“What the hell are you doing here?” I finally spit out.
Jay Lanier pops his hands up on the door frame and leans toward me. Leather cuffs circle each wrist, and ropy muscles in his forearms ripple with tension. His smirk morphs into something so self-indulgent that I wish I had long fingernails so I could claw it right off his face. His gaze trails up my body, pausing at every possible spot that I never planned on letting Jay Lanier glimpse ever again, even through a tank top and shorts. I glare at him, but my hands are trembling and my stomach heaves, my mouth watery.
He laughs softly—?demonically, if you ask me—?and leans closer.
“Did I ever tell you that Jay is my nickname?”
My mouth drops open.
He smiles, a maddeningly slow spread of his mouth like the fucking Grinch. “No. I don’t think I did.”
I try to conjure some insult, anything to put me on equal ground here, but only incoherent combinations of four-letter words come to mind.
“Welcome home, Grace,” he says.
And then he slams the door in my face.
Chapter Three
I STARE AT THE BRIGHT WHITE DOOR. BEHIND IT, the guy I planned to avoid all summer bashes around. Something heavy—?I’d think it was a book if Jay Lanier had ever been spotted with one—?thwacks onto the floor. Music clicks on and some sugar-shocked, overly eager male voice filters under the crack in the door.
Son of a bitch.
And son-of-a-every-other-swear-word-in-existence.
“Grace!” Mom bellows from the kitchen. “You hungry? I have some sandwich stuff here!”
Her voice grates on me like an oboe just a nick out of tune. Every affectionate feeling I had toward her a few minutes ago about New York, about my cozy little room, vanishes. I stalk down the hallway, pausing by the dining room window to toss back the curtains and eye what I now recognize as Jay’s Jeep. Not that I’ve ever been inside it. He got it after we broke up last fall, but I’ve seen it in the school parking lot and around town enough times to realize why it looked so familiar on first glance.
I find Mom rummaging through the vintage one-doored refrigerator. Her shorts are so low on her hips, I catch an unwanted glimpse of red thong. Straightening, she tilts her head at the muted TV on CNN, mouth open a little as it flashes live shots of some tornado that ripped through Nebraska last night. Mom sighs and I grit my teeth.
“Pete’s last name is Lanier?” I ask.
She startles and drops a few squares of American cheese. “Yes. Honestly, Grace, I know I told you about him.”
“You didn’t. You told me nothing, as usual. You also failed to mention Jay.”
“Jay?”
“JAY!” I whisper-yell, flinging my hand behind me toward the bedrooms.
“You mean Julian?” She picks up the cheese and tosses it onto the counter next to a package of turkey and opens a bag of bread. “Did you meet him?”
I can only stare at her. Is it possible that she’s really this clueless? Well, yeah, of course it is. I know this about my mother. She can’t remember what grade I’m in half the time. Still, I sort of expected her to remember the name of the boy I dated for six months who then made my life a living hell after I dumped him. I thought our breakup was going to be pretty quiet. I mean, it was clearly time. I was bored. He was bored. But he went ballistic. Right there in the school cafeteria. Knocked his tray full of tacos off the table and stormed out. The next day, a screenshot of every text message we’d ever exchanged that mentioned body parts ended up on his Tumblr page.
I told Mom all of this. Unlike her, I do tell her things about my life, stuff other girls would never tell their own khaki-clad mothers. I guess it’s my pathetic-as-hell attempt to bond or something. As usual, it’s backfiring bigtime.
“He’s a sweet boy,” she says. “Helped me move in all your furniture when Pete was busy learning the ropes here.”
Yep. She really is that clueless.
“Mom.”
She stops spreading mayonnaise on a piece of bread and looks at me pointedly.
“Jay. Lanier.” I enunciate every syllable, making my eyes as wide as they’ll go.
Her penciled brows press together for a few seconds before popping up into her hair. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah.”
She points the mayo-covered knife toward the hallway. “That’s Jay?”
“Yes.”
She’s nodding now, probably remembering the few times I brought Jay home for about ten minutes. I mean, yeah, I made sure the two of them spent very little time together when we were dating, but still.
“Oh my god,” she says again. “Well, this is a surprise.”
“Clearly.”
Mom cranes her neck around me and eyes the hallway. Her shiny lips spread into a flirty grin. “I think what’s clear is that you have excellent taste in men, baby.”
“Mom. Ew.”
Mom laughs and slaps greasy turkey slices onto her bread. “Do I need to pick up some condoms? I wish you’d go on the Pill, because you don’t want—?”
“God, Mother! He’s a total dick, remember? Can you just . . .” I flap my hands around, trying to grab the right words out of the air. “Can you act like a parent for five damn minutes?” She flinches and I rub at my temples, my head suddenly aching.
“Gracie,” she says, coming to my side. She wraps an arm around my shoulders, and I lean into her for a minute. “I’m sorry, baby. You know how I get when I’m excited.” She smooths her hand over my hair. “You’re right, I wasn’t thinking. I know Julian—?Jay—?gave you a hard time a while ago—?”
“‘A hard time’?” She’s making it sound like he got mad and drew devil horns on my yearbook picture or something. The guy posted our sexts for the entire world to see, for christ’s sake. Consequently, everyone at school hoisted him onto their shoulders, and I got a bunch of averted gazes in the hallway. Not that I really wanted their gazes, but it’s the principle of the thing. “Mom, you can’t be serious. There’s no way this is going to work.”
“I’m sure Julian is over it. You’ll see. It’ll be fine. He’s a sweet boy.”
“Mom. He’s an asshole, and now I’m living across from a guy who’s seen my boobs—?”
“So have I.”
“—?and I’m supposed to sister up to him for however many months you and Pete live in la-la land? Can’t you see how messed up this is? You should’ve seen the way he just looked at me in the hall. I mean, ‘It’ll be fine’? Really?”
She bites her lower lip as her eyes search my face. “God, you’re right. I’m sorry, baby. I see how this might be weird for you.”
Weird isn’t exactly the word for it, but still, it’s something. I feel my shoulders relax a little, prepare myself for more packing and moving.
Then she removes her arm from around me and twists her fingers together into a little knot. “But—?”