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“No, thank god,” Sean says, rolling his eyes.
“What is it?” I ask, standing and moving so I’m right in front of him.
“Not telling,” he says in a low, sexy voice.
“Come on,” I say, “I told you I’m a clone. The least you can do is tell me your dad’s last name.”
“Hooker,” he says flatly.
“Did you just call me a hooker?” I joke.
He shakes his head at me but doesn’t answer.
“Your name would have been Sean Hooker?” I ask, biting my cheek so I don’t burst out laughing.
Sean nods. “I don’t know why he never changed it,” he says. “But that’s not my problem anymore.” His tone is serious; my smile fades. Wanting to take his mind off bad memories, I lean up on tiptoe and kiss him gently on the lips. He smells like outside.
“Thanks for having me over,” I say before I kiss him again. “And thanks for the socks.”
“Anytime,” he says, leaning in. Just then, his mom calls “Cookies are done!” from down the hall, and we jump apart like startled cats. Sean smiles sheepishly and nods in the direction of the door; I float down the hall behind him, loving the feel of my toes inside his striped socks.
After snacks and some pleasant parental conversation, Sean and I go back to the living room and sink into the couch. I scratch Dumptruck while Sean texts back one of his friends. When he’s done, he takes a picture of me with his camera phone.
>“Okay,” I say. “See you in a few hours.”
As I breeze through a yellow light, I rethink the long-sleeved tunic, skinny jeans, and flats that I’m wearing. Ella said it worked, but now I wonder if Sean’s mom will think I’m trying too hard. I mean, I look like I’m in a catalog. And not only that, but I straightened my hair and added a single braid across the top and down the right side. I grab the tiny rubber band at the end of the braid and start to tug until I realize that taking it out now will leave me with a weird crimpy section of hair. I can’t meet Sean’s mom as a one-sided frizz-head, so I leave it in.
The sedan’s GPS directs me to Sean’s neighborhood and his house. I hold my breath as I park in front of an older home with a pitched roof and massive, funky numbers over the front door. It’s muted green with white trim and has a small, manicured front lawn.
I get out and lock the car, then make my way up the front steps to the porch. I ring the bell and wait, turning a little to look out toward the neighborhood. Sean lives in University City, so there are a lot of younger people out; it must be fun to live here.
The door opens and I turn around, expecting Sean. Instead, it’s a woman I assume is his mom.
“Hello!” she says with a wide, welcoming smile. “You must be Lizzie.”
I nod and extend a hand; she looks surprised, but she shakes it anyway. Her hands are small, but her handshake is firm. She smiles with light brown eyes that match Sean’s, but her hair is long and blond and she looks like she’s in her thirties even though she’s probably at least a decade older. She’s beautiful, and I can see parts of Sean in her face.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Kelly,” I say, before realizing that because she’s divorced, she might have a different last name.
“Call me Harper,” she says, which confuses me even more. Is that her last name or her first? And where the heck is…
“Hey, you,” Sean says, walking up behind me onto the porch. “Sorry, I was moving my car so you could park in front.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling at him.
“Come on in, you two,” Harper (or Ms. Harper) says. Sean leads and I follow. The front door opens right into the living room: There’s no entry or grand staircase, just an open space with a TV and couch on one side and a dining table on the other. Through a door, I can see a kitchen; I assume the bedrooms are through the other visible opening. It’s a small, older home, but it is beautiful and perfectly… calming.
“Welcome,” Harper says, waving her hands around the space. “Make yourself at home. I’m making cookies…. I’ll be right back.”
She turns and disappears. I look around, wishing I could live somewhere like this. The floor is wide wood strips stained light gray, and the walls in the main room are painted a pale butter yellow. All the trim and built-in bookshelves are white, and the oversized sectional couch is dark charcoal gray. There are sheer white coverings on the wide windows, and someone with a scratchy voice is singing from the first actual record player I’ve seen in real life. A tiny hot dog scampers across the floor.
“I didn’t know you have a dog,” I say.
“I never told you about Dumptruck?” he asks.
“That miniature dog’s name is Dumptruck?” I ask in disbelief. Sean nods. “It’s kind of perfect,” I admit with a laugh as I watch Dumptruck try to hop up on a chair in the sun. Sean walks over and gives him a boost, then returns and kicks his sneakers into a pile by the door. He’s wearing one orange and one navy-blue sock today, which makes my stomach flip.
I step out of my shoes and wiggle my toes, wishing I’d worn socks. Going barefoot on a first visit feels funny. And besides, it’s a little chilly today. As if he’s reading my mind, Sean asks, “Want me to grab you a pair of socks?”
