Cooper turned his face, gazing at me intensely. “Are you kidding, Wills? You’re the most difficult person I’ve ever met.”
But he was wrong, I wasn’t difficult.
I was just cautious.
Chapter Nine
“So, did you ever kiss him?” a soft voice asked, and I stopped in the middle of swooping the mop across the linoleum floor to face the little girl it belonged to. Her nose was wrinkled, as she waited for me to answer.
I switched the mop to my left hand, and then flexed the right to get rid of a sharp cramp. “Who?”
“Gavin Sawyer.”
It was Wednesday evening, a little after six, and I’d been at the homeless shelter since before noon. Cooper had called me unexpectedly this morning, moving our early afternoon surf lesson to eight o clock this evening. When I’d asked why, I could practically hear his shrug through the connection. “Got an appointment,” he said.
If I had been the one making the request, he’d have asked me a hundred questions.
“Well, did you?” the girl asked, dragging my mind back to the present. She’d been in here for at least an hour, sitting at the end of one of the d-hall tables, writing in a spiral notebook as I scrubbed the tables.
And now that I was mopping just a few feet away from where she sat, she was asking me about my pre-rehab boyfriend, Gavin.
Plunking the mop down inside of the yellow bucket full of murky water, I bent over and scooted it up against the wall. Wiping my damp hands on the front of my dark jeans, I slid down across from the little girl. “Why would you think I ever kissed him?” When I gave her a serious look, she rolled her dark brown eyes and tossed her curly chestnut-colored hair over one shoulder.
“Because I’m eleven and I’m not stupid. Besides, I saw you on the Teen Music Awards with him last year before my mom and dad . . .” She looked down, playing with the corner of the notebook, bending an unraveled bit of spiral with the tips of her fingers. Her unspoken words lingered in the air, so heavy that my world felt like it was spinning off its axis. When she took a deep, shaky breath and raised her eyes back to mine, my chest clenched up, hurting for her. What had happened to her parents in the last nine months for her to end up here, in a homeless shelter meant for women and kids?
Why the f**k was life so unfair?
“I adore his band,” she said in a lisp. “Green-Eyed Girl is my favorite song—I bet it was about you.”
No, it wasn’t. Because everything about Gavin, from his catchy pop music to his perfectly coiffed highlighted hair, was manufactured by the network his show aired on.
“So,” the little girl said, folding her hands together and tilting her body forward, “stop avoiding the question. Did you ever kiss him?”
“Only once,” I replied, my voice gentle. Because, to be honest, I couldn’t tell her that the guy she worshipped—the boy band, teen-magazine prince—was nothing more than a coke snorting, fan-hating shitbag. Hoping to steer the conversation away from Gavin and back to something that would make her smile, I pointed down at her notebook and peered over. She lunged forward to cover the page with her hands and chest. I drew back, holding my hands up in front of me. “Just wanted to see what you were writing,” I said defensively.
She cocked her head to the side, pursing her lips together as if she was trying to decide whether or not to tell me. Finally, reluctantly, she said, “I’m drawing.”
“Can I see?”
She looked surprised—wide-eyed and cherry red face surprised—before she mumbled, “It’s not very good.” But she sat back, pushing her notebook in my direction, keeping her fingers at the edges like she was too afraid to let go. For a long time, I stared down at the drawing—a princess made out of bubblegum from a cartoon I was guilty of watching a few times.
“This is awesome! Got any of Marceline?”
Her mouth dropped, and I held back a grin. “You like Adventure Time?”
Nodding, I started to quote a line from the show—the only line I actually remembered—but the sound of a throat clearing startled me. The girl and I both turned our heads to where Dave was now standing at the foot of the table smiling.
“Willow, can I speak to you?”
My face sunk into a frown, but I pushed away from the table and followed Dave out of the cafeteria, down a wide hallway, and into his office which was cramped by stacks of books, paperwork, and at least a hundred pictures of his family. I sat on the other side of his desk, scraping my hands together in my lap and waited for him to tell me what the hell was going on.
“Willow . . .” Dave began, and it was in one of those exasperated voices that automatically made me sink my teeth into the inside of my jaw. He was frowning, as if he was trying to find the right thing to say and then he sighed. “We almost declined your lawyer’s request to allow you to work for us, but we believe in second chances.”
Well, thanks for letting me know that.
I started to speak, but when I opened my mouth it was impossible to talk past the giant lump in my throat. So I nodded my head slowly.
“A lot of our residents are children, like Hannah, who have been hurt. The last thing we want is for them to get their hopes up.”
“I wasn’t making her promises or getting her hopes up. She had a question about a band she likes. I”—I bit my bottom lip—“know one of the members pretty well.”
“We’d prefer you not to answer questions like that.”
And then it hit me. Dave wasn’t just admonishing me; he was asking me not to have contact with the residents of the shelter. I didn’t want to be affected by what he was requesting, and yet it felt like someone was punching my chest from the inside.