by C. G. Drews
The florist sighs and for a second Sam thinks it’s the typical I’m so done with you sigh he’s used to. He’s ready to flee, but the florist scoots out from behind her counter and strides over to a bucket of roses. She folds her arms, surveying them.
Sam trails after her. ‘I don’t have … much money.’
‘I believe in good apologies.’ The florist clasps hands together. ‘Chivalry is not dead! And you’re kind of adorable. So if you put on a button-down shirt and get a haircut and –’ she glances down at Sam’s ragged shoes and dirty jeans ‘– hmm, yeah, do something about everything else too – then you have a chance. But we need to abandon the flowers.’
‘Um,’ says Sam, ‘you’re a florist?’
‘I keep a store of options.’ She crooks a finger at him. ‘Follow.’
He does.
She walks him to the back of the store, where huge flower arrangements give way to a rustic shelf made of vintage ladders that trail vines and fake butterflies. Boxes with bows of purple and gold and cinnamon sit in pyramid piles.
Chocolates.
‘I only have five dollars,’ Sam says.
The florist smiles. ‘I can work with that for a good cause.’
Sam peeks up at her through tangles of blond hair. ‘Do you have caramel?’
His knuckles are practically healed now as he knocks at the De Laineys’. He tried to take the florist’s advice. He really tried. He found an old comb in the free bathrooms by the sea and probably gave himself lice. But at least his tangles have been tamed? And … a lot of glitter resurfaced.
He also washed his shirt and spent all day drying it on the rails where the surfers hang out. Consequently he has the worst sunburn over his pale shoulders.
But he did an OK job, right?
So long as he doesn’t vomit in the De Lainey rosebushes between now and when someone answers the door.
That will not help.
There’s the click-clack-click-clack sound of a small De Lainey on a trike, likely doing laps around the kitchen table. Deep in the house, a baby wails.
Maybe she didn’t hear?
He waits and waits, hands slick around the chocolate box that’s probably melting into a caramel puddle. Maybe if he leaves it here and—
The door shoots open, a full swing, which is more than the five centimetres he got last time.
Moxie stands there, tear-stained baby on her hip, wearing a yellow and white henley T-shirt covered in apple sauce and snot and green felt pen scribbles.
Her frown intensifies.
‘You,’ she says.
Sam holds the box of chocolates half in front of his face. Possibly proof his intentions are honourable. Possibly a shield. ‘Hi.’
‘Are you seriously not going to quit, you creeper?’
He reminds himself to speak. Don’t vomit. Stand up straight. Look her in the eye. Don’t lose it.
‘I just want to say sorry,’ he says. ‘And explain. And th-then I’ll go and I swear you’ll never see me again.’ He rushes the words so they slur together like he’s some nervous boy a heartbeat from tears.
Which is exactly what he is.
Toby appears behind Moxie’s legs and rams his trike into the wall. He falls off with a shriek of laughter.
‘There is no explanation,’ Moxie says, voice flat, ‘in this big wide world, that will make why you were living in my house make sense.’
‘I broke in,’ Sam says, voice high and breathy. She’s here. She hasn’t slammed the door. She’s listening. He’s maybe got five seconds. ‘When you were away. And I – I just needed somewhere to sleep and then you all came back and I tried to leave b-but your brothers …’ He stops, no air in his lungs. ‘You all thought I was someone else’s friend. So I stayed. Accidentally. I swear it was an accident.’
Moxie’s scowl remains.
‘And your family was so awesome …’ Sam looks at his undone shoelaces.
‘You lost me there.’ Moxie gestures to her shirt. ‘This little monster,’ she jiggles her hip and the baby’s lip sticks out, ‘just threw his whole breakfast at me and Toby’s been using me as an art board. I haven’t slept in two days because the baby’s teething and apparently I’m the only one he wants. And I’m like this close to screaming and losing my mind because they expect me to be their mother and I’m not and—’ Her voice catches, jagged and breathy. Then she narrows her eyes like she’s been caught, vulnerable and bare, and it’s his fault.
Gingerly, Sam offers the box of chocolates.
