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I wasn’t the first girl he’s swapped spit with, but I was the first one who turned him down. That’s before I understood that guys like Cal Miller don’t get rejected.
At least, not by “orphan girls named Summer Solstice, who shop at goodwill and whose boobs aren’t even that big.”
His words, not mine. He said them right before pushing me against my locker and trying to touch said boobs.
So I informed him of the other rule. The one that states don’t-effing-touch-me-without permission. A well-timed knee to his man onions followed up by a right hook to his thick jaw made that clear.
Or should have. But some guys have rocks where their brain’s supposed to go, and his obsession has only gotten stronger.
No more Cal, I think as I lug one of the blue gallon water jugs over to the pantry. Silver linings, Summer. Focus on the silver linings.
The kids gather around the bar countertop, helping prep the influx of goods. Cal and his guards must have gotten lucky hunting because there’s fresh meat, too, although I don’t dare ask what kind.
Between that, the stolen goods, and the neverapples, we’re looking at three full meals a day for weeks.
“So,” Aunt Zinnia persists. “Are you going to tell me where they came from, Summer Solstice, or should we wait for Vi to come make a ruckus?”
“Near the Shimmer,” I admit, averting my gaze.
Not a lie; I just don’t specify which side.
Aunt Zinnia snaps her head up. “Darling, what have I said about going near that place? What if there are darklings roaming the woods? Or, worse. Faeries?”
“The sightings are overblown,” I assure her. “No one has seen a darkling or a Fae around here in months.”
No one but me. But he was on the other side, so it still counts.
The others are watching me, especially Jane. Her hazel eyes narrow, but she just keeps rolling the bright red strips of meat into the seasoning. Too smart for her own good, that one. At one point, Chatty Cat pads over to where she works, watches her for a moment, then tries to snag one of the strips of meat.
Jane hisses at him—hisses, for Fae’s sake—sending Chatty Cat to skulk in the corner.
Yep, they’re going to get along gloriously.
Aunt Violet comes bursting in the front door, the hem of her lilac-printed duster she wears over her jeans and camisole nipping at her cowgirl boots.
Compared to her sister, she’s tall and lean, all angles and ropy muscle, her face worn from years beneath an unforgiving sun. She wears her gray hair in a practical braid that snakes to her mid-back.
“What’s this?” she asks in her sharp, no-nonsense voice. She smells of feed and hay from her job at the feed store. I still can’t understand why she continues showing up to work. Money is nearly worthless, and a month’s wages could barely cover a package of toilet-paper.
“Summer brought home a feast, that’s what,” Aunt Zinnia calls in her sing-song voice, totally omitting the part about Cal or the neverapples. “Now get down here and help me, Vi.”
Aunt Violet breezes into the kitchen. “I was talking about that furry beast shredding my silk drapes . . .”
Her words abruptly cut off as her gaze finds the neverapples, piled high in an old bucket near the sink.
“What are those?” she demands, eyes wide with terror, as if I’d brought home the heads of my enemies instead of perfectly ripe fruit.
“Summer found them near the border,” Aunt Zinnia explains, shooting me an I’ll-handle-this look.
Aunt Violet’s light brown eyes darken to coffee with a dash of cream. “You know how I feel about anything related to them in our house.”
Aunt Zinnia pauses from cutting perfect little squares of cornbread. “Oh, Violet. Can’t we make an exception?”
“I looked neverapples up,” I offer carefully. “They’re safe.”
Aunt Violet pinches the bridge of her hawkish nose and gives me one of her famous stares. “If they’re not of this world, I refuse to keep them in my house.”
“Please, Aunt Violet. I’ve already promised everyone an apple tonight.”
