Nothing Like You by Lauren Strasnick Page B

sandy hair.
     

Chapter 25
     
    When I was really small , before we lived in the house we have now, Jeff, Mom, and I lived in one of those two-story townhouse complexes by the beach. I don’t remember much about that place other than the ocean out back, our spiral staircase, and this really red, rectangular table where we ate all our meals, but lately, I’d been thinking a lot about that apartment.
     
    “You okay?”
     
    Jeff and I were in the kitchen eating brown rice and beans. I took a sip of water. “Fine,” I said. “Just thinking.”
     
    “About what?”
     
    I’d been picturing dinners at that old apartment. Me, Mom, Jeff. Mounds of Italian takeout. I had the perfect memory fixed in my head: the three of us slurping spaghettiaround our chintzy table. “Nothing interesting,” I said. “School stuff. Do we have any soy sauce?”
     
    “Fridge,” Jeff said, taking a bite of rice.
     
    I got up and shuffled forward, drifting back to my memory—spaghetti, old apartment—I swapped out my image of Jeff and replaced him with visions of Ballanoff— rewriting my memory so that the new version went something like: me, Mom, and Ballanoff, together, eating sizzling Szechuan chicken with chopsticks. “You want chili sauce?” I asked, my hand hovering over the huge orange bottle on the door of the fridge.
     
    “Sure, yeah.”
     
    I grabbed both bottles and kicked the door shut with my sneaker sole. “Maybe we can get Chinese sometime this week.”
     
    “You want Chinese? I thought you didn’t like Chinese.”
     
    “No, I do.” I pictured Ballanoff lifting a white, doughy dumpling to his lips. “I like Szechuan chicken. Dumplings, too.” I dropped back down in my chair, then slid the chili sauce across the table toward Jeff.
     
    “Then, okay, yeah, sounds great, Hols.”
     
    I nodded, satisfied, lifting my cup to my lips.
     

Chapter 26
     
    Tap tap tap.
     
    I’d been asleep. I opened one eye and stared up at my window.
Tap tap tap
. Paul was wearing this ratty, old red T-shirt I’d loved. Still did. It was thin and had holes at the armpits.
     
    “Holly,” he mouthed. My window was shut.
     
    “Go away,” I said back. He’d been calling nonstop lately. Every day, sometimes twice a day. I hadn’t been answering his calls.
     
    He shook his head. I turned over so I was facing away from the window.
Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
I turned back around. “Holly,” he said again. I sat up, slipped on my slippers, and ran down the hall to the front door. He was waiting when I got there. I cracked the door a smidge a slid outside.“You have to leave,” I whispered, folding my arms over my chest and leaning my back against the side of the house.
     
    “I was a total asshole,” he started. “Please, let me come in. I won’t touch you. I just want to talk.”
     
    I stiffened.
     
    “Come on, Holly. I’m like your fucking dog. Please”—he clamped his hands together as if he were praying—“let me come in.”
     
    “Just say whatever you have to say. And keep your voice down, Jeff’s asleep.”
     
    “Let’s go to the toolshed.”
     
    “No.”
     
    “Isn’t that where you and your little boyfriend play house?”
     
    I twisted toward the door. I was going back inside.
     
    “Holly Holly Holly
…”
He pulled me back by my elbow. “I’m sorry, I’m just jealous, okay? I’m sorry.”
     
    He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “I miss you,” he said, lighting up.
     
    I pulled my shorts down so they sat square on my hips and watched Paul puff out a big poof of smoke.
     
    “And I’m sorry. And I want things to go back to the way they were.”
     
    I looked at the ground and kicked a pile of dirt.
     
    “I’m gonna break up with her.”
     
    A bolt of fear shot up my spine. “You can’t do that. Why would you do that?”
     
    “For
you
.”
     
    “But I don’t want you to.” I looked down by Paul’s feet and saw a rotten