Candy Colored Sky, стр. 29

“Yeah, she’s been over a few times.” I keep my eyes fixed on the wrench I’m making careful quarter turns with on a bolt I’m not sure holds a major purpose.

“Like, she really came over this morning, huh?” He’s a foot away and if I wanted to, I could knock out his teeth with a quick jab from my right elbow. I could pretend the wrench slipped.

“She really did. I mean, you saw her, right? Not a hologram.” He can’t see the face I’m making, but I’m pretty sure my sarcasm-drenched response painted a thorough picture.

“And she slept in your bed. All day. And you . . . you read?”

I stop turning the tool and close my eyes as I let out a deep sigh. I’m going to do this just once and if I have to do it again, I’m going to threaten to stop tutoring his ass.

“Yes, Jake. Eleanor Trombley came to my house to have pancakes with my family and then slept the rest of the entire day in my room, and I sat there and let her.” I stand and turn to face my friend as I flatten the wrench under my palm on the edge of the truck. His smirk is annoying, but the longer I stare the less prominent it is in his suspicious expression.

“Okay, dude,” he laughs out, holding his hands out like a guilty criminal pleading innocent. “It’s just weird is all. That’s all I’m saying. I mean, you are in love with this girl for what—your entire life? And now, here she is, glued to your hip, and you read a fucking grade school book?”

“Her little sister is missing, Jake. How do you not understand that her being here, needing a place to escape, is only to avoid what is probably suffocating her over there?” I point beyond him out the garage, where the sun is setting on a still very dark house. “She’s not here for some loser like me to hit on her. Christ! She’s hurting, Jake. She’s fucking lost. And am I glad she stumbled here for help? Yeah, of course. And what does that say about me?”

The obviously pretend coughing sound seizes my breath, and both Jake and I turn to our right where Gemma and Eleanor have entered the garage through the back door. My lungs feel like they are deflating into raisins inside my ribcage, and my mouth feels fat and numb like it does when the dentist shoots it up with Novocain. Even the end of what I said was bad enough and never meant for Eleanor’s ears.

“Mind if we join you boys?” Gemma does her best to dress up a really crappy situation, and I’m thankful for it. Still, as my eyes graze over Eleanor’s face, I can’t help but feel pained when she quickly averts her eyes.

“Of course. Make yourself at home. Maybe some tunes, too, yeah? Jonah? What do you think?” Jake is trying to erase the last two minutes, but my blood is still boiling because of him. I turn to meet his eyes with a hardened deadpan expression.

“Come on, birthday boy. Loosen up,” he continues, patting a stiff hand on my bicep. I flex from the touch and regret not taking my shot with my elbow when I had it.

“Whatever,” I mumble.

Jake immediately jogs to his car in my driveway and pulls out a small speaker from his back seat. He sets it up at the edge of the garage and connects it to his phone, putting on a playlist of the current top hits. Gemma sings along with the song that starts halfway through, and at least four more songs play before anyone actually speaks. Thank God it isn’t Jake. I’d be happy if he never spoke again.

“You think you might be able to drive this thing to school second semester, Jonah?” Gemma asks.

I unbury myself from the space under the hood and calm myself with one last deep breath. My pulse has settled since I flew off the handle, and Jake is starting to show some remorse. He does it in little ways, becoming overly helpful with everything—running inside for a drink when he sees my water is empty, handing me tools before I need them, telling me my ideas are good when they’re just guesses. This is Jake’s way of saying sorry.

“I think I’ll be happy when it can make it to the gas station,” I joke. Jake laughs more than necessary, and I roll my eyes toward him.

“Dude, you can stop. I’m not mad anymore,” I say under my breath. He holds out a fist and I drop mine on top to seal the apology acceptance.

“I bet this thing can hit the highway by Thanksgiving,” Jake pronounces.

I quirk a brow and he holds out his hand, wanting to shake on it. That’s three weeks away, and I don’t see how that’s possible. There are too many mysteries under this hood, like wires that look as if they’ve been rat food and lead to nonworking parts.

“I think you’re delusional, but what are the terms,” I say, glancing to his open palm.

My friend chews at the inside of his mouth for a moment until his lips pucker in this ah-ha! expression that jacks up my nerves.

“We get this baby running by Thanksgiving and you, Jonah Wydner, self-proclaimed-loner, have to come to prom.”

Shit.

“Because nothing screams ‘I am not a loner’ like going to prom by yourself,” I respond. My entire body is hot with embarrassment because I’m not even exaggerating a little.

“You won’t be alone. We’ll all go together—one big group. In this thing!” Jake’s hand lands on the top of the Bronco in a sturdy declaration that makes me punch out a laugh.

“So that means we have to keep this running long after Thanksgiving.” I anticipate a lot of upkeep on this truck. I’ve actually been toying with the idea of maybe selling it once it’s