Callum grinned, another one of those stunning smiles that made me want to laugh with delight. “I knew I liked you. Lead the way.”
CHAPTER 7
CALLUM
I’d probably been inside Zeke’s house at some point over the years. Not for his birthday parties. Three years apart was enough that his friends and mine didn’t overlap. But some adult thing, wandering in behind Grandpa. I didn’t remember, anyhow.
The interior was nicer than ours, and much better kept up. Even when I was younger, Grandpa was always busy and short of cash, and I was a little shit who didn’t do extra chores unless forced to. Our hardwood floors had never gleamed like these, the curtains on our front windows were faded, not crisp white, and our furniture had what Grandpa called a “lived-in patina” and most people called wear and tear.
The basic layout was familiar, though, as if they’d been built by the same designer. Zeke led the way from the foyer into the kitchen, calling, “Hey, Jos? You around?”
A few thuds overhead suggested yes, and then Jos appeared on the stair landing dressed in sweatpants and an oversized band T-shirt for some group I’d never heard of showing an exploding guitar. “What?”
“We have some stuff to figure out. Can you come on down?”
“I’m busy.”
“It won’t take that long, and it involves you.”
“If I have to.” He stomped down the stairs, making a surprising amount of noise for someone skinny in bare feet, and leaned in the doorway. “What?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out what to do when I have to start working overnight shifts. You can’t stay in the house alone.”
“I’m not a baby!”
“No, but you are twelve. Afternoons, evenings, I trust you to be okay. Nights, not so much. If you want to live with me, and not your Aunt Heidi or your grandmother, we need to not get me arrested for neglect.”
“That’s stupid. If I’m going to get into trouble, it’d be when I’m awake, not when I’m asleep.”
Zeke pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a second.
I said, “Hey, sick shirt. I like it,” as a distraction.
Jos turned cool eyes on me. “Who cares?”
Zeke straightened quickly. “Jos! That’s rude.”
“So is commenting on how someone looks.”
Before Zeke’s sputter could turn into a scolding, I said, “I know, right? Like, how many times did I get the ‘redheads have no souls’ and ‘gingers are ugly’?” And my hair’s not even that red.”
“It is, though,” Jos said. “Like, really red.”
I retorted, “Who cares?” and grinned.
He blinked at me, then a tiny smile quirked his mouth as if against his will.
“So Zeke’s schedule thing,” I went on. “We need to figure something out, because if my grandpa finds out you’re over here alone for, like, twelve hours, he’s going to be coming over all the time, barging in with day-old pastries and bananas from the store, and asking you if you want to play board games like Monopoly. Pretending he just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”
“I like Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Jos said. “A lot.”
I leaned toward him and whispered, “So do I. But he’s the world’s biggest worry-wart.” That was true enough, although he’d learned to be hands-off with me when I snapped back at being coddled. I’d really sucked as a teenager.
I settled on a stool at the kitchen counter. “So here’s the plan. There will be days when Zeke has to be at work in the night. You could come over to our house and hang out for his shift, or just come over there to sleep.”
“I like my room.”
“Or I could come over here and sleep in a guest room, so if, like, the roof falls in, you have someone you can yell for.”
