owner’s stoner grandson was working the register. He’ll be too high to even realize I came in and bought cigarettes.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “But if you breathe a word to anyone–”
He holds his hand up.
“I gotcha,” he says.
He hands me a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and tells me what he needs.
I doubt one pack will last him the rest of lockdown, but maybe it’ll help him cut back. Maybe he’ll decide to quit smoking. Then he can get vocal lessons. Stop, Chloe. That’s mean.
“Thank you so, so much. You’re my lifesaver,” he says.
I just nod like a bobblehead and watch him slip out of my bedroom. I’m getting in too deep with this Saturnite stuff.
I pull in at the service station. There’s an old beat up truck outside. It looks like the only form of human existence. I grab my keys, Jules’s money, and toss my purse onto the backseat. I lock the doors, glance around, and hurry inside. If anyone saw me, it’d be secret service agents watching my every move. I think I’m clear, though.
The door creaks open, and a bell dings above my head. The stoner kid turns around and smiles a goofy smile.
“What’s up?” he asks.
How professional. Isn’t “How may I help you?” a standard business greeting?
I stammer through asking for one pack of crushed ladybugs in a cancer stick. He digs around in the rack above the register and rings up my purchase. It’s quicker and less painful than ripping off a bandage.
Once I’m back in the car, I grab my purse, shove his cancer sticks and change inside, and head back to the house for more segregation from Milo. I just wish I knew what he was thinking. Is he avoiding me because he’s embarrassed about the towel incident? Is he afraid someone will get the wrong idea and it’ll get leaked and ruin his nice boy image?
Oh God. It clicks in my brain, and I want to jump in my own spaceship and fly away to Saturn. He’s afraid I’m getting the wrong idea. That has to be it! He knows I’m slowly falling for him (okay, slowly is the biggest lie ever), and he doesn’t want to lead me on. He doesn’t want to be the guy who broke my heart because he didn’t feel the same way. He doesn’t want to fall into the same category as Deacon and be some jerkoff who ends up on my hate list forever.
It’s the only thing that makes sense. I can’t even hate him for it. At least he spared me, right? He didn’t lie and drag my name through the mud. He didn’t call me an Ice Queen. He was perfectly nice about it, and that makes me feel even worse. Milo knows that once this lockdown ends, he’ll go back to touring, I’ll go on to college, and he’ll be nice to me on Twitter every now and then. I’ll get a follow back out of all of this lockdown stuff. My life sucks. I’m going to make a T-shirt when this is all over that says “I Hid Spaceships Around Saturn and All I Got Was a Lousy Twitter Follow.”
I reach for the CD player to blast Sebastian’s Shadow for the rest of the drive home. Maybe it’ll drown out my insecurities and false hopes and any thoughts of Canadian boys. I feel for the CD button, punch it, and turn up the volume. But I didn’t punch the CD button. I hit FM. Milo’s voice pours through my speakers.
This is the summer of hell.
Jules meets me in the garage the moment I pull in. He’s either incredibly impatient or Aralie blew up at him while I was gone, which might’ve resulted in smoking his last two cigarettes. He rushes around to my car door and jerks it open.
“Did you get them?” he asks.
“Have you been standing there watching for me?” I ask him.
“I’m nicotine-dependent, okay?” he says. “I’m craving here. I’m being discreet. No one knows I’m out here.”
I dig through my purse, grab the pack of cigarettes, and attempt to fish out the loose change. Then he tells me to keep it, like I’m a freaking waitress or something, and darts back inside. I gather Mom’s batteries and trail inside behind
“Okay, fine,” I say. “But if you breathe a word to anyone–”
He holds his hand up.
“I gotcha,” he says.
He hands me a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and tells me what he needs.
I doubt one pack will last him the rest of lockdown, but maybe it’ll help him cut back. Maybe he’ll decide to quit smoking. Then he can get vocal lessons. Stop, Chloe. That’s mean.
“Thank you so, so much. You’re my lifesaver,” he says.
I just nod like a bobblehead and watch him slip out of my bedroom. I’m getting in too deep with this Saturnite stuff.
I pull in at the service station. There’s an old beat up truck outside. It looks like the only form of human existence. I grab my keys, Jules’s money, and toss my purse onto the backseat. I lock the doors, glance around, and hurry inside. If anyone saw me, it’d be secret service agents watching my every move. I think I’m clear, though.
The door creaks open, and a bell dings above my head. The stoner kid turns around and smiles a goofy smile.
“What’s up?” he asks.
How professional. Isn’t “How may I help you?” a standard business greeting?
I stammer through asking for one pack of crushed ladybugs in a cancer stick. He digs around in the rack above the register and rings up my purchase. It’s quicker and less painful than ripping off a bandage.
Once I’m back in the car, I grab my purse, shove his cancer sticks and change inside, and head back to the house for more segregation from Milo. I just wish I knew what he was thinking. Is he avoiding me because he’s embarrassed about the towel incident? Is he afraid someone will get the wrong idea and it’ll get leaked and ruin his nice boy image?
Oh God. It clicks in my brain, and I want to jump in my own spaceship and fly away to Saturn. He’s afraid I’m getting the wrong idea. That has to be it! He knows I’m slowly falling for him (okay, slowly is the biggest lie ever), and he doesn’t want to lead me on. He doesn’t want to be the guy who broke my heart because he didn’t feel the same way. He doesn’t want to fall into the same category as Deacon and be some jerkoff who ends up on my hate list forever.
It’s the only thing that makes sense. I can’t even hate him for it. At least he spared me, right? He didn’t lie and drag my name through the mud. He didn’t call me an Ice Queen. He was perfectly nice about it, and that makes me feel even worse. Milo knows that once this lockdown ends, he’ll go back to touring, I’ll go on to college, and he’ll be nice to me on Twitter every now and then. I’ll get a follow back out of all of this lockdown stuff. My life sucks. I’m going to make a T-shirt when this is all over that says “I Hid Spaceships Around Saturn and All I Got Was a Lousy Twitter Follow.”
I reach for the CD player to blast Sebastian’s Shadow for the rest of the drive home. Maybe it’ll drown out my insecurities and false hopes and any thoughts of Canadian boys. I feel for the CD button, punch it, and turn up the volume. But I didn’t punch the CD button. I hit FM. Milo’s voice pours through my speakers.
This is the summer of hell.
Jules meets me in the garage the moment I pull in. He’s either incredibly impatient or Aralie blew up at him while I was gone, which might’ve resulted in smoking his last two cigarettes. He rushes around to my car door and jerks it open.
“Did you get them?” he asks.
“Have you been standing there watching for me?” I ask him.
“I’m nicotine-dependent, okay?” he says. “I’m craving here. I’m being discreet. No one knows I’m out here.”
I dig through my purse, grab the pack of cigarettes, and attempt to fish out the loose change. Then he tells me to keep it, like I’m a freaking waitress or something, and darts back inside. I gather Mom’s batteries and trail inside behind
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