We’re left staring at each other, which is not good. Which is very bad because the air crackles in a whole new way. His smile is sheepish but also beautiful. That dimple of his should be illegal. And those lips. Granny kiss, my butt.
Before I do something stupid like grab a chunk of his shirt, I step back and in my best no-nonsense voice ask, “What have you been collecting? And don’t tell me nothing.” I point to his pocket. “You’ve got a bulge.”
One corner of his mouth rises. Slowly. “Well, thank you for noticing.”
“Anthony!” I hiss.
His eyes laugh at me. “Where are we going tonight?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Too late, already did.”
“Fine,” I say. “I want to see what you’re collecting and why. That’s what I want to do tonight.”
“Doesn’t work that way.” He shakes his head. “Got to go.” He dodges me by carrying the boulder back up the trail.
I don’t get another chance to talk to him. We’re nearly to the bottom, and everyone is as beat as I am when Amber calls it a day. I can’t talk to him while we put away equipment because everyone is standing around.
Frustrated and hot, I’m just blasting the air conditioning in my car when my phone buzzes with a text.
Anthony: Be at the library at 7. I’ll show you my bulge
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anthony
She’s late.
I’m parked in the corner of the library—our spot. I’m already thinking of it like that after only four nights. Like we have a spot. There are trees back here, and at first I liked the shade, but tonight it feels like a lurking beast hanging over my car. I feel like a lurking beast. A pathetic stalker.
With sweaty palms.
Where is she?
Did she change her mind? Did her parents find out? Did she decide she wanted Grant instead? It’s only a matter of time before she gets over this attraction. I’m not sure why she hasn’t yet. Half the time I wish she would.
But the other half of the time?
This morning when I saw her with Grant, yeah, I got jealous. Like nothing I’ve felt before. I’m not like this—not about girls. I don’t get possessive because I don’t get serious. I haven’t even wanted a girlfriend since Haley. Most of my buddies on the team were the same way: Coop, Tucker, Garrett, until he fell hard for Josie. We were keeping it chill, no reason to overthink it. I liked hanging out, having a good time. I was always upfront about it with the girls, too. But always, always, I walked away when I felt the first tug of those strings.
Now I want to reach out with my own strings and tie her to me. What is wrong with me? This is a fling. Two weeks with a few rules scrawled on a piece of notebook paper. The end of something—not the beginning. I shouldn’t be sweating because the girl is late. I should be hoping she doesn’t show.
Tires rolling over asphalt sound behind me. I turn as her car pulls into the spot next to mine. My breath rushes out, and just the reaction is enough to make me want to smack something. My thick head, for one. I wipe my palms on my shorts and wait for her to open the door. A waft of warm air follows her in, along with her spicy-sweet scent.
“Sorry. Ethan called.” She smiles and straightens her bangs. They just skim the top of her eyebrows, a frame for almond eyes and a heart-shaped face. She’s a mix of places and peoples, a collage of features that the builder in me wants to take apart and put back together so I can understand why I’m so fascinated.
Maybe I do need a smack to the head. I’m losing it over this girl, and she’s not even real. She’s like the dust devil I saw kick up in the desert this morning. There for a flash—this thing you can’t take your eyes off—and then gone like it was never there at all.
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. Tonight’s plan is a good one.
I watch her pull on her seat belt. She doesn’t belong in a beater car with stained cloth seats and a peeling dash. This is my kind of ride, not hers. If I had a girl like Mai, really had her, I’d want to give her things, do things, be things… I’d have to sign on for the future she sees. I’d have to climb on that hamster wheel and then what? She’s still leaving.
I think of Dad near the end. His jokes when I sat in the room. His quiet sobs when I sat outside. I thought I had time with him. Thought he’d be there. But people leave for all kinds of reasons. Better to be the one doing the leaving. Better not to want too much. Better to live day by day.
Mai is not a day-by-day girl. The problem is that I’m starting to wish she were. I like being with her more than I should. More than I’ve ever liked being with anyone. I told myself it was just chemistry. And yeah, I’m still having very inappropriate thoughts, but I want more than that. I want to talk to her. Laugh with her. I want her to keep taking me places I don’t want to go.
Mai is talking as she gets herself settled. I’m half listening. An apartment mix up. Furniture delivery. Ethan. Saturday.
“He’s flying home on Saturday?” I ask.
She nods. “He’s coming home for the Community Cares Fundraiser next week.”
“Fundraiser? No one mentioned that.” Not that I bothered to read all the information online. “Are we supposed to go to something?”
“Not the regular volunteers. I am because my parents are on the board. Ethan and I are trotted out every year to look perfect in our evening clothes and inspire donors to give more.”
“You have evening clothes?” I raise my eyebrows. “What happens if you wear them during the day? Clothes police come and arrest you?”
“Ha,” she says drily. “Joke if you want, but it’s not easy achieving fabulousness. That’s what I was shopping for yesterday. Shoes for my long dress. Ethan gets fitted for a tux.”
“Doesn’t make sense. Spending all that money for a charity event. Why don’t you just donate the money and call it good?”
