“You blew off the assignment?” I asked, both amazed and appalled at the same time. I never had the balls to ignore my schoolwork. It made me feel antsy.
He shrugged. “I wasn’t much of a school person.”
“You don’t have to be a school person to enjoy the book,” I told him. “If you ever have the time, you should read it. It’s a classic.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said, inspecting the cover. The main image on the dust jacket was a tree printed against a red-brown background. I always thought it was the most elegant of all theMockingbirdcovers, even if it was rather simple.
Although it was worn, my copy was probably worth a couple grand. There were only five thousand first edition first printings in existence. If I couldn’t save up enough money for college, I’d probably have to sell it, and the thought made my heart hurt.
He opened the book, and his lips parted as he paged through it. “How many times have you read this?” Every few pages were dog-eared. It drove my mom crazy when I did that. She liked to keep her novels in top condition, as if they’d never been opened, but I was of the opinion that books were made to be loved.
I smiled. “Once or twice.” In reality, I’d read the book so often I could recite full passages by memory.
“And you don’t mind reading it over?” The upward curve of his eyebrow suggested an unasked question:Isn’t that boring?
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Have you ever listened to a song on repeat?”
His grin was slow and wide, and I could tell he liked my music comparison. “Yes,” he answered. “I suppose I have.”
Alec tuckedTo Kill a Mockingbirdsafely back in its spot on my shelf before resuming his typical, quiet state of being. I watched as he continued to explore my room. When he reached my dresser, he paused. The top was dedicated to my jewelry. I had three fake crystal bowls filled to the brim with rings, a huge clamshell to put my earrings in, and mounds of necklaces and bracelets piled everywhere else.
“Did you make all this?”
“Yup.”
He picked up a chunky purple earring, turning it over in his hand. “You’re good.”
“Thank you.” Pride ballooned inside my chest, and it made me feel bold. “Want me to make you something?”
Not waiting for an answer, I sat at my desk and grabbed a spool of brown leather cord.Where are the scissors?My hand hovered in air as I looked around for them, until I finally spotted a pair peeking out from underneath the pile of magazines. After cutting a few pieces, I tied them together at one end and started working. When the back of my neck prickled, I knew Alec was watching over my shoulder.
“What’s your favorite color?” I asked without looking up.
“Orange,” he answered.
For some reason I was surprised, but I reached for a jar of faceted agate beads in both amber and a rust color. We were quiet for a couple more minutes, and then Alec cleared his throat.
“Is this your family?”
He pointed to the picture frame hanging above my desk. It was a rare photo of all four of us—Mom, Dad, Rose, and me. In fact, it was the only one I had. The picture was taken when we went to Disneyland for my birthday. I didn’t remember any of the trip, but five-year-old me looked pretty pleased with herself perched on top of her dad’s shoulders.
Shaking my head, I glanced back down at the leather wrap. “It’s just me and my mom now.”
He paused. “I’m sorry, Felicity.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said with a shrug. “I honestly don’t remember much about my dad. He ran off with an intern when I was six, and they moved to some European country where there’s no international child support enforcement. How clichéd is that?”
Wow. Talk about too much information.
The look on Alec’s face was impossible to gauge, and when seconds passed without him responding, my ears burned. I searched my head for something to say, some way to fix the bomb I’d dropped in his lap, but I couldn’t take back what I’d said. Instead, I concentrated on the to-be bracelet in my hands.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I can top that,” he told me, and my head snapped up at his words. “My parents got divorced three yearsago, and my dad is on his third marriage since then. Wife number four is half his age. How’s that for a stereotypical shitty dad?”
Whoa. That was sonotwhat I expected him to say.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a gentle tone. I wanted him to know I meant it, because I knew how it felt to have a screwed-up family. “That must be tough.”
He offered me a weak smile, but his entire body had gone stiff. “It’s fine.”
