On the plus side, I didn’t dream. The events of the night spun around my mind like a violent whirlpool until I drifted into a state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Honestly, I prefer it—better to feel like crap all day from a lack of sleep than to see horrors of my nightmares, to feel the anxiety brought on by visions that always feel so real.
My hands drop into the plush, brand-new bedspread. The guest room is tidy and impersonal, with slate-gray walls, seashells, and fake coral on the nightstand. A canvas print of a beach hangs above the dresser. I saw the same one in IKEA with my parents.
Someone pounds on the door, and I jolt upright. Keely bursts inside.
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”
“How are you not hungover?”
She laughs, hair in a tangled bun atop her head with powder-yellow pajamas on her thin frame. “Trust me, I feel like shit. But if I act like I don’t, sometimes I can trick my brain into really believing it. Don’t rain on my parade and come get some breakfast.”
Keely Myers has an admirable ability to adapt to anything. I’m sick at the thought of what we saw last night, but she’s already moved on.
“We should spend some time together today.” Keely elbows me as we head out of the spare room. “Real time, like the old days.”
I let out a relieved laugh. “Movie night?”
“You read my mind.”
We weave through the familiar, striped-wallpapered halls of Keely’s house. Roger has a turntable set up in the living room next to a bookshelf filled with records. Afghans are spread over the arms of the living room couches. We pass a watercolor painting Keely’s mom did of a hibiscus syriacus, the national flower of South Korea, and photos of their family. The smell of rosemary and tomatoes soaks the air as we enter the kitchen. At the stove, Sun wears a black blouse adorned with maroon roses and stirs a pot. She’s a kindergarten teacher, so she has the summer off.
“What’re you making, Ma?” Keely asks, and we sit at the table.
“Tomato soup,” Sun says.
“For breakfast?” Keely grumbles. “I want pancakes. Or waffles.”
“Twelve thirty is not breakfast time, Keely. Have a bowl of cereal.”
Keely drags herself to the pantry. “Lucky Charms okay, Liv?”
“Sure, anything’s fine.”
“Afternoon, everyone.” Roger walks in wearing his full uniform. I want to ask him what happened after we left last night, but he goes to the counter and greets Sun. Keely has told me the story of how they met—how Roger grew up in Caldwell Beach with his father, and Sun traveled here from Korea to take a trip across the US. She had never planned on staying—not until she met him.
A heaping bowl of Lucky Charms appears under my nose. Keely shovels a spoonful in her mouth and takes out her phone. The milk transforms the marshmallows into gooey blobs, one of them vaguely squirrel-shaped.
Sliding the bowl on the table away from me, I whisper, “So I ran into West last night.”
Keely drops her phone. “Wait, you saw West? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to upset Miles, then things got a little crazy.”
“Did he say anything? About ignoring you for literally years?”
“Does it matter? I probably just imagined we were closer than we were. I mean, Miles was my best friend.”
“I don’t know, you spent a lot of time with West too.”
“Do you know what happened? With him and Miles?”
“Not a thing. You know how it is here, everyone talks about everyone. But who knows what’s true? Miles and Faye say that West got kicked out and that’s that. There’ve been tons of other rumors about him over the years.”
“Okay, tell me. Please, you’re killing me.”
She picks up her spoon and licks it clean before dipping it back in the bowl. “The rumors range from everything to drug dealer, to serial killer, to not even being related to the Hendrickses at all.”
“Of course they’re related. They have the same eyes. And dimples.”
“Hey, I didn’t say I believed it. That’s just what people say.”
“And serial killer? Really? People need to get a life.”
“I can see it. Well, I can’t not see it. I mean, the guy comes from one of the richest families in Caldwell—like literal millionaires—yