Which means he really has no excuse to come back after this.
‘So you’re homeless,’ Moxie says. Not like a question.
Sam’s caramel gets suddenly stuck in his throat. ‘Yeah.’
‘What about your parents?’
He doesn’t want to talk about this. Especially not with her, not with someone who’s actually seeing him. Once you start talking about fathers who beat the crap out of your brother and aunts who hate you and older brothers who still drop in screaming meltdowns – you start sounding like the kind of wind that whines through all the cracks of a house. The kind you wish would shut up and never come back.
‘Not around,’ he says. ‘It’s fine. I just – I make do.’
‘In my house, clearly. How long were you even there?’
‘A … a few days.’
Moxie gapes. ‘Days? We had no idea for days?’
‘You don’t go into that office much,’ Sam says.
‘No.’ Moxie looks away again. ‘It was … it was my mum’s space. She did all the books for my dad’s building business and it was like her “no kid” zone. So she could catch a break.’
Sam picks at the hem of his T-shirt. ‘Yeah, my mum walked out too.’
There’s no answer, so Sam keeps picking at threads, until he realises Moxie is staring at him. Hard. He flinches. He’s said the wrong thing.
‘No, my mum died.’ Moxie’s voice is strangely emotionless. ‘Cancer. She … she had it after Dash was born too. That’s why there’s like seven years between Dash and Toby. Then it was gone and Toby was a surprise, so I guess she and Dad decided he’d need a playmate.’
The playmate in question tries to eat one of Toby’s proffered dirt pies. Moxie doesn’t seem fazed.
‘Then the cancer came back and she chose keeping the baby over chemo,’ Moxie says. ‘I mean, she was trying everything else to fight it but … she died a year ago, two months after the baby was born.’
The weight of the story sticks in Sam’s throat. He knows you’re supposed to say something comforting when people talk about tragedy. But he doesn’t have conversational skills. When it comes to people, he screws up and runs away. The end.
So all he says is, ‘I’m sorry she was stolen from you,’ because thieving is what he knows and this is most definitely a theft as cruel and sharp as knives.
The curious look is back, flitting in the corner of Moxie’s eyes. ‘Thanks. That’s … that’s exactly what it feels like. And I’m the oldest girl so everyone thinks I’ll just fit the space she left, but …’ She seems to shake herself a little and then yanks a hair tie off her wrist and scoops her frizzy mane into a ponytail. ‘Wow. I totally did not mean to blurt that at someone I just met.’
‘We met that Sunday,’ Sam says.
‘Met properly,’ Moxie concedes. ‘So now you know I’m a motherless snark who bites and you’re a homeless creep who sneaks into people’s houses and steals their lunches.’
So maybe he hasn’t made any progress.
‘But you also saved Toby.’
He scrapes hands through his hair again and ruins his pathetic attempt at combing.
Moxie looks pointedly at his arms. ‘I’m not forgetting that.’
He drops them to hide the healing scrapes.
‘But you were stealing wallets on the Esplanade that day, right?’ Her voice levels back to brisk sharpness. ‘I didn’t tell anyone that either. Currently my family knows you appeared out of nowhere to spend Sunday with us and then vanished.’
‘Why didn’t you tell them I’m a thief?’ Sam says, soft.
‘Because you saved Toby and I didn’t want you to get in trouble. Ugh.’ She groans and tosses the empty chocolate box on the veranda. ‘I have to tell my dad the truth. All of it.’
Sam squeezes his eyes shut and for a moment the world is summer sun and grass clippings and children shrieking over splashing water and hot roses and a girl who smells of caramels.
‘I’ll go.’ He knows this is the end. ‘I wanted to explain and I wanted to apologise and … I did … both.’ He stands, awkwardly dusting grass off his jeans. He’s still damp, but a few hours walking will solve that.
Walking to nowhere.
‘Wait.’ Moxie stands too. ‘My dad could help you. I mean … where will you go?’
Sam shoves his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m not … I’m not excusing myself, but I steal to live. If your dad finds out about me, the only thing he can do is hand me over to the police. And there’s other stuff. There’s …’ His voice trembles, too high, and he makes an effort to even it out. ‘I can’t go to prison. I just can’t. I have to look after my brother …’ Avery would die if Sam got caught. He’d never cope.
Moxie chews her lip, her face strangely vulnerable. ‘OK. I get it.’
There’s silence. Sam’s toes tip over the edge of the world and he’s dizzy and hopeless. This is the part where he goes away and her life goes back to normal.
‘I can’t cook,’ Moxie says, very suddenly. ‘I burn everything. It’s a literal nightmare.’
Sam remembers scrubbing the blackened pot.
She meets his gaze and he realises her eyes are the same golden brown as her caramels.
‘Do you know how to make pancakes?’ she says.
Sam cracks eggs into a bowl and scoots the butter away from Toby’s curious poking fingers. He also pretends he’s not watching Moxie. But his face turns hot as he collects ingredients – without Moxie’s direction. Because yes, Sammy Lou knows his way around the De Lainey kitchen quite fine.
Awkward.
Moxie takes this in with thin lips. She hoists herself up on the bench and bounces the fussing baby.
‘You don’t seem like an axe murderer,’ she says finally.
Sam carefully pours perfect circles of batter into the frying pan. He searches for a response but his words are lost, perpetually lost, stuck in hollows where people have scowled or flicked his ears for not answering fast enough.
‘You have flour on your nose,’ Moxie goes on, ‘a clear “not-an-axe-murderer” sign. And you were OK-ish that Sunday.’
‘OK-ish?’ Sam repeats.
Moxie shrugs.
Sam’s heart flutters ridiculously and he clutches the egg flipper to stop his fingers shaking.