Speechless(98)

                I open up a new text message screen on my phone and type                     in,





                it’s called texting LOSER.





                He grins. “Point duly noted.”

                He eases around a bend that takes us to the long stretch of                     road along the lake. I squint out the window at a few figures in the distance.                     Ice fishers. In the summer, Dad likes to take me fishing at the docks by the                     yacht club. You can’t eat anything you get—they’re mostly skinny rainbow trout                     anyway—so all we do is catch and release, but he likes the sport of it, I guess.                     I like to sit on the planks, the warm wood digging into the backs of my knees,                     legs dangling, and cast my line over and over lazily, enjoying the sun.

                Snowflakes hit the window and melt, trailing down in tiny                     rivulets. Summer feels so far away. All there is now is cold and snow, snow and                     cold.

                We end up at Rosie’s. Not such a surprise. Sam turns off the                     engine and says, “Tuna melts.”

                I raise my eyebrows at him.

                “I said I’d teach you how to make them,” he continues. “So                     let’s do it.”

                No one’s around when we walk in, except for Dex and Lou,                     mopping floors and cleaning off tables.

                As soon as Lou sees me, she drops her rag. “Oh, sweetie, what                     happened?”

                I must really look like a mess. I shrug and swipe                     self-consciously at my eyes.

                “Do I need to kick someone’s ass?” Dex asks. He points the mop                     handle straight out, wielding it like a weapon. I crack a small, teary                     smile.

                “Just a rough day,” Sam says. “You know how it goes.”

                Lou drags me into the bathroom and helps me clean up, dabbing                     under my eyes with a damp paper towel, her fingers lightly guiding my chin. When                     I’m this close, I can see how clear and smooth her skin is. Like a model’s. I                     should ask what product she uses.

                “You know, you have killer eyes. Very expressive,” she                     says.