And when he does … when he drops my hand and turns away from me, I feel an awful, hollow ache inside. But now he’s shut down completely, as if he’s pressed a button and erected some kind of electric barrier between us that I can’t cross. He’s turning off the light on his workbench, putting everything as it was, tidying up.…

“Better get back out there,” he says in a husky voice that sounds lost and cold. A voice that thinks he’s made a terrible mistake and is now overcompensating to correct it.

No! I open my mouth to be teeth-gratingly honest, but one of his little cousins bursts through the garage door, bringing with him the noise of the backyard and the little black dog … and all my honest words stay stuck inside my head.

I want to tell him that I’m glad he brought me in here to show me his work and be reunited with his stupidly nice, wonderfully loud family. That he’s not a monster. That he’s actually wonderful and kind and funny, and I never realized how much I missed my best friend until right this minute.

No, I don’t just miss him. I want my best friend back. My boy.

But I think I also want Lucky 2.0.

I also want to ask him if he would please hold my hand again.

I also want to be a lot more than friends.

I’m greedy: I want it all.

Tick, tick, tick.

What in the world do I do now?

Chapter 13

DRIVE LIKE IT’S YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD: Obnoxious red paper sign posted in the shop window of Regal Cosmetics in the South Harbor district. The shop’s owner has made multiple complaints to the police and during town hall meetings about speeding cars and loud music. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

Chapter 13

Of all the things I’ve inherited from my mother—the secret-keeping, my inability to communicate in a healthy manner, love for fried food, and intense loathing of the word “y’all”—the one thing I wish she’d passed down was her ability to chitchat in uncomfortable situations. She’s very good at it, and even when she’s putting her foot in her mouth, she’s usually able to laugh it off and talk her way out of things. Gift of gab.

I could use a little gab when Lucky takes me home from Sunday dinner and—after I text Evie and find out that Mom is out of the apartment on another one of her “night drives” around the harbor—drops me off in front of the bookshop. I just don’t know what to say to him, not when he’s all clammed up and pushing me away.