Page 20 of Furious

I stand there feeling lower than dirt—lower than the downward-creeping roots of my dad’s vegetable garden—until JoJo takes my hand in hers and tugs me gently back down the stairs into the sunlight, so bright that it hurts.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JoJo

El drops my hand as soon as we reach the minivan. Which is a shame, because it felt right there, resting in mine. But she’s also dealing with a lot—I can only imagine how shitty she feels knowing her sister was with that guy—not that I can say anything about that. So, I just keep quiet as El unlocks the car. As I open my door, her hand reaches out, resting on the handle.

“Thanks again for going with me,” she says, casting a quick glance back at the apartment building. “I mean, you didn’t have to. And this could’ve been dangerous, but I’m glad you’re here.”

I’m not quite sure what to say, so I default to humor, as always. “Absolutely. That guy was … not great … which is to be expected, I suppose, based on someone with a beard that bad.”

Mercifully, El laughs at this. “He was awful. And did you see that living room? I swear you could’ve planted crops in the dust on top of the coffee table.”

“The fish tank was also a crime. And I wanted to steal their cat away from them. Grandma Jolene always says to never trust a man who can’t treat his pets well.”

“Amen to that.”

A long pause stretches between us. “I’m sorry though,” I say, twisting a piece of hair that’s come out of my ponytail. “I really hoped we’d find out more about Max.”

El swallows once. “Me too.” Her voice is wobbly. “But maybe Max doesn’t want to be found. Maybe I should give up.”

I fight every part of me that is Grandma Jolene’s granddaughter and don’t offer El a hug or a sweet tea for her sorrows. “Not a chance. If this were a detective show, I’m certain this is where someone would say, ‘That guy’s hiding something. I can feel it.’”

El scowls. “He definitely knows how to find Max, unless he’s totally lying. But how do we get him to tell us?”

I smile, confidence filling me. Feelings are hard, but racing, that’s easy. Or easier at least. “We race him for it?”

“With what? I’m not risking my sister’s bike; I’ve never even raced it before.”

“Then I’ll race him.”

“You don’t even have a driver’s license. Or a car.” El looks pointedly at what she calls the Oatmobile.

She’s not wrong, but she’s not completely right, either. Mom’s car isn’t running yet, but it could be. “All details we can figure out later.”

“Those are hardly small details.”

“Trust me. We’ll come up with a plan. Now, come on. Cheer up. I’m buying you lunch.”

“From where?”

“The Shake Shack, of course. I saw one as we drove into Deerfield.”

El looks at me through her eyelashes, looking so cute for a moment as understanding dawns on her face. “JoJo Emerson-Boyd. This is not a homecoming dance. There’s no need to get so fancy.”

I bark a laugh. “What can I say, you’re worth it.”

El laughs as well and we spend the rest of the ride to the Shake Shack laughing and talking about El’s shortish racing career and who’s winning on the F1 circuit this season. By the time we get milkshakes and fries to dip in them, El’s decidedly more cheerful.

Once we’re parked outside Jolene’s house, a long silence stretches between us. I want to say something cool, memorable. Something that conveys how much I like hearing her laugh.

“So, see you on Saturday at the nursing home?” I blurt after slurping up the last of my strawberry milkshake.

It is neither smooth nor interesting, but a relieved look flashes across El’s face. Because, right, we’re just barely-maybe-sort-of friends. Nothing more.

“Yes, see you then. And in the meantime, I’ll try to think of a way to get Max’s jacket.”

“We’ll figure it out.” I hop out of the minivan and hurry into Jolene’s house, forcing myself not to look back.