“That’s not how it’s done.”
“That’s how it’d be done if I were in charge.”
Her eyes narrow. “If you were in charge, there wouldn’t be any event because these things have to be planned.”
“There’s that word again.”
“Speaking of plans,” she says. “We have a plan for tonight? As much as I’m sure it pains you to admit.”
She’s right—but not for the reason she thinks. When I pull out of the parking lot, my palms are sweating again. I nearly turn around twice. I’ve never brought a girl home. Never shown my workspace to anyone except Coop and Tucker. Even they were like, Dude! It’s cool, but it’s junk.
Mai’s reaction will be a thousand times worse.
But that’s the point. Let her see. Let her in, so she’ll want out.
So I’ll want out.
Now, my hands are clenching and unclenching around the wheel, and that voice inside me is saying, Don’t be an idiot. You’ve got another week with her. Enjoy it!
I turn down my street, my foot barely on the gas. I’ll drive by. Drive past. Pretend I’m detouring to confuse her. I’ll take her to the trampoline place or—
“It’s the junk house.” She’s sitting forward, smiling. Pointing to my house.
My hands clench again.
Damn.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mai
“I know that house!” I lean toward Anthony as he slows the car. I can’t believe I haven’t been paying attention. I know this neighborhood. The smaller ranch-style homes and grassy front yards. Ethan took violin lessons from a woman who lived over here, and I had to drive with Mom, dropping him off or picking him up. I’m so excited when I see the junk house that I can’t help but point it out.
Anthony hits the brakes, and I take that as a request to explain, though it’s obvious from the dozens of metal animals and flowers placed around the yard. “You can see why Ethan called it the junk house.”<
br />
“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”
He sounds angry, but before I can figure out why, he hits the gas and bounces us into the driveway. “Anthony—don’t.” I grip the dash, embarrassed that the people who live here will…
Oh Lord.
His voice. The jut of his chin. A muscle ticking along his forearm. My heart dives into my stomach. “This is your house.”
“Yeah. It is. The junk house.” He shoves the gearshift into reverse.
“Anthony. Wait. It’s not the way it sounds.”
“It’s exactly the way it sounds.” He starts to back out, and I grab his arm.
“You have to let me explain.” His arm feels like the metal scattered across his yard. Impossibly hard.
He blows out a disbelieving breath, but he also keeps his foot on the brake.
“I’m not saying that as if it’s a bad thing.”
He shakes my hand off his arm. “You’ve never been a bullshitter, Mai. Don’t start now.”
“I’m serious.” My voice shakes, I want him to believe me so badly. “We drove past your house every week on the way to Ethan’s violin lessons. We would always look, try to see what was new. I liked it. It was like something out of a book. A zoo made of metal. Ethan was the one who called it the Junk House, and the name stuck, but…” I let out a shuddering breath. There is no but. “I shouldn’t have called it that.”
“That’s what it is.” He barely turns his face as if he can’t stand to look at me. “You wanted to know what I was collecting on the trail? Junk.” He looks around the yard. “This is what I do with it.”
“You…” I swallow a growing lump of surprise. “You made all of this?” There’s a mouse with spoons for ears and a metal thermos for a body. An owl with wings made from the teeth of a rake and eyes from the face of golf clubs.
Everywhere I look is…art.
His mouth stretches into an ugly sneer I’ve never seen. “Don’t freak, Mai. It’s only a fling. No one knows.”
My eyes widen when I realize what he thinks, and then…then I’m mad. He’s only hearing what he wants to. I grab his forearm again. I don’t have much in the way of nails, but what I do have I dig in to his arm. “Don’t be a jerk. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah, right.” The sneer has spread through his voice. “What else did your brother have to say about my house?”
An uncomfortable tremor runs through me. Ethan had a lot to say as we drove past.
Losers.
Freaks.
House should be condemned.
I don’t know what shows on my face, but Anthony deliberately peels my fingers from his arm like he can’t stand my touch. “Yeah, I thought so.” He puts his hand on the gearshift. “Exactly what I expected.”
“Expected?” Surprise is making me slow to understand. “What does that mean?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He starts backing out.
“Wait!” I demand. Without thinking, I reach for the key and turn it off. The car jerks and starts rolling back.
“What the hell, Mai?” Anthony regains control and sets the car into park.
I grab the key before he can stop me. “Get your panties out of a wad, Anthony. I’m trying to tell you that I think it’s amazing you made all this. The fact that it’s made from junk makes it even more incredible. You’re an artist.”
He rolls his eyes. “Give me the key.”
“Will you listen to me?” I stick the key behind my back like a ten-year-old. If he wants to wrestle me for it, fine. From his eyes, I can tell he’s considering it.
Then he sighs. “What?”
“I mean it. This is sculpture, Anthony.”
“Great. Thanks. Can I have the key now?”
I grab his arm and dig in again.
“Would you stop with the nails?”
“They’re short and stubby. Don’t be a baby.”
He grits his jaw. “Now I’m a baby?”
“Yes. I’m trying to give you a compliment. And an apology.”
