Page 1

Claire
2012
“Seven... eight... nine... ten—ready ornot, here I come!” I shout before uncovering myeyes and turning around. The living room is deceptively quiet, considering I happen to babysit for the most rambunctious five-year-old on the planet. “Where could Simon be?” I say it loud, waiting for the telltale giggle that usually answers the question.
No giggle.
I creep around the couch and check behind it before going for his favorite spot. Whipping the living room curtains aside, I stir up a flurry of dust bunnies but no Simon.
“Hmmm…” I call out, heading for the tiny dining room off the kitchen. “I wonder if he has invisible superpowers?” There’s the giggle. Under the dining room table.
I tip-toe around the table, suppressing a laugh when I see that the king-sized bed sheet we used to build a pillow fort is hopelessly askew and showing Simon perfectly. He’s sitting under the table with his eyes squeezed shut in an if-I-can’t-see-her-she-can’t-see-me sort of way. Hunkering down, I boop him on the nose with my finger. “I see you.”
As soon as I touch the tip of my finger to his nose, Simon dissolves into another fit of giggles. “You found me,” he says, his eyes popping open.
“You’re my best friend,” I tell him, ruffling his mop of dark brown hair. “I’ll always find you... ready to help me start dinner?”
It’s not really my job. Simon’s older brother should’ve been home an hour ago, but he sent me a text saying, Got caught up. Can you start dinner? Makings for spaghetti are sitting out on the counter and Simon’s on a pretty tight schedule.
I might as well make myself useful.
Right. You just want to help. It has nothing to do with the fact that Simon’s brother is so scorching hot that you’d probably do just about anything he asked you to do.
Simon nods, crawling out from under the table before taking me by the hand to lead me into the kitchen. Boosting him up to the sink, I help him wash his hands before setting him at the table in his booster seat. “Ready to squish?” Ignoring the jar of store-bought sauce on the counter, I scrounge up a few cans of stewed tomatoes. Opening them, I pour them into a large bowl.
Simon wiggles his fingers at me. “Ready Freddy.”
I set the bowl in front of him, and he digs in, using his small, chubby fingers to break up the tomatoes for the sauce. Every time he pops a tomato in his fist, he cackles like a maniac.
Damn, I love this kid.
I put a pot of water on to boil before chopping garlic and onions, adding them to the pan with a drizzle of olive oil and some dried basil I found in the spice cabinet. Digging around for oregano, my phone starts to ring.
“Jax!” Simon calls out, automatically assuming it’s his older brother calling me. Just hearing his name makes my stomach flip, leaving me nauseous and giddy, all at the same time. I pick up my phone, hoping the kid is right, even though all he ever says to me when he calls is, hey, can you pick Simon from daycare or hey, do you know how to make meatloaf? or can you sit for Simon on Tuesday?
Which are stupid questions.
Of course, I’ll pick Simon up and of course, I know how to make meatloaf.
I’ve been head chef at Chez St. James for seven years now. Since my mother packed her bags and left us when I was eleven. And spending time with Simon is one of my all-time favorite things to do. I’d even offer to do it for free if I didn’t think my willingness to hang out with her five-year-old for free would make his mom question my mental health.
Still, a girl can hope that someday, the boy she’s marginally obsessed with will call her one day and say hey, do you want to go out sometime?
But it’s not Jaxon calling. It’s my sister, Brianna. My twin sister. We aren’t identical—as a matter of fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear we aren’t even related.
“Not Jax,” I say, flashing Simon the phone. She babysat for him once while I had the flu a few years ago. It didn’t go well. As soon as he sees my sister’s duck-lip selfie on the screen, he curls his lip up at my phone and pops a tomato in his fist.
Laughing, I answer the phone, putting it on speaker before propping it up on the counter. “What’s up?” I say, running my knife through a bell pepper I found wilting in the crisper.
“When are you coming home?” Bri says over the din of what sounds like a live deejay. We just graduated high school, and our father is out of town, so it’s an actual possibility.
“Are you having a party?” I toss the bell pepper into the pan before adding a pinch of salt to the pot of water simmering to a boil on the back of the stove.
“Party is a strong word—” In the background, someone shouts the keg is here! “—it’s just a few friends... so, when are you coming home?”
“I’m not sure.” To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to come home. Staying here and playing hide-and-seek with Simon is more my speed. Still, I look at the clock. It’s after six now. I should’ve been home an hour ago. “Mrs. Bennett doesn’t get off until eleven and Jaxon gets off—”
The backdoor opens behind me, and I feel my stomach do its tilt-a-whirl thing again because it’s him. It’s Jaxon, and even though I see him almost every day, I still get a little bit lightheaded when I do.