Moxie’s gaze snaps from the golden bow up to Sam’s pleading eyes.
She takes the box. ‘There’s glitter in your hair.’ She shoves past him, posture like a queen. ‘And you’re not forgiven.’
But she took the chocolates.
Sam’s heart dares to beat again.
Moxie plops herself down on the veranda steps, settling the baby beside her and then turning full attention to the box. She undoes the bow and the shadow of a smile passes her lips. ‘How’d you know to get caramel?’
‘That day I spent with you?’ Sam says. ‘You practically married the caramel sauce.’
Moxie raises an eyebrow at him, but it’s not caustic. She looks curious.
She plucks a chocolate and bites. For a moment, she’s forgotten Sam because her guard drops and she just looks like a frazzled girl who’s melting into the bliss of sweets.
Toby hurtles out the door, apparently sensing chocolate, and Moxie reluctantly hands him one to stop the incessant stream of ‘Please please please—’
‘Do yourself a favour,’ Moxie says to Sam, ‘and don’t collect brothers.’
‘I only have one.’ Sam shifts awkwardly, not sure if this is his cue to sit or leave. ‘Older.’
‘Older is nearly as bad, but at least toilet trained.’ She glares at Toby, who has chocolate all over his face. Then she looks up at Sam, the guarded look of queens and conquerors falling back over her eyes. ‘Time to start your working penance.’ She points to an upside-down kiddie pool on the lawn. ‘Fill it for the brats and then we’ll talk.’
Then we’ll talk.
Sam realises, with a pang, that he’d probably do anything she asked in this moment.
It takes longer than he anticipated to wrangle the pool into submission. The hose isn’t attached and Moxie gives no helpful advice, so he has to battle through that alone. Then flush out the pool. Then fill it. By that point, Toby wants to help and ends up untwisting the nozzle while Sam adjusts the tap pressure.
The hose is pointing at Sam.
Sam gets a faceful of water.
He gives a garbled shout and falls on his butt in a rapidly flooding puddle. When he finally gets the hose off Toby, fills the wading pool, turns the water off, and limps back to Moxie – he’s dripping and she’s laughing.
Laughing is good, right?
Sam plops on the step next to her and wrings out his shirt.
Moxie sticks the chocolate-smeared baby in the pool while Toby throws handfuls of grass in to totally destroy Sam’s attempts of fixing up a clean pool.
‘Oh, you should see your face,’ Moxie says, shoulders still shaking with quiet laughter.
‘I just got that pool all nice …’ Sam trails off as Toby runs over with a bucket of dirt and jumps in. ‘Never mind.’
‘Now you see why I look like this.’ Moxie drops back on to the steps beside Sam and helps herself to another chocolate.
He makes a mental note: when you’ve pissed someone off, bring chocolate first not last.
They sit in silence for a while as the babies destroy the pool and Moxie makes short work of the chocolate box. She holds it out to Sam and he hesitates, then takes one. He’s not sure that’s how apology chocolate works but he’ll do whatever he can to prolong this moment. Because it seems she’s accepted the apology.
Which means he really has no excuse to come back after this.
‘So you’re homeless,’ Moxie says. Not like a question.
Sam’s caramel gets suddenly stuck in his throat. ‘Yeah.’
‘What about your parents?’
He doesn’t want to talk about this. Especially not with her, not with someone who’s actually seeing him. Once you start talking about fathers who beat the crap out of your brother and aunts who hate you and older brothers who still drop in screaming meltdowns – you start sounding like the kind of wind that whines through all the cracks of a house. The kind you wish would shut up and never come back.
‘Not around,’ he says. ‘It’s fine. I just – I make do.’
‘In my house, clearly. How long were you even there?’
‘A … a few days.’
Moxie gapes. ‘Days? We had no idea for days?’
‘You don’t go into that office much,’ Sam says.
‘No.’ Moxie looks away again. ‘It was … it was my mum’s space. She did all the books for my dad’s building business and it was like her “no kid” zone. So she could catch a break.’
Sam picks at the hem of his T-shirt. ‘Yeah, my mum walked out too.’
