Page 64 of The Love Interest

When she steps out, she’s put on makeup, so her skin glows. Her eyelashes have been extended using some sort of bottled trickery, and it looks fantastic. She’s wearing a navy dress dotted with specks of silver and different-colored circles. No, not circles. Planets. The specks of silver are stars.

She’s wearing a space dress.

It’s the best piece of clothing I’ve ever seen. It’s cute and kind of funny, and it makes me ache more than ever for the future I’m taking from her.

“Ready to go?” she asks.

I keep staring at her.

“Caden, what’s going on?”

I look down at her feet. She’s wearing black high heels with thin straps that wrap around her ankles. I meet her eyes.

“You look beautiful, Juliet.”

I mean it.

She blushes. “Thanks. And you look nice as well, Caden. Very suave. Should we go?”

I nod, and we walk through the house to the carport, where a gold Mazda is waiting for us. She opens the door and we climb in. The passenger seat is pushed right to the front of the car, leaving no leg room. I pull on a small lever beneath the seat and it slides backward.

She turns on the engine. “Dad bought this for the family so I would learn to drive a manual,” she says. “Only he didn’t ask if I wanted to learn a manual, which I don’t. So I’m sorry if the ride is a bit bumpy.”

I’m sorry about interrupting again, Caden, but you should definitely ask her about her family. It’ll—

Kaylee, do you seriously think I don’t know that? I’ve got this.

Fine! I’ll stop.

“How are you and your dad getting along?”

She rolls her eyes as we pull out of the carport. “There’s always friction. Anytime one of us speaks we annoy the other. I know it drives us both up the wall but we can’t stop it.”

“You’re too similar, I guess.”

“Ouch. But you’re probably right. What about your parents? Do you get along with them?”

I think of M, and the deep indent she’s left on the couch. And D, the great bear of a man who always reeks of alcohol. Then I think of the big blank space that is my real parents.

“I dunno. They kind of do their own thing. I’m just sort of there.”

“I find that hard to believe—they’ve got you, the poster child of manners and charm, and they don’t care?”

“Not really.”

“Well, screw that. And screw them. I think you’re great.”

She flicks on the turn signal and pulls to the curb in front of a bustling restaurant. Out the front is a small balcony. Lights have been wrapped around the railing, and they glow in the fading sunlight. Inside, people sit at the tables eating large plates of Italian food. Waiters dressed in black duck and dive between the tables, carrying plates of food or removing dirty dishes. I breathe in through my nostrils. It smells like parmesan cheese, tomatoes, and garlic.

We get out of the car and walk to the front of the restaurant, where a girl with shiny brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail smiles at us. She’s dressed in a black dress shirt and a loose skirt.

“Hello,” she says. Her accent is distinct yet unfamiliar, clearly from some European country. Maybe Sweden? She’s staring at me expectantly. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yeah, we do. Under Walker.”

She checks a black folder. Her eyes scan the page for a second, then they light up. “Ah yes, Mr. and Mrs. Walker, what a pleasure, may I take you to your table?”

“We aren’t married,” says Juliet. “We’re seventeen.”