Renata Santos doesn't expect her heart to flutter when she catches a boy stealing flowers out of her backyard. But as she unravels his reputation, she realizes puppy-eyed delinquent Isaac Marshall may just be the sunshine she needs to turn her life...
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H A Z E L
[corylus maxima] ➳ reconciliation.
THE DISTANT GLOW OF the sunset tinted my vision as I stepped onto the porch. I faced Isaac begrudgingly, closing the door behind me. "This better be good."
He fidgeted, double-checking the second-storey windows of the house for any sign of my parents. A second before he tucked his phone into his pocket, I saw my name on his screen, along with the message I'd sent him advising him not to come over.
He, of course, had not followed that advice.
He scratched the nape of his neck, unable to keep his hands from moving. "I mean, I hope so," he babbled, "but I suck at, like, speaking to authority. Not that I'm having second thoughts... maybe I should've prepared. This is so fucking nerve-wracking. God, Ren —"
"My parents are hardly authority figures." I crossed my arms. "If you're so scared, why did you come?"
"Because it's the right thing to do." Isaac rubbed the side of his face. "Right?"
"Right. But I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to."
"No." He shook his head for emphasis, still clutching his cheek and creating a pink splotch in his skin. "It's okay."
Sighing, I leaned back and pushed against the door. I stepped into the hall and let Isaac through the entryway, noting as he stepped past the welcome mat that although he'd snuck into the garden on several occasions, this was his first time inside my actual house.
There was something twisted about allowing a known thief to pass through our front doors, especially on the same day of his worst crime yet. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about him all afternoon, and how he had met my father under the worst possible circumstances.
"That's the living room," I told him, pointing to the end of the corridor. "Go sit down. But don't roll up your sleeves like that; it makes it look like you're going to fight someone."
Isaac laughed nervously, pushing the sleeves of his hoodie down his arms. I watched him settle onto the couch before I climbed the stairs, rehearsing a jumble of words in my head.
I reached my parents' bedroom-slash-study room and knocked. "Mom, Dad?"
"Come in, sweetheart."
A familiar sight greeted me on the other side: my mother sat on the bed with her knitting supplies all splayed out around her, and my dad leaning back at his desk. Both of them turned toward me as I leaned against the door frame.
"So, don't freak out," I began, "but Isaac is here."
Dad nearly knocked over his laptop. "In the house?"
"I said don't freak out. He's in the living room. If you're worried about him stealing stuff —" which, admittedly, I was, "you better come down quick."