There’s no answer, so Sam keeps picking at threads, until he realises Moxie is staring at him. Hard. He flinches. He’s said the wrong thing.
‘No, my mum died.’ Moxie’s voice is strangely emotionless. ‘Cancer. She … she had it after Dash was born too. That’s why there’s like seven years between Dash and Toby. Then it was gone and Toby was a surprise, so I guess she and Dad decided he’d need a playmate.’
The playmate in question tries to eat one of Toby’s proffered dirt pies. Moxie doesn’t seem fazed.
‘Then the cancer came back and she chose keeping the baby over chemo,’ Moxie says. ‘I mean, she was trying everything else to fight it but … she died a year ago, two months after the baby was born.’
The weight of the story sticks in Sam’s throat. He knows you’re supposed to say something comforting when people talk about tragedy. But he doesn’t have conversational skills. When it comes to people, he screws up and runs away. The end.
So all he says is, ‘I’m sorry she was stolen from you,’ because thieving is what he knows and this is most definitely a theft as cruel and sharp as knives.
The curious look is back, flitting in the corner of Moxie’s eyes. ‘Thanks. That’s … that’s exactly what it feels like. And I’m the oldest girl so everyone thinks I’ll just fit the space she left, but …’ She seems to shake herself a little and then yanks a hair tie off her wrist and scoops her frizzy mane into a ponytail. ‘Wow. I totally did not mean to blurt that at someone I just met.’
‘We met that Sunday,’ Sam says.
‘Met properly,’ Moxie concedes. ‘So now you know I’m a motherless snark who bites and you’re a homeless creep who sneaks into people’s houses and steals their lunches.’
So maybe he hasn’t made any progress.
‘But you also saved Toby.’
He scrapes hands through his hair again and ruins his pathetic attempt at combing.
Moxie looks pointedly at his arms. ‘I’m not forgetting that.’
He drops them to hide the healing scrapes.
‘But you were stealing wallets on the Esplanade that day, right?’ Her voice levels back to brisk sharpness. ‘I didn’t tell anyone that either. Currently my family knows you appeared out of nowhere to spend Sunday with us and then vanished.’
‘Why didn’t you tell them I’m a thief?’ Sam says, soft.
‘Because you saved Toby and I didn’t want you to get in trouble. Ugh.’ She groans and tosses the empty chocolate box on the veranda. ‘I have to tell my dad the truth. All of it.’
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and for a moment the world is summer sun and grass clippings and children shrieking over splashing water and hot roses and a girl who smells of caramels.
‘I’ll go.’ He knows this is the end. ‘I wanted to explain and I wanted to apologise and … I did … both.’ He stands, awkwardly dusting grass off his jeans. He’s still damp, but a few hours walking will solve that.
Walking to nowhere.
‘Wait.’ Moxie stands too. ‘My dad could help you. I mean … where will you go?’
Sam shoves his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m not … I’m not excusing myself, but I steal to live. If your dad finds out about me, the only thing he can do is hand me over to the police. And there’s other stuff. There’s …’ His voice trembles, too high, and he makes an effort to even it out. ‘I can’t go to prison. I just can’t. I have to look after my brother …’ Avery would die if Sam got caught. He’d never cope.
Moxie chews her lip, her face strangely vulnerable. ‘OK. I get it.’
There’s silence. Sam’s toes tip over the edge of the world and he’s dizzy and hopeless. This is the part where he goes away and her life goes back to normal.
‘I can’t cook,’ Moxie says, very suddenly. ‘I burn everything. It’s a literal nightmare.’
Sam remembers scrubbing the blackened pot.
She meets his gaze and he realises her eyes are the same golden brown as her caramels.
‘Do you know how to make pancakes?’ she says.
Sam cracks eggs into a bowl and scoots the butter away from Toby’s curious poking fingers. He also pretends he’s not watching Moxie. But his face turns hot as he collects ingredients – without Moxie’s direction. Because yes, Sammy Lou knows his way around the De Lainey kitchen quite fine.
Awkward.
Moxie takes this in with thin lips. She hoists herself up on the bench and bounces the fussing baby.
