Yep, on my way.
Dad
Stay for dinner? Need to run something past you.
Me
Stretching as I stand, relief shoots through the stagnant muscles in my back. I’ve been sitting for so long, pins and needles tingle in my feet as my eyes readjust from staring at the screen. I slip off my scratched-up prescription glasses and toss them in my computer bag for work tomorrow. I probablyshouldwear them all day, but I’ve always hated the way glasses look on me. Can’t even remember the last time I went in for new ones. The eye doc stopped sending reminders sometime last year after I unintentionally missed a handful of rescheduled appointments. I just had other things going on, and it’s not like my eyes are that bad anyway. They get a little fatigued when I’m on the computer or driving at night. The TV is fuzzier too, but getting a bigger one solved that issue. It beats the alternative. Contacts freak me the fuck out. I panic having an eyelash in my eye; why the hell would I purposely stick something in?—
“Goddammit…” I grumble, glaring at the stack of papers my elbow just knocked to the floor.Always when I’m in a rush. The thought of reorganizing it pisses me off, so after a halfhearted shuffle, I give up and toss it all on the filing cabinet.A problem for future me. I triple check that I saved everything before powering down the computer.
After a quick shower,I make the long drive through LA traffic, pulling into the loading lane at Mainway Academy forty-five minutes later. Framed by pillars, the white facade is trimmed in black, matching the bulldog logo on the brand-new marquee. Palm trees line the sidewalk of the overpriced private STEAM high school. I spot my baby sister, Artemis, standing under one. She’s too close to some scrawny kid with a football helmet in one hand and her cheek in the other. They haven’t seen me yet, so I watch their interaction, scrutinizing everything from his pretty boy haircut to how close his face is to hers. She’s fifteen—a sophomore—and I know better than anyone that these little high school jocks mean nothing but trouble. I used to be one.
Football Boy takes a step closer, and I honk twice, making them both jump and look in my direction. I roll down the passenger window as she walks to my car, her volleyball bag slung over her shoulder.
“Jeez, Hunt. You didn’t have to honk!” She sticks her head through the window, redness still tinting her sienna cheeks. Her long, curly brown hair is tied back into a fluffy ponytail, frizzy where it’s been rubbing against her black practice uniform. Artemis throws her bag in the trunk before popping her head back through the window with hope in her eyes. “Can I drive?”
Squinting, I pretend to look past her, then twist to check the backseat.
“What are you looking for?” she asks.
“Whoever you’re talking to, ’cuz I know you’re not asking to drivemycar.”
“Please, Hunter,” she pleads, hands clasped under her chin.
“Hell no.” I glare at her puppy dog eyes until her face falls. She flings the door open in a huff, and my head pounds at the thought of her scraping up my midnight blue Torche. This car was a graduation gift from Dad a few years ago. I didn’t go through the hassle of having it imported just for her to leave the paint job on every curb in West LA. No one drives it except for me. When she settles into the cream leather seat, I nod back to the tree. “He ever heard of personal space?”
Her head falls to the side like I’m stupid. “What makes you think I want him to give me personal space?”
“You better find the motivation, Artie, or I’m telling Dad you two were sucking face.”
“No! Hunter, don’t you dare.”
My phone buzzes, with a message from Ashlie flashing across the display on the natural wood dashboard.
“Ooh, Ashlie’s texting.” Artie’s eyebrows dance, her light green eyes sparkling with mischief as she snatches my phone out of the cup holder. I watch in horror while she taps in my password. “Is she yourgirlfriendyet?”
“Hey!” I reach for my phone right as she leans back against the door. “How do you know my passcode?”
“Because I’m good at snooping, and it’s not like Ashlie’s birthday was hard to guess.” That sly smile on her face while my phone is in her hands makes my palms itch. “Dear Ashlie”—she teases with a deep voice—“we should make this official. Let’s go steady.”
“Oh, is that supposed to be me? Who talks like that?” I grab for my phone again, and she giggles while some boy band song fills the car. I’m only a little relieved when she finally puts it back in the cup holder. With Artemis, you never really know if she’s messing with you or making moves in stealth mode. One minute, she’s quiet, and the next, she’s showing everyone at the dinner table the “weird water balloons” she found in your nightstand.
I check Ashlie’s message, replying to her meme with a laughing GIF. Before I put it down, a text from Ava flashes across the screen, and I open it just to clear the notification. She’s fucking relentless. I have no interest in seeing Ava again, but my casual strategy of ignoring all her messages isn’t doing a damn thing. Hopefully she gets the picture soon. I don’t keep women as friends; Ashlie is the one exception.
“Youloooveher,” she taunts.
“You done? ’Cuz I can still tell Dad about Football Boy…”
Her eyes narrow. “And then I’ll tell Ashlie that you still have a little bottle of her perfume from five years ago.”
“What are you even talking about?” Feigning ignorance is the easiest way for me to call her bluff. I have that perfume so well hidden, evenIforgot about it. When I found it, I kept it as a memento of something that happened so long ago, I’m not sure it even matters anymore. Still, there’s no way in hell I’m letting Artie spread that rumor.
A condescending scowl falls on her face as her arms cross. “In your old room, under that floorboard you ripped up, right on top of your picture collection of girls who?—”
“Okay, I got it!Goddamn.” I put the car in drive, continuing to cuss under my breath as I pull out of the school grounds. I shouldn’t be surprised. Artie’s had this idea of being an international super spy since she was little. The older she gets, the better she is at sneaking around. She’s a good kid who doesn’t get into trouble, but she stays in everyone’s business, whether they know it or not.
When we pull into the circular drive of my childhood home—an expansive, white-brick two-story Tudor—Artemis takes off for the shower. I head to the fridge for a snack, stopping to admire the sun gleaming off the pool in the backyard as I crack the lid on my sparkling water. The Tuscan style kitchen is exactly like it was when my parents bought the house fifteen years ago, down to the distressed beige cabinetry and arched stonework over the stovetop.
