Page 47 of Exchanged

I look down, realizing that his hand has grabbed my wrist. His gaze follows mine, as if noticing it himself. But he doesn’t release his grip, keeping his warm hand clasped around my own. Our eyes lock, and his eyebrows pull together as if I confuse him. He leans forward until we’re inches apart, the air between us heavy with the scent of warm beer. His lips part and his gaze searches my face and neither of us move.

I don’t know how we got to this moment, but I know I want this. I want him.

I bring my lips toward his, and I can almost feel their softness, can almost taste the hot air of his breath. But before I make contact, something in him closes.

He shuts his eyes and releases a groan and leans back against his headboard. His hand leaves my wrist and runs through his hair. He flashes a casual grin.

“God,” he says, “I’m gonna be so fuckin’ hungover tomorrow.”

I’m left leaning into the space, head tilted, eyes half closed, waiting for the kiss that almost happened, a sunburst of shame spreading through my chest. I stand up. Garrett watches me with an uninterested expression, as if I had only wandered in here to play him a solo on my oboe. I can think of nothing to say, so I lift my hand in a stupid wave and leave. He says nothing when I close the door behind me.

I’m working the front desk on Thursday after school when Dad thumps down the staircase carrying a rattling cardboard box.

“We’re done with Precious Moments figurines,” he announces, dropping the box near the door with an accompanying crash of shattering ceramics. “No one buys them, and they’re creepy as hell. Enzo, if anyone tries to sell us those teary-eyed demons, tell them we don’t buy them anymore.”

He’s been doing this. He’ll go into a room and clear out all the items he thinks won’t sell for a high enough profit, box them up, and donate them to the thrift store. Dad’s always been lax about the inventory side of our business, taking on items whether or not he thinks he can sell them. They often sit, untouched and dusty, for years. But the break-in has shifted something inside him, creating an obsession with showcasing our marketable merchandise. He’s also installed a security system, bought a safe, and placed cameras at our front and back doors.

It’s how he hides his stress. While Dad has undergone this purging and dealt with the insurance company, I’ve been working extra hours without logging them. I did nothing to stop the break-in, so I should work for free until our shop is back on its feet.

Garrett enters through the front door, sidestepping the box of figurines. “It’s chilly out there.”

Dad eyes his letterman jacket. “Is that your only coat?”

Garrett looks down at himself. “It’s warm enough.”

“Not for long.”

“How much colder could it possibly get?”

Dad and I glance at each other. It’s only early November, and while the temperature has settled below freezing, winter hasn’t really started yet.

“You need a warmer jacket,” Dad says, leaving no room for argument. “Enz can drive you to the city to get one.”

“There’s a city nearby?” Garrett asks.

Twenty minutes later, we’re driving down the main street of Blue Harbor.

“This isn’t a city,” Garrett says.

“It has stoplights,” I argue.

Blue Harbor, nestled against Lake Superior, is bigger than Irontown, so we come here to do most of our shopping. Where Irontown is run-down and tired, Blue Harbor is bustling and quaint. It has more going for it: the regional hospital, the college, art studios, breweries instead of bars, boutique shops instead of thrift stores.

I find a spot to park, and we step out of the truck. An angry wind blows up from the lake under a steel sky. We walk into an outdoor clothing store, and I lead Garrett to the winter jackets, showing him how to find the cold tolerance of each one.

“Why would I need a jacket that can handle negative forty degrees?” he asks, holding up a puffy black one with a faux-fur hood.

I look at him.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m out. I signed up for the Tuscan sun. Not this.”

“Why would you want Tuscany when you can have six hours of daylight and five months of snow?”

He grins, and his dimple punches me in the gut. “You’re right. Italy is overrated. I bet none of the food is even local. They probably import the pasta from China.”

“I hear the art’s shitty, too.”

He tries on a coat and examines himself in a mirror. “How do I look?”