‘You don’t seem like an axe murderer,’ she says finally.
Sam carefully pours perfect circles of batter into the frying pan. He searches for a response but his words are lost, perpetually lost, stuck in hollows where people have scowled or flicked his ears for not answering fast enough.
‘You have flour on your nose,’ Moxie goes on, ‘a clear “not-an-axe-murderer” sign. And you were OK-ish that Sunday.’
‘OK-ish?’ Sam repeats.
Moxie shrugs.
Sam’s heart flutters ridiculously and he clutches the egg flipper to stop his fingers shaking.
Toby finally gets his hands in the butter and pulls it on to the floor. ‘Oops.’ He turns huge brown eyes up at Sam.
Moxie has a very satisfied look on her face. ‘Oh, how fun it is to serve penance.’
Sam cleans it. He flips pancakes. He even holds the baby for a terrifying nine seconds while Moxie finds some teething rusks in the pantry. The house is noisy with fans working overtime, butter crackling in the pan, and Toby staging a brief tantrum about wanting butter and jam on the same pancake but not on the same pancake.
They sit on the table, an impromptu midday picnic, and eat as many pancakes as they can hold. And Sam makes a fine pancake. They’re crisp around the edges and perfectly cooked inside. He’s been making them for ever, especially when he was nine and it was all Avery would eat without panicking.
Moxie tears a pancake in half. ‘So if you have an older brother … why doesn’t he take care of you?’
Sam feels a little sick. ‘Avery needs someone to take care of him.’
‘Ah.’ Moxie reaches over and wipes the baby’s mouth with the edge of her T-shirt. ‘And where do you sleep when you’re not creeping in my house?’
‘Anywhere. Other houses. They’re usually … empty.’
‘Where are you going tonight?’
It’s a trick question. He cycles through a million lies and half-truths and tries to block out the picture of the warm armchair in the office.
‘Probably the park,’ he says, and then quickly adds, ‘it’s a warm night so it’ll be nice.’
Moxie snorts. ‘
Nice? Liar.’ She slides off the table, tugging a sticky baby after her. ‘I know you excel at dishes, so have at it. I’m putting the boys down for a nap.’
Toby looks up from where he’s fingerpainting in jam. ‘No!’
Moxie eyeballs him. ‘Oh yes, sir. And another bath.’
She hauls a kicking Toby and an overtired flailing baby upstairs and Sam tackles the dishes. He does feel bad for her. He obviously has the easier job here.
He wraps the remaining pancakes in plastic and hides them under the steps outside. For an easy grab and run.
Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful, Sam.
He doesn’t mind the dishes, with warm soapsuds up to his elbows, but he’s scared of finishing. Scared of leaving. He wipes every dish dry, just to prolong it, and finally Moxie comes downstairs. She’s changed shirts and brushed her hair and looks a little self-conscious about it. But she still walks with her back straight, chin jutted out, and leaps over the back of the sofa. She folds legs underneath her in perfect triangles and then glares and crooks her finger at Sam to follow.
He does.
‘They usually sleep for two hours,’ she says, ‘which is the time I love them the most. Sit.’
It’s a small war to find space around the huge load of washing that covers most of the sofa, but Sam sits. His leg bounces. He’s so close to Moxie and she smells of marmalade. Her clean shirt is a patchwork of pinwheels, all hues of deep purple and mint.
‘You made this?’ he says.
Moxie stretches her shirt out a little to admire it. ‘Yes. I’m making enough pieces for a portfolio so I can get into an amazing art school. I was going to work on it all summer, but obviously no one in this freaking house cares about my future.’ She makes a low growling sound and picks up the remote, snapping the TV on. ‘Want to watch a movie?’
Of course he wants to watch a movie with her.
He never wants to go.
‘Not horror.’ She peers sideways at him through dark curling lashes.
Sam’s smile is sheepish.
She puts on a superhero movie, all car chases and impossible powers and the occasional bomb detonating. He can’t focus. All he can think of is how Moxie sits beside him. Sits beside him. And she knows who and what he is.