Page 14 of Into the Deep Blue

I’m super fucked up. Something’s off with Fiona. I know it. She’s shutting me out, and I don’t know why. It’s like I’m walking through a funhouse with mirrored walls where everything feels like it’s tilted sideways.

I’m ass-deep in interlock pavers, and it’s only ten in the morning. Gravel. That’s what my future driveway will be. That’s it.

But I can hardly blame Mrs. Sullivan for having to be here.

When I drove through her yard last winter, the ground was too cold to start landscaping repairs, so Dad promised her it would happen in the summer. He went all out, too, not just replacing the lawn and hedges I tore through but interlocking her driveway. My mistake is costing him thousands.

There’s no question it’s the right thing to do. Even the judge thought it was admirable. What a wonderful human my dad is, right? But here’s what gets me: he’s not doing it for me or because he cares about Mrs. Sullivan. He’s doing it for the publicity. What a model parent. What an honorable company. If only he put that much effort into fixing our family, but there wasn’t any financial benefit to that, so why bother?

And this mistake isn’t even his to own. It’s mine.

I offered to work on her yard myself, but Dad robbed me of that by swooping in and making it about his company, so now I have to live with him holding it over my head. Look at what a screwup you are. Do you know how much you’re costing me? Do you even appreciate what I’ve done for you?

And I do. Of course I do. But a small part of me wishes the judge would have thrown me in jail. Dad even pulled some strings and had my record expunged, and being indebted to him is a whole other life sentence.

The curtain from the front window is drawn back. Mrs. Sullivan gives me a wave from inside, and I wave back. I’ll never forget the look on her face the night of the accident. It morphed from terror to disappointment, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for putting it there. At least she gets interlock. So, even though I might look like the weakest link on the landscaping crew, I work twice as hard as the rest of them.

I drop a brick along the edge of the driveway when I hear a ding from my pocket. Ray, the foreman, is trying to explain the process to two new guys, so I have a second to steal a glance, hoping it’s Fi.

Except, it isn’t. I don’t recognize the number.

971-542-0071: Is this a good time?

The next text will probably be a link to a survey or a request for a charitable donation. But they don’t usually use emojis.

Me: Depends

971-542-0071: It’s May

Fiona’s friend

We met at the party

She gave me your number

I try to remember if there’s anything we talked about that would warrant a follow up, but I come up empty. I’m sure there’s a reason Fi gave her my number.

Me: Hey

971-542-0071: I feel like we got off on the wrong foot

Can I buy you a coffee this week and try again?

Everyone’s getting back to work, and I can feel Ray’s stare burning into the back of my head. I need to wrap up, whatever this is. I text back:

Sure

971-542-0071: Yay! Great!

That’s the last I think about it until later in the afternoon when Ray drops me off at home, and I flop into bed. May texted me the address of a coffee shop nearby. And it hits me. Is this a date?

Because I can’t go on a date. I don’t want to go on a date. This is exactly why I don’t hang out with people because flirting is inevitable, and if you don’t flirt back, you’re obviously fucked up. There are no earthly reasons I can conjure to say no to her. Every excuse I can think of disintegrates before I type out the words. If I blame it on work, May will call me out on it because she knows I always have time to hang out with Fiona. Saying I’m sick is the most obvious cop-out, but right now, I am feeling pretty sick about it.

There is no room in my life for this. Alex keeps pressing me for this statement, and all Dad wants to know is that I’m over Mom, which to him would look a lot like going out with girls who aren’t Fiona. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s why I said yes.

Fiona still hasn’t texted me back since the party. I want to ask her what the deal with May is, but the wrong words always come out. It’s like I’m surrounded by a trip wire, and I can’t move without taking the whole damn place down with me. Silence is golden for a reason.

Honestly?

I could have said no.

Honestly?

I choked.

Honestly?

I’m going to enjoy telling Dad I have a date.

Even though it isn’t one.