“I don’t,” I say quickly.
Laurel huffily fixes herself more coffee. Our parents flit around trying to get ready for work—my father is a doctor, my mom a lawyer. I check my phone under the table, glancing at it without actually expecting much—but I’m rewarded with a bright new speech bubble indicating a new message. A little hum shoots down my spine. I silently scroll a thumb over the screen.
It’s Thayer.
Where do you stand on savory sorbets?
I smile. Okay, that was a cute message. Maybe, just maybe, it was even worth the wait. Is it an invitation of some sort? I said I wanted to see him—does he want to go out for sorbet?
I suppress a grin, sliding the phone back into my pocket. I feel relieved, maybe too relieved, that he wrote me back. But I’m in no rush to respond.
Now he can wait.
Mom sits down at the table with a bowl of granola and soy milk. “So, Laurel, is it nice to have Thayer back from soccer camp?”
Thayer. He’s everywhere. That fluttery feeling is back.
“Uh-huh,” Laurel stammers. Her eyes dart back and forth nervously and her movements are suddenly jerky, like a marionette.
“He grew a few inches, didn’t he?” Mom asks between bites.
“I haven’t noticed,” Laurel says, but a rosy flush creeps up her neck and perspiration beads her upper lip. She fiddles with her Tory Burch studded leather wrap bracelet, winding it forward and back across her wrist.
I swallow hard, the fluttery feeling inside me turning slightly acidic. I’ve known forever that Laurel likes Thayer, but I wonder if her feelings have intensified with his summer upgrade. The thought fills me with jealousy—and drive. Stealing a crush from my sister is old news, another trick that’s seriously beneath me. But maybe, just maybe, this is another perk to getting Thayer to like me. It will be nice to remind Laurel that no matter how things are with Mom and Dad at home, she isn’t the blazing superstar everywhere she goes.
8
BEAUTY SLEEP IS OVERRATED
I open my eyes and look around. The room is cast in a blue-black haze, images shapeless and sounds muffled, as though the entire scene were unfolding underwater. Wherever I am, it’s nighttime, and I am not alone.
In the dim light, I make out the four walls of a small, nearly bare room, a curtain-less window looking out into a parking lot. The air smells of pine-scented room spray and stale cigarette smoke. I hear a banging, then murmurs of conversation coming from somewhere nearby, some place outside of this room.
I’m not sure where I am. I’m not sure how old I am, either. Not seventeen, certainly—more like four, five. I look down and see a threadbare floral nightie that barely skims my knees on my body. The elastic cuffs of the sleeves cut into the flesh of my upper arms, and a stiff, scratchy, polyester motel blanket is pulled up to my chin. When I look over, I see a shadowy figure sitting at a small metal table by the window, drumming her fingers across the surface, staring into space.
“Mom?” I call out.
The figure turns, but I can’t see her face. I try my hardest—I want just one memory of my real mother, something I can hold on to. Only, this makes no sense: I was adopted when I was only a few weeks old, not four. I don’t have any memories of my mother. I have no idea who she is or what she looks like. Still, I struggle to see. Then, a hand that’s the exact shape and size as my own taps me on the shoulder. I turn again and look into another face. A mirror.
“Hello?” I ask. My mirror image doesn’t speak.
I start awake with a small scream. This time, I’m in my regular bedroom. My butter-soft Egyptian cotton sheets are tangled in a sweaty ball at my ankles. My bare legs are cool and sticky from the blast of the air-conditioning. I look at the clock—it’s not even midnight. I fell asleep early tonight, exhausted after several hours of playing tennis with Charlotte at the court down the street; I don’t want to give Nisha the satisfaction of being rusty when the season starts next week.
I stretch and sigh. There’s no way I can go back to sleep now. I quickly slip on a waffle-knit hoodie and make my way downstairs, stepping softly as I go.
I fill a glass of water at the sink. Suddenly, something behind me catches my eye. At the far end of our immaculately landscaped backyard, a soft yellow light glows from within the latticework of crisscrossing branches.
The clubhouse. Laurel and Thayer are out there, looking up at the stars. I can picture their silhouettes in profile. They’re tilted toward each other, whispering in the dim space. About what, I wonder. What would it be like, to be the one curled up in there, with Thayer all to myself?
“Did we wake you?”
I jump at the figure in the doorway, dropping my glass of water in the process. It hits the granite countertop and shatters. When I pull my hand away, I see blood.
“Ouch!” The cut is shallow, but there’s a lot of blood. I lean against the countertop, suddenly woozy.
Thayer strides over to me. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I eke out. “But maybe you could get me a Band-Aid?”
Thayer looks like he doesn’t want to leave my side. “Where are they?
“In the hall bathroom, in the medicine cabinet.” I point with my non-injured hand.
Thayer walks away quickly, and I use the time to catch my breath. What is wrong with me? I don’t go around dropping glasses, even in the middle of the night. Does he know I’m being extra clumsy because of him? Can he tell how I’m starting to feel?
How am I starting to feel? I still haven’t answered his text about sorbet. I tell myself it’s because I want to keep him on his toes, but really, I haven’t decided how to respond. I’m realizing that the usual rules of flirting don’t necessarily apply with Thayer.
A moment later, Thayer reappears with a first-aid kit in hand. He pulls out a thick square of gauze and holds it firmly against my palm, leading me gently to the kitchen table to sit down. “Keep the pressure on while I clean up,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“No problem,” Thayer says over his shoulder as he wipes off the countertop, picking up the larger shards of glass and tossing them in a garbage bag. “I shouldn’t have scared you like that. What are you doing up?”
“A dream woke me, I guess,” I say.
“About what?”
I look away, shy. I don’t usually talk about my birth mom with guys. Or with anyone, for that matter.
Thayer ties off the plastic bag and loops it around the doorknob of the door leading to the mudroom. Then he grabs the first-aid kit and takes a seat next to me at the table, sliding my chair out and tilting it so that we’re facing each other. I inhale, feeling the air charged and alive between us, and he leans in to me. Gently, he takes my injured hand and stretches it out, removing the gauze and placing it aside, on the table.
“This is going to sting,” he warns, his eyes never leaving mine.
He tears open an antiseptic wipe and runs it across my cut. I shiver from the quick, sharp burn. Then he lifts my palm to his face and blows lightly. I shiver again. This time, I think it has more to do with Thayer than the cut.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Thayer asks softly.
“I’m fine,” I say, wincing.
“I don’t mean from the cut,” he says. “I mean about … your dream. Whatever woke you up. You seem …” He trails off, perhaps not able to find the words.
“I was dreaming about my mother,” I blurt suddenly. “My real mother, I mean. You know I’m adopted, right?”
“Yes.” If Thayer can tell I’m nervous, he doesn’t react. He just peels the backing off a large Band-Aid, fixing it tightly over my cut. Then he balls my hand into a fist, cupping it in his own, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. His strong grip comforts me, and I continue.