout to you. But if you want to bail, we could always—”

  “We are not having a sexy photo shoot. Let it go, Leah.”

  “Once! Once we took silly photos in our bras.” She snorts with laughter, swatting Gabby’s arm. “All I’m saying is, look at what Jo’s been through lately. Literally nothing exciting ever happens to us, and then she meets her father and gets a hot boyfriend all in the same week? I mean, Jo, don’t you feel like you won the lottery or something?”

  “Okay, first of all, chill. You sound like our old Girl Scout troop leader. Second, he’s not my boyfriend. And third, it’s not exactly the lottery when your dad’s a mysterious stranger. He’s actually kind of hard to talk to, whereas Milo—”

  “Ring the doorbell,” Gabby groans.

  “What if he’s not home?”

  “Doesn’t he drive that silver truck?”

  “And isn’t that him, staring at our car through his living room window?”

  “Oh, for the love of—” I slither down in the back seat, cupping my palm over my forehead. The girls cackle in stereo. “You guys, shut up. Shut up!”

  But they don’t. Can’t. Instead, they start chanting, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

  “Okay, but only if you’ll shut the hell up immediately for al
l eternity.”

  Gabby locks her lips and hands me an imaginary key. Leah zips hers shut. I zhuzh my hair in the rearview mirror, making sure my eyeliner’s not smudged. It is. But in a good way.

  “You look hot as balls. Now go get ’em.”

  With a little eek, I jump out of the car and skitter up the path to Milo’s small adobe house with the turquoise trim. God, it’s freezing. And I’m wearing slippers with my jeans and hoodie because I didn’t anticipate actually getting out of the car.

  Before I’ve reached the door, Milo pulls it wide open and stands there, grinning. “So, you’re the curbside stalker. My mom was getting nervous. New town, new weirdos.”

  “Oh my God. Shit. I didn’t mean—”

  “Hold on,” he murmurs. “You look like you’re freezing.”

  He tugs the sleeve of my sweatshirt and pulls me into his house, shutting the door softly behind us. There are boxes stacked up in the living room, but the place already has personality. Purple accent wall, a funky driftwood coffee table, a needlepoint in the hallway—which would remind me of Gran except this one says Polite as Fuck. I almost snicker, but then Milo presses his warm palms to my cheeks, and I completely forget what was so funny. The corners of his mouth turn up. Damn, he knows how to smile.

  “Much better. Your cheeks aren’t blue anymore.”

  “Blue cheeks are all the rage, thank you very much.”

  He grins. “Oh, I see.”

  “Your house is nice.”

  “It’s a work in progress. My room’s a shithole still, but whatever.”

  “Aren’t boys’ bedrooms supposed to be disaster areas? Maybe that’s a myth.”

  “I won’t speak for my entire gender, but I know my way around a vacuum cleaner, if you know what I mean.”

  “I think so?”

  “Anyways.” He clears his throat. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were at a sleepover.”

  “Oh.” I glance through the living room window, toward Gabby’s jeep. I can’t see their faces in the darkness, but I’m sure they’re laughing. “Can’t a girl stalk the new guy without getting the third degree? Maybe this is part of the Chavez Academy Integration Initiative. Harass new students on Saturday night?”

  Milo smirks. “And you’re head of the committee. What are the odds?”

  “A million to one. At least.”

  “Well, I appreciate your dedication.”

  “You’re welcome.” I grin. “Actually, we’re mostly out looking for something to do. I’m kind of going through some stuff, and my friends thought this might be a good distraction.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He squints, scratching micro-stubble on his chin. “Well, your friends were right. I make an impeccable distraction.”

  I laugh and wiggle my toes, reveling in the airiness of his company. I even do that thing—where you lick your lower lip and then bite it. I’ve never actually done that before, but I’m pretty sure it’s a thing, so why not, right? And it works. At least, I think it does. Milo’s cheeks go pink, and he cocks his head back a little, grinning down at me with that knowing, inside-joke smile.

  “Sweetie, who was outside?”

  Over his shoulder appears this stunning, supermodel/tennis champ-looking woman. She’s got Milo’s stormy blue eyes and wide cheekbones, the same flawless, olive skin.

  “Oh, hello,” she says, her accent gentle and brooding like a Bond villainess. “I’m the mom.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Schmidt. Sorry to freak you out.”

  “You didn’t. And call me Anna.” She links her arm through her son’s, kicking his socked foot with her moccasin. “You going to introduce me?”

  “Sorry.” Milo coughs. “Mom, this is Jo. The girl I was telling you about.”

  Okay, okay, okay, wait. First of all, he told his mom about me? And, more importantly, he told his mom about me?! My face catches fire. Instinctively, I stand a little taller, eager to seem—I dunno. Taller?

  “Ah, yes. The one who took you out for Frito pies. You’re even prettier than Milo said.”

  “Mom!”

  He definitely groans. But I swear he doesn’t seem all that bothered. Whereas I would full-on die if Gran ever pulled that shit with me. It’s kind of refreshing, the way he just, y’know, is who he is.

  “Mom, seriously. Don’t you have Words with Friends or something?”

