Page 13 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

ME: No, now is a bad time.

Delete.

ME: Yes, they’re home, but you’re not welcome.

Delete.

ME: Are you still in town? I figured you’d have traipsed off to some remote crime-infested location by now?

Delete.

Instead, I stare at his message like it’s going to self-destruct. My pulse ticks up, a full drum line marches in my chest.

“Shit,” I whisper, spinning in a circle. The kitchen looks like a war zone—dirty coffee mugs from this morning’s meeting, more crumbs from after-school snacks, a half-finished school project drying on the center island that looks suspiciously like papier-mâché vomit, and a stack of unopened mail threatening to topple like a doomed game of Jenga.

I shove mugs into the dishwasher, sweep the crumbs with my hand, and immediately regret it when half of them fall to the floor. Kiki Von Trousers darts in to lap them up. At least someone’s useful.

My phone buzzes again.

NOAH: Ten minutes?

I freeze. Ten minutes. Not hours. Not days. Ten. Minutes. The man used to keep me waiting weeks for a phone call when he was in the field, and now he thinks ten minutes’ notice is enough. It’s like he doesn’t know me at all.

Or he does know you and he’s not giving you the time to freak out over this.

I type out a shaky reply.

ME: Sure.

The word looks insane, but I hit send anyway.

I bolt down the hall, hair flying, mentally telling myself to shut up. My reflection in the bathroom mirror is… grim. Sweat from gardening earlier has frizzed my hair into a halo of chaos, and I’m wearing a tank top with a tomato stain on the front. And I smell like dirt. I yank my hair into something resembling a bun, splash cold water on my face, and grab mascara like it’s a weapon.

My mother’s voice floats through my head:

“Never let a man you are attracted to see you without mascara, unless you’re dead. Then it’s too late for everyone.”

Why? Why must she intrude in the worst possible moments?

Did she include a mascara clause in her will too?

Still…mascara, check.

Concealer on the stress pimples threatening to rise, check.

I swap the tomato-stained shirt for a clean-looking one from the pile on my bed and hope Noah doesn’t notice I’m still in the same leggings and flip-flops from this morning.

Another quick glance in the mirror confirms I still look more hot mess than social media picture worthy mom who kind of has her life together.

Fuck it.

I race down the stairs and glance around. Where will I feel calmest? Most like me.

Backyard.

I grab ice cream from the freezer and some sundae essentials and yell, “Hey kids? Ice cream sundaes on the patio!”

Because nothing says “we’re totally fine without you” like chocolate sauce and whipped cream in the afternoon.