I wanted Drew Moroux to talk to me.
I clamp my mouth shut as if there’s a risk I’d say this aloud.
Holy crap. Did I really want that?
At the speed of thought, I catalogue the memories of Drew Moroux I’ve gathered. The moment our gazes locked yesterday. The way his gray eyes pierced mine as he shook my hand today in Mrs. Vivian’s kitchen. The thrill that feathered up my middle when he asked what my name meant.
Oh, yeah. I wanted him to keep talking to me. I can’t deny I was disappointed when he walked away.
Mom eyes me for a minute, clearly waiting to see if there’s more to my invective. But I’m done. I’m now marinating in the chagrin and regret that follows nearly every mindless release. I can’t help but mentally scold myself. I should have paid better attention to the current of my emotions as Mom and I talked.
In a flash, I recall everything I’ve just said, and close my eyes, wincing. If Tori heard, she’ll—
“Well, I have to say, I’m relieved to hear that.”
My eyes snap open. “What?” I ask, thrown.
Mom gives me an arch look. “That the Moroux boy wasn’t interested in talking to you.” Her expression turns purt as she mutters, “Though I can’t imagine why.”
“Mom,” I mutter, unamused.
She giggles. “At least I don’t have to worry about you getting mixed up with him.”
“Mom.” I am more than ready to end this conversation, but she narrows her eyes at me.
“I don’t have to worry, do I, Evie?”
A tempting voice in my ear urges me to tell her exactly what she wants to hear. But I can’t. I know innately that I can’t give my mother the reassurance she wants.
I was in Drew Moroux’s company for less than five minutes today. And that’s not enough. I know — like I know the way to the studio and how to execute a flawless crow pose — that I want to talk to him again.
“Mom, worry is a waste of consciousness,” I tell her. Not a lie, but also not the answer she wants to hear.
She sighs. “You always say that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
She lifts her chin, looking mildly affronted. “Well, I do worry. About you. And your sister. What else can I do from so far away?” Her affronted look morphs into one both sad and guilt-ridden. “Speaking of Tori… what’s going on?”
As if on cue, my phone pings. I glance down and read the text.
Tori: Since I’m obviously so HORRID and VILE, please don’t feel compelled to speak to me. In fact, I’d rather you not. I might say something rude and offend my perfect sister.
My stomach plummets and blood rushes to my cheeks.
“Oh, shit.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DREW
It’s less than a five-minute walk from the Patterson Street bus stop to the probation office on West Willow, but I feel like a neon sign the whole time.
I was used to being one of only a few white guys in the dorm or the mess hall or the yard. But I belonged there. Sure, I had to take my share of licks the first year or so and then dish out some of my own to earn my place. Make it clear nobody needed to mess with me to prove a point. But after that, I belonged. Nobody thought twice about it.
But as I walk up West Willow Street, every single pair of eyes that passes me, whether in a car on the road or in the skull of that old lady crossing the street headed to the Health Unit — is staring at me with one question.
What the hell is he doing here?