  “Ouch, Son.” She clutches her chest and steps back. “It was nice to meet you, Jo. Take this boy out of my house for a while, will you? He’s turning into a hermit.” She kisses Milo’s forehead because she’s tall enough to reach it, and then saunters back out of the room, calling, “Don’t stay out too late!” over her shoulder, even though it’s already 10:20 and my curfew is 10 p.m. sharp.

  “Your mom’s cool.”

  “You want to get out of here?”

  “Definitely.”

  Dimples form on his cheeks as he grins.

  Yup. An impeccable distraction.

  • • •

  “Wow, check out how goopy this is.”

  I hold up a stringy, silklike thread of marshmallow taffy, and Milo nods his approval. His is still chunky, more like marshmallow cement, but it’s getting there. We’re at Leah’s kitchen table but not making too much noise because everyone’s asleep—I mean, Leah and Gabby are probably watching movies on her laptop, but at least they didn’t make it too obvious. I use an un-sticky finger to switch the music on my phone from Sia to Television, and right away, Milo starts nodding, devouring his taffy so he can pluck the hypnotizing first few chords of “Marquee Moon” on air guitar.

  “You know Hendrix inspired them on ax?” he says.

  “I didn’t, but I can hear it now.”

  “I love this part.”

  I watch him strum, the music and his intensity bubbling up, echoing in me. As much as I love my friends, music is one thing we’ve never really had in common. It’s kind of cool to be sharing it with Milo.

  “You play guitar, I’m guessing?”

  He nods. “Had a band at my old school.”

  “Called?”

  “Clover by Clover. It’s a line from Horton Hears a Who!”

  “By Dr. Seuss!” I cheer. “Man, I used to love that book.”

  “Me too.” He pauses, grinning. “Hey, you want to start a band with me?”

  “Can we be called Jo-Jo and the Yo-Yo?”

  “Another Horton reference. I like it. So, you in? Me on guitar, you on—”

  “Recorder.” I cringe. “I know. Super uncool.”

  He laughs in quick surprise, then points to my phone. “May I?”

  I raise an eyebrow and put in my passcode, handing it over.

  “Here, listen.”

  After a second, “Marquee Moon” stops playing and something softer comes on. A single guitar, gentle and melodic. It’s so familiar, but I can’t quite place it. And then—

  “Ah!” My lips spread into a grin. “I forgot this song had recorders in it.”

  “What’s the song?” Milo challenges.

  “Are you joking? Everybody knows ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ ”

  “Jimmy Page is my hero.” He picks up his air guitar again, gently strumming.

  Without even stressing about it, I watch him. I don’t hide behind marshmallows or my blush. The song grows fuller, richer, and my insides gently simmer.

  Milo puts down the air guitar after a minute and frowns. “So, you’re going through some stuff?”

  “Yeah, but we don’t have to …”

  “We don’t have to. But we can. If you want.”

  Normally, I’d feel nervous being put on the spot like this, but my breath is calm, chest steady. “It’s about my dad. He kinda came back into the picture recently. I haven’t had any contact with him for a long time, so it’s kinda—”

  “Weird?”

  “Yeah. Kinda weird.”

  “Weird good?” he asks. “Do you want him in the picture?”

  I wait for a sign. For my stomach to drop or my brain to
scream. But nothing happens. “I think maybe I do.”

  The words sink in as I say them, resting comfortably in my heart. Milo slides his hand across the table, careful as he laces his fingers through mine.

  “I’m glad you told me,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  His eyes stay on the crisscross pattern of our fingers. “I’m kind of in the middle of a dad situation too.”

  My eyebrows twitch. “Yeah?”

  “He’s not ‘packing up’ and meeting us out here, like I said. My mom left him.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just telling you because … I don’t know.”

  “I’m glad,” I say. “Not about your parents, but I’m glad you told me.”

  “Me too.”

  The song changes, and we fall into a comfortable silence. Fingers intertwined. Grins wavering between goofy and sincere. Robert Plant sings about finding a girl with love in her eyes, and I lose myself in Milo’s, my thumb dragging along his. The calluses I’d noticed on the first day of school feel hard and smooth.

  Milo leans in toward me. I hold my breath, but this time I don’t pull away. Right here, in the middle of the Fromowitzes’ Spanish-tiled kitchen, sticky-sweet from marshmallow taffy, Milo’s lips press into mine. Softer, warmer, more perfect than anything.

  10

  I drive to Robert’s place after sleeping till noon at Leah’s, barely able to function from all the Milo-induced butterflies. Lips still numb, skin buzzing. He left around midnight with more kisses, more promises of next times.

  “Hey!” Robert says, mistaking my grin as he ushers me through the front door. “Any trouble finding the place?”

  I shake my head. “Santa Fe’s not that big, and this house is really close to downtown. I was around the corner from here a few weeks ago, actually. On Christmas Eve? They light all the streets in this neighborhood with farolitos—y’know, those little paper-bag lanterns filled with sand and a candle? It’s really cool. Sidewalks, walls, rooftops. It’s this whole magical little universe.”

  “Sounds beautiful.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  We stand in the hallway long enough for one of our trademark awkward silences before he ushers me into a bright, cozy room with white-painted vigas on the ceiling and a wood-burning fireplace in the corner. I try to remind myself that this isn’t my father’s living room. That the cheery mango walls and modern furniture belong to the people who rent it out—not Robert. Who knows what the hell Robert’s actual house is like?