Page 16 of August Lane

CHAPTER SIX

L uke had never been good with words. He was a late talker who’d preferred to communicate with gestures until his fourth birthday.

That was the year his father died, and he wondered if, even at that age, he knew that meant his childhood was over.

Ava started calling him the man of the house when she tucked him into bed.

His pediatrician considered Luke’s sudden willingness to talk evidence that his prior reluctance was obstinance instead of a developmental issue.

Ava thought that meant Luke was being difficult and made it her mission to make him easy.

Any time he slipped into his old habit of gestures instead of speaking, she’d grab his hand and squeeze until he flinched.

Luke learned to use his words strategically, like tools.

He knew which jokes would make his teammates laugh or what kind of greeting would prompt a smile from a stranger.

He knew what not to say around his mother when she was hurting.

He knew what his girlfriend wanted to hear when he called her each night, even though she hated talking on the phone. “Just needed to hear your voice.”

But tools were only useful when you could anticipate the problem.

It was like driving around with a tire iron in the trunk.

Wheels went flat sometimes, which made it easy to be prepared.

Only that didn’t work with August. His usual tools were useless because he couldn’t predict what she would say.

So, when she leaned over, gave him a face full of pretty, and asked about her notebook, he’d nearly choked on his saliva and sprinted from the room when the second-period bell rang.

Now that he’d had a few hours to gather his thoughts, he planned to return it that afternoon along with a note explaining why he’d kept it so long.

He was currently on his third draft because he wasn’t sure how honest to be.

If he wrote the whole truth, that her songs reminded him of his father, it would be weird without elaboration.

He was a farmer, but also a poet. I only have one of his books, which I hide, so my mother won’t throw it away.

He flipped through the journal, looking for the song he loved.

“My Jagged Pieces” was about living with a broken heart.

Sometimes it’s bitter / Sometimes it’s sweet / But I think / since you left / it’s forgotten how to beat.

He added a chord progression in pencil just in case she was so mad that he’d taken the notebook, she wanted to erase the music he’d written.

But if she wasn’t too angry, he would retrieve his guitar from the truck and play it for her.

Eventually, he gave up on the letter, which had taken on a begging quality he wasn’t comfortable with.

Instead, he planned to give her the notebook in class tomorrow along with the simplest lie he could think of.

“It must have gotten mixed up with my stuff. I didn’t realize it until you said something.

But I wrote some music for you. Keep it. Erase it. Whatever.”

Luke walked out of the gym feeling pleased with himself for coming up with a solution. But then he saw August sitting on a bench near his truck. It had to be his punishment for coming up with such a dumb-ass plan. He couldn’t walk past her like nothing happened. He had to tell the truth.

Luke approached her from behind and said, “Hey.”

August looked startled. She tugged at that ugly, baggy T-shirt she’d worn for some reason and said, “Hey,” with more impatience than he expected. It made him wish he’d walked home.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She frowned, and he realized that he’d done things out of order, apologized for an offense he hadn’t admitted to. He reached into his gym bag and pulled out her notebook. “I found it on the floor a few days ago.”

She didn’t take it. “Did you read it?”

Luke’s arm slacked. “Yes.”

“Did you show it to anyone else?”

“No. I swear, I would never do that.”

She finally grabbed it and flipped it open. He winced when she spotted his notes. “That’s music.”

“I can see that.” She glanced up at him. “But I can’t read it, remember?”

Luke rubbed his neck. “Right. I thought maybe I could…” He gestured at the pages instead of finishing. If there were a trophy for being the biggest idiot around a beautiful girl, he’d win it by the time the conversation ended.

August turned the page and stared at his notes on another song. “Why did you do this?”

Luke sat beside her. She immediately shifted to keep him directly in her line of sight. “I should have asked first.”

“Asked?” She slid her hand over the pages. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Luke couldn’t contain the smile that spread over his face, showing all his teeth. He probably looked goofy, but he didn’t care. “For real?”

“Yes. But you didn’t answer my question. Why? This looks like a lot of work.”

