I spend most of the first half of the summer alone, wandering the property, trying to keep out of my mother’s way. The older boys always seem to find something to do. They go fishing or swimming in their lake or riding into town. They never invite me. The only Preston girl is the oldest, and she doesn’t live in the main house. When she is there, which is rare, she’ll talk to me. But she speaks to me like I’m a kid, and I don’t feel like I am one. I doubt she even knows how old I am. I don’t think she cares. I don’t think anyone here cares about me at all.
I hide all of this when I call my grandpa, lying about all the fun I’m having. I feel horrible for doing it, but I’m positive it’ll hurt him to know the truth. My mom stands in the kitchen of the garage apartment while I lie on the couch with the phone to my ear, trying to keep my voice even.
“It’s good you’re having fun, baba,” his deep voice booms, causing a smile to tug at my lips. I miss him. I miss his voice, his thick Hungarian accent, and his pet name for me that translates to baby. I’m his only grandchild, and I know, deep in my heart, that I’m his everything. I shut my eyes, imagining him in our living room, sitting in his recliner with the TV on mute, his withered hands shaking as he holds the phone to his ear. He’ll be missing me just as much as I am him, but he encouraged me to come here, to see more of the “world” than what he could offer me. He wants me to get to know other kids besides Holden. “It’s how you make friends,” he told me.
We were in the same state, only three hours apart, but he was right: this is another world.
“I was thinking, when I get back, we should—” I start, but Mom cuts me off.
“Mia, take this down to the main house and give it to Tom for tomorrow.” She sets a casserole dish on the counter.
“I’m on the phone,” I reply, even though she already knows this. She doesn’t respond; she only pushes the dish an inch closer to me before going to her room and shutting the door. A moment later, the shower turns on.
Sighing, I get up from my makeshift bed and say into the phone, “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay, sweetheart. Szeretlek.”
“I love you too, Papa.” I hang up and shove my phone in the pocket of my sweats before picking up the dish with the dishtowel. It’s still steaming hot from the oven. I struggle to slip on my shoes and open and close the door before making my way down the apartment stairs. The porch lights of the main house are on, and Tom’s sitting at a patio table with one of his sons. The boy’s back is to me, so I can’t make out which one it is. Neither of them sees me until my feet hit the porch steps, and they both look toward the sound.
Tom smiles.
Leo doesn’t.
“Sorry to disturb you,” I croak. “My mom told me to bring this over. Did you want me to put it in the fridge?”
Tom stands, taking the dish from me carefully and placing it on the table. “It can wait,” he says, that smile still in place. “Why don’t you sit with us for a bit?”
My head shake is fast, fervent. “It’s okay. I’ll just—”
He’s already pulling out a chair.
I can’t say no, so I sit, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. I’d never been this close to Leo before. He’d always leave when I entered a room or simply ignore that I was there. In this setting, with me sitting directly opposite him, it’ll be impossible to ignore me. But, he does have a book in his hand, covering his face, so maybe he can fake it. To be honest, I’m surprised he doesn’t just get up and leave.
“How’s your summer been so far?” Tom asks, taking a sip of what I assume to be coffee.
“It’s fine. Good, I mean. It’s been good.” I’m a nervous wreck, and I have no reason to be.
Tom clears his throat. “I take it my boys are keeping you busy? Or entertained, at least? There’s always something to do around here.”
It hurts to smile. To lie. “They sure have.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Leo’s book lower an inch. And then another. His brow knits as his penetrating gaze meets mine, his usual bright blue eyes darkening with an emotion I can’t decipher. He doesn’t speak.
“When the boys get to be too much,” Tom says, “just tell Laney, and she’ll put them in their place.”
I tear my gaze away from Leo and focus on what Tom said. From what I’ve witnessed, Laney’s mainly Lucas’s friend, but all the Preston boys treat her as one of them. Lucas and Laney are only a couple of years older than me, but they seem more mature. More…experienced in life.
“Okay, I’ll do that,” I murmur. I’m itching to leave, to go back to the comfort of my solitude.
Tom’s phone vibrates on the glass top of the table, and I’m grateful for an out. He stands, answering the call and bringing the phone to his ear. I start to get up, but his large, heavy hand lands softly on my shoulder, keeping me in place. “Stay.” His tone is gentle. “I’d like to talk with you some more.”
I nod, my neck craning to look up at him. He’s tall, well over six foot, and I wonder for a moment which of his boys will end up being the tallest of them all. My eyes track him into the house and into his office, where I can hear the slight murmur of conversation from his end. Once my buffer’s gone, I inhale sharply and keep my gaze trained on the casserole dish. A minute passes. Two. I realize my jaw’s tense. I try to relax the muscles just as Leo clears his throat. My gaze snaps up. His book’s on the table now, lying flat, pages spread. “My dad says you live on a farm?”
My pulse kicks up at the sound of his voice, at his words directed at me.
I nod again but keep my lips pressed tight, and I try not to look at him... at his eyes. They seem to give away too much, and yet, they reveal nothing at all.
He relaxes into his seat, his plain white tee stretching with the movement. “What’s it like?”
Shrugging, I answer with the only thing I can think to say: “It’s quiet.”
His lips kick up on one side. “Must be nice.”
I feel my shoulders relax. “The quiet?”
It’s his turn to nod.
“I guess.” I shrug. “Sometimes, it can be lonely, though.”
“Huh.”
“I bet you don’t have that problem here,” I say through a nervous giggle.
He sucks in a breath, lets it out in a whoosh. “You’d be surprised.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t.
“Dad says you homeschool?”
“Yep.”
“Can that be lonely sometimes, too?”
I don’t know if he’s asking because he’s curious or if he genuinely wants to know. Either way, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. “Most kids in my town homeschool. We don’t really have another option unless we want to travel over an hour each way,” I reply, surprised at the evenness of my voice.
He sits taller, leans in closer, his eyes narrowing. “That doesn’t answer my question.” There’s no accusation in his voice, just a steady, stoic string of words.
“It’s not lonely,” I murmur. “I normally do it with my best friend, Holden. His mom helps us. We do the work at his house, or they come over to mine.”