The Summer I Drowned (SEA GLASS)

chapter four

A GIRAFFE-SHAPED BUSH looms over our heads as Keely and I walk the cobblestone path to the Hendricks' estate. I remember all of this—the lush green grass, the radiant shrubs covered in pastel flowers, and I'm pretty sure Edward Scissorhands is still their gardener. Thin, thorny vines intertwine on the reddish-brown brick walls of the mansion.

Keely knocks on a mahogany door that looks like it's built to accommodate seven-foot-tall giants. An iron hanger shaped like a snarling lion's head is mounted to the center of it, and when no one answers the door, Keely bangs that, too.

"Okey-dokey, no one's getting the door," she grumbles.

I hug myself and glance at the wide, gated, horror-movie-esque property.

"Maybe he's around back." Keely adjusts her lemon-yellow crop top. She always wears yellow—it looks good with her dark skin tone. "Wanna go check? I'll keep on knock, knock, knocking." She rolls her eyes.

Doubt fills my chest, but I agree. I'm creeping along the hedges around the side of the house when I hear voices. I stop and listen.

"Look, the money's not for me. It's for Amelia." That's West. My heart jumps—why is he here? I didn't even see his car, but their parking lot extends along the other side of their house.

"Well Amelia isn't here, is she?" That deep, baritone voice belongs to Brian Hendricks, West's father. I'd never forget it. "Weston, if you ever hope to become a part of this family again, you'd better clean your goddamn act up."

"Oh, fuck off. I work harder than Miles and Faye could ever fucking imagine. Forget it, I don't wanna be part of your fucked up, narcissistic family."

My feet are frozen in the grass, my back pressed to the wall with thorns pricking my skin through my blue t-shirt. I can't move. Why can't I move? If I get caught, West will think—

"Olivia?"

Shit.

West stands in front of me, his dark eyebrows pulled together, his blue-green eyes disdainful. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was just, I was—"

"Did you hear that?"

"No," I lie. Shit, why am I lying?

"Were you eavesdropping on me?"

"No, I wasn't, I—"

"Whatever." West takes off. I can't explain the bubbling anxiety that forces me to speak again.

"West, wait."

He turns, and when our eyes connect, something changes on his face, like a bolt of lightning striking through a black sky. His anger fades, a flicker of something I don't recognize taking over—shock, maybe. But why?

"What?" he asks.

"Are you okay?"

He stares at me long, hard, heavy, before his shoulders relax. West sighs and rubs his eye with his left hand, just like he used to when he was a little kid.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just frustrated with my dad." He walks toward me, but stops a good meter away. "Look, uh... sorry."

I bite my lip so hard that I think it might burst. "For what?"

"For yesterday. You were just trying to talk to me—I know I was a dick. But my boss really gets on my ass if I chill with friends during my shifts."

Relief washes through me, because part of me had hoped that somehow, he'd have a valid reason for being rude to me. I can't help but laugh a little. "You could've just said hey, sorry, I'm busy right now, my boss will get mad at me if I talk to you. That would've been less brutal."