Page 54 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

“Hey,” I say quietly. “I didn’t know you were— I mean, I just saw you.”

“So, you, uh, walking home?” I try again.

“No, I’m training for a marathon.” Dry. But not cruel.

I almost laugh. It’s such a Jaq answer I don’t know what to do with it.

I try again. “You want a ride?”

They don’t answer right away. Just stares ahead at the stretch of sidewalk like it might solve everything if they just keep walking.

Then, finally, they sigh. “I guess.”

We walk in silence back to the SUV. I try to open the passenger door for them, but they do that teenager thing where they walk around and open it themself, like they need that one sliver of control.

I don’t push it.

They get in. Buckle up. Stare out the window.

I slide in behind the wheel and sit there for a second before pulling away from the curb.

“What’re you doing out here?” I ask.

“I’m not supposed to be,” they mutter. “I skipped.”

That lands.

“You skipped school,” I repeat, not sure whether to be angry or relieved.

They shrug again. “Felt like it.”

I nod slowly. “Does your mom know?”

“Probably not.”

Great.

And now I’m in the middle of a situation I haven’t had the right to be in for years.

I glance at them again. They are older. Taller. Hair longer. Jaw sharper. But the way they curl slightly toward the window, like they want to disappear—that’s the same.

They used to do that before I left. When they were trying to figure things out going into puberty. When the world felt too heavy and nothing made sense.

“You hungry?” I ask, voice low. “Want to grab a burger before we head back?”

They don’t say anything for a beat.

Then: “Yeah. Okay.”

And it’s not forgiveness. It’s not a fix.

But it’s a start.

And I’ll take it.

twenty-seven

. . .