He shakes his head and runs fingers through his hair. A moment passes. Two.
“I mean it, Anthony. I had no idea.”
He sighs, and when he speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. “Why would you?”
“Because you might have said, ‘By the way, Mai, I make stuff.’”
Something flashes in his eyes—a challenge. “By the way, Mai, I make stuff. Out of garbage.”
“Who cares what you make it out of?” I blink, trying to process his words. The tone. The tic in his jaw that’s pulsing again. His earlier words come back to me. Exactly what I expected. “Why did you bring me here anyway? Why show me this now?”
“You asked to see what I’m doing.”
“That’s not why, though, is it?”
He slides a hand through the steering wheel, his thumb working over a worn spot in the material. “I live in the junk house, Mai—your words. This is what I do in my free time. It’s weird and not very good, and it’s as close to a career path as I’ve got. So now you know. In case you needed another reason to walk away.”
My insides squeeze tight around my heart—or maybe it’s that my heart is suddenly ballooned to twice its size. The very last thing I want to do right now is walk away from this guy. “You could walk away, too. Anytime.”
“Maybe I will.” His eyes find mine, latching on with an intensity I meet with my own. Something passes between us, sparking just under the surface.
We’re daring each other to end this, make it easy.
I lick my lips. I say what I know I shouldn’t. “I don’t want to walk away, Anthony.”
He works his thumb over the steering wheel. “I don’t, either.”
My pulse beats high in my throat. There was one time in gymnastics that I got up on the big girl balance beam. It was too far to fall and not worth the risk, so I climbed down. This feels like that only multiplied by a million. I’m so scared, but I also can’t bring myself to climb down. “I lied earlier. I said your sculpture was good, but the truth is I don’t know anything about art. My only B in high school was in ceramics.”
He watches me from under lowered lashes. “You did not get a B in ceramics.”
“Fine. It was an A-minus, but that’s the closest I ever came to a B.”
He grins then—a tiny grudging scrap of a grin—but it’s enough. The tension melts like sugar in hot tea, leaving something sweet behind.
We’re both quiet, the world narrowing to this car. To us. To the lowering sun and another evening I want to spend with this guy. “Can I see what’s inside?”
“You still want to?” His smile is new. Different. Tender. An unexpected heat gathers behind my eyes.
He strokes my cheek with his thumb, and I want to lean closer, want to open like the purple flowers he put in my hand the other day. This is not supposed to feel like this. This is supposed to be temporary. This is not how temporary feels.
His knowing look says he feels it, too.
I exhale and shrug, too tired to figure it out now.
His dimple appears with a smile as light and sweet as taffy. “Panties in a wad, Mai? Really?”
Then he hits the garage door opener.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mai
Anthony’s garage is half the size of ours and has twice as much stuff. A small blue car takes up the left side, while the right side looks like the shop class at Cholla I accidentally wandered into once. There’s a long metal-top table, toolboxes sitting open on the garage floor, and a collection of tubs that hold…I have no idea what. I have no idea what most of the stuff is except for the gloves and safety glasses on the table. Those I’m glad to see. Oh—and an iPhone speaker. I picture Anthony out here, listening to music and doing…what?
“I feel like I’ve wandered into a tortu
re chamber.” I hold up some kind of tool with a wicked-looking tip.
“Power drill with a sharp-tip point.” He takes it from me, setting it back on the table. He rests a hip against the side as I trail fingers down the length of metal. There’s something lumpy on the table covered by a towel. Beyond that, I pass a bucket of greasy rags and wander to the tubs against the wall.
“My junk pile,” he tells me.
I see what he means. Each tub has a mix of things—nails and screws, scrap pieces of metal, hunks of wood. In one, I see different lengths of metal chain and at least five or six round gears with sharply ridged edges. I flash back to my childhood, which is the last time I was on a bike. I may not be mechanical, but I recognize what this is. I frown as I suddenly realize where else I’ve seen old bike parts. “Your cuff.” I turn to face him, zeroing in on the metal he always wears around his wrist. “You made that from a bike chain.”
“I did.”
Squinting, I trying to make that compute. “You made jewelry from a bike chain. Bike chains, Anthony, are evil.”
“Come again?”
“My favorite flower-power pants were eaten by a chain like that.”
“Flower-power pants?”
“They had pink flowers on a black background, and they were cruelly destroyed by a bike chain when I was about eight. The chain also left a black, greasy imprint on my calf that did not come off for days.”
“I’ll bet you were cute when you were eight.”
“Will you stop choosing adjectives for me? You’re terrible at it.” I cover the distance separating us and grab his left wrist. As I study his cuff, I feel his muscles stiffen beneath my fingers, the jump of his pulse. “I’ve always hated this.”
“You haven’t kept that a secret.”
“It’s very clunky. And probably somewhere in my subconscious, I recognized what it was.”
His eyes are wary now. “Can I have my wrist back?”
“No.” I run my finger over the links of the chain. “How’d you make it so smooth?”
“Two hundred twenty–grit sandpaper.”
How to Quit Your Crush Page 12