Page 49

Jace
I get to work early the next day and buy a bag of Skittles, then leave them at the kitchen window for Jonah.
He doesn’t mention them to me.
He doesn’t need to.
But I wanted him to know.
I remember now.
33
Harlow
Jace’s house is so similar to mine, there leaves no doubt it was built by the same people, at the same time. I walk up the porch steps for the first time ever and knock.
No answer.
Jace’s van’s in the driveway, so heshouldbe home.
It’s possible he’s in his room, playing video games, and since I now have Jace’s number thanks to Jonah creating a group chat titled “Passenger Princess,” Icouldcall him, but… I left my phone at home.
I knock again.
This time, it takes a few seconds to hear movement from the other side. A moment later, the door opens and I come face to face with analmoststranger. I sayalmostbecause I’d seen the man before, usually face down on the bar top in the general store.
I had no idea he was Jace’s grandfather.
He stands in front of me in boxer shorts and a stained white tank top, a shaky hand gripping a can of beer, and it’s hard to make out his age. His posture is drooped, sinewy, tanned skin hanging off his bones,but beneath that, I can see a hint of muscle. I picture him as a young man, as Jace, and I attempt a smile.
“Hi, Mister—Sir,” I correct myself, not knowing which side of Jace’s parents he’s from. “Is Jace home?”
The man lifts the beer to his lips, his hand trembling the entire way, and he glares at me beneath gray, bushy eyebrows as he drinks, drinks… drinks some more. When he’s finally done, he throws the empty beer can over his shoulder, then belches. Right in my face.
I cansmellhim—a horrid stench of beer and body odor, and still, I remain in my spot, not letting him get to me, and make sure my smile doesn’t falter for even a second.
Another burp later, and he asks, his voice gruff, “Who the fuck are you?”
I stand taller, refusing to let him intimidate me. “My name’s Harlow.” I point toward my house. “My family moved in over the summer. We’re right next door.”
His response is a grunt. Nothing more.
I ring my hands in front of me and attempt to look over his shoulder. It’s too dark to make out much of anything in his house besides the television blaring loudly. I focus my attention on the man in front of me, eying me with open disgust. “Is Jace home?”
He takes a step back, I assume to call out to his grandson, but no.
He slams the door in my face.
I release the breath I’d been holding and spin on my heels. “No wonder Jace is so grumpy,” I mumble. Head low, shoulders slumped, I start making my way back home, kicking at the loose gravel with the toes of my sandals.
“Harlow?”
I look up to see Jace jogging toward me, removing his over-ear headphones as he nears. He’s in running shorts and a loose tank with the sleeves cut low, his tanned sides on full display. His inky dark hair is soaked, every inch of flesh glistening with sweat. It’s clear he’s just been for a run, but he’s barely out of breath when he stops in front of me. “What are you doing?”
“My dad’s home,” I tell him, one eye squinted from the sunhovering behind him. “He wanted me to invite you over for dinner, so I knocked on your door, but…”
Slowly, his focus shifts from me, to his house, then back again, his eyebrows pinched. “Did anyone answer?”