“I liked your songs,” he said, but it felt like lying.

The statement was so inadequate. “I loved them. When I love something, this is what I do.” He gestured at the notes.

“Books. Poems. Like I did earlier when we were reading Langston Hughes?” She nodded, and he said, “I heard it, so I had to write it down.”

He was talking too much. He stopped to give her a chance to speak, but she only stared at him, her face soft and open, like he’d never seen before. She flipped through the journal again. “I wish I could hear it.”

Luke glanced at his truck. “My guitar is—” He stopped when he saw Jessica walking toward them. She was dressed in a volleyball T-shirt and shorts with her game shoes slung over one shoulder. He looked at August and choked out “Sorry” before Jessica reached them.

“There you are,” Jessica said. Her eyes skidded to August but quickly refocused on Luke. “I was waiting.”

Luke had forgotten he was giving her a ride home. “Sorry.”

“You say that a lot.” August’s voice was colder. There was no trace of the vulnerability from earlier.

Jessica frowned and whispered, “Okay, bitch.”

Luke looked back and forth between the two, mentally hovering above the situation and trying to figure out the best way to disrupt the tension.

The truth would only make things worse. Hey, Jess, this thing with August is a pathetic one-sided crush with no hope of reciprocation.

And, August, Jess and I had terrible sex.

But we also said I love you, so if we break up over that, it means we’re terrible people.

“We should go,” Jessica said to Luke. “My parents said there was traffic on the way to 30-A, so I don’t know when they’ll get to the beach house. They always call to check in.”

Luke hated how she spoke to him, as though they were the only two people in the conversation. He looked pointedly at August. “She’s having a birthday party tonight,” he said. “Everyone’ll be there. You should come.”

Jessica stiffened at his side. She’d be furious with him later. “Yeah,” she said, eyes full of daggers. “Please. Come. Everyone will be there.”

August smirked and said, “I have plans. But enjoy your birthday.” She looked at Luke and added, “I hope you get everything you want.”

Luke watched August gather her things and leave. He wanted to say something, signal that this guy he became around Jessica wasn’t him. But whatever August had dislodged inside him earlier was wedged firmly back in place.

Jessica patted his back as they walked to his car. “Niceness is wasted on that girl. At least you tried.”

Luke nodded, even though he hadn’t.

August had considered accepting that invitation to Jessica’s party just to see what her face would do.

During the brief conversation, her expression had shifted from mild irritation at Luke to a sour snarl when she spotted August, to a bland smile that was supposed to hide her anger but only made her look like a demonic American Girl doll.

If August had said “I’d love to” in response to Luke’s offer, Jessica probably would have sprung a leak somewhere.

Despite how misguided Luke’s invitation had been, it had come from a place of genuine kindness, which was his default.

If Luke Randall could be himself, he’d slide into goodness with little friction.

But he had Friends, the capital F kind that tainted your instincts by deeming anything genuine a social sin.

That was the good thing about being a pariah; the only person August had to please was herself.

Still, it would have been nice to have real Thursday night plans, something illicit and chaotic, like normal seventeen-year-olds. Instead, she sat in her room with a cordless phone cradled in her lap, editing the list of notes she’d made to navigate a phone call with her mother.

Meticulously planning her interactions with Jojo was part of the weirdness that came with having a famous parent.

There were rules for keeping her mother’s undivided attention.

The first was no rambling. The conversation had to be interesting enough to feel like it wasn’t a waste of her time.

August tried to be sharp and funny, even when she wasn’t in the mood to be.

That was rule number two—no sad talk. No whining about your day, which was tiny and insignificant compared to Jojo’s big, important life.

August’s goal during every call was to make sure the conversation didn’t become a chore.

She dialed Jojo’s number. Her mother’s assistant answered the phone. “Is this Miss August? Hi, sweetie, how are you? She’s putting her face on, so it’ll be a second.”

“Thanks, Patty,” August said. “How are your kids?”

Patty launched into a story about her little Caleb’s first steps, and August pretended to be impressed because it was the least she could do for the woman who picked out her birthday gifts each year.