“I feel like that’s normal for Monopoly. It’s not a nice game.”
“It wasn’t only that. If we raced, we would trip each other. If we were jumping off cliffs, we’d break an arm just to beat the other person. Everything was a competition.”
“But you still loved each other.”
“Did we?” He seems surprised by the idea. “We weren’t a particularly loving family. Dad would shout at us. Mom would yell at us. Rhys and I would get into a fistfight before dinner. The irony is that he was better than me. Objectively. At everything. He was older, taller, stronger, smarter.”
“I don’t know. You’re pretty smart.”
He gives a huff of laughter. “I’m something. I don’t know when to quit. That’s what I bring to the table. And with Rhys. Even though he was bigger and stronger than me, if I just kept fighting, if I never quit, then sometimes I’d win.”
“It probably helped you build that shipping business.”
“Yeah. Probably.”
“I’m also leaving her paint set by the door. Her brushes are clean.”
“What would we do without you?” he asks, his tone serious.
A bright smile is my only defense. “I’m sure you’d get along fine.”
I head downstairs to hide the ache in my chest. The truth is they would get along fine. Eventually. Not right away, but eventually they would stop arguing over Pop-Tarts and jackets.
They are family. I’m the hired help.
I can’t get these things confused, even if my heart wants something else. That would be what Mateo warned me about. Beau Rochester would not set out to hurt me, but he could shatter me into pieces so easily. If I let myself get my hopes up, if I read more into his desire than is really there, I would fall for him. Eventually, I would fall apart.
When the Uber pulls up, I wave to Paige.
Mr. Rochester is a shadow behind her in the window. It’s the same Toyota Prius as before. The same driver. I wonder if he’s the only one willing to drive up this crazy mountain.
“Do you come this way often?” I ask, mostly to see if he’ll remember me.
“Nope.”
Apparently not. We spend the drive in silence. I text a few people back home, including Noah. He sent me a meme of a lion who steals a wilderness photographer’s camera. It’s a joke. A reminder of one time when I took his hoodie from the laundry by mistake and then refused to give it back because it was so much warmer than mine. One time, I text back.
I don’t have a specific plan for my day off. The agency deposited some money. Most of it gets held back. We’re still a few months away from that payment, but there’ve been regular deposits every week that I haven’t been spending. I haven’t needed it for rent or food.
The Uber lets me out in front of shops. It’s a strange feeling to know I could walk inside and buy something for myself, something fun and unnecessary, and still have enough to eat. Still have a roof over my head. Of course I really need to save it for when I start college.
One in five kids who age out of foster care end up homeless. That could be me. That could be Noah or any of the other kids I grew up with. It will be one of them, which is why it’s so important I go to college. Not only because I’ll be able to help other kids in the system, but so that I can have security in my life. Safety. This is what survival looks like.
My phone rings, and I glance at the screen. Noah’s grinning face looks up at me. My stomach does a little twist. I care about him like a brother. It hurts that we have this rift, but I don’t know how to fix it beyond memes and one-line texts.
“Hey,” I say, strolling down the sidewalk. There’s an antique shop with these ceramic lions that look Chinese and a heavy screen that has Egyptian stuff drawn on it. I wonder how old something has to be before it’s called antique.
“I’ve missed you,” he says.
My heart squeezes. I pull back to check the time. “Aren’t you at work?”
“I’m on break.”
That means he’s got fifteen minutes. Maybe less depending on if he needs a drink of water or to use the bathroom. The grocery store manager is strict about that. “I’ve missed you, too.”
There’s a whisper of air over the phone.
My eyes narrow. “Are you smoking?”
A short puff of laughter. “Jane.”
“I thought we agreed no more smoking.”
“That was before you moved to another state.”
“I didn’t move here. It’s a temporary thing. You know that. I’m coming back to Houston.” I only hope that we can resume our friendship when I do come back. It will hurt never to see Paige again. It will hurt never to see Beau Rochester again. “That’s where I’m going to college.”
There’s another pause, and I know he’s taking a drag of his cigarette. I hate that he feels like he needs them. They’ll only make him sick, but I manage not to say that. “Sometimes I think it’s better if you don’t come back.”
I stop walking. Only dimly I register that I’m stopped in front of a chowder restaurant with a giant clam on its hanging sign. “You don’t mean that.”
“You never fit in with us anyway.”
I blink hard to fight the tears. “Stop it.”
“It’s true. We’re all going to be on drugs or dead in fifteen years. Not you. You’ve got your eyes on something bigger. I want that for you.”
I don’t honestly know whether he’s saying something he thinks will help me. Or if he’s trying to hurt me. It wouldn’t feel good to have your friend tell you you don’t fit in, but as an orphan, as someone who’s struggled with the concept of home for years, it’s hell.
“I’m coming home to Houston,” I tell him. “In six months. I hope we can still be friends then, but you need to stop acting like this. I don’t miss this. I miss my old friend. I miss my brother. The one I could talk to about anything.”
There’s quiet. “What do you need to talk to him about?”
About Mr. Rochester. About Paige. “What do you think it means if a little girl is scared about the way her parents died? If she’s worried they’ll come back for her?”
“Sadness sometimes comes out as fear. Or anger. Remember that kid who thought his parents were astronauts who died in a secret mission to Mars?”
“But I just kept thinking, what if he was right? And no one believed him?”
A soft laugh. “Only you would possibly think that.”
“This family has so many secrets, Noah.”
“All families have secrets.”
At the end of the street there’s something large and gray bulging out from the grassy hill. A submarine, I realize as I get closer. Someone put a giant submarine in the middle of a park. USS Albacore, says a placard. I take a seat on a picnic bench nearby. “I don’t know what to think. What to believe. I just need someone I can trust. I need you.”
“You have me, Jane. I was talking shit because I was jealous.”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around,” I mutter.
“What?”
“You need to go, probably. Don’t give Miller any excuses to dock your pay. And stop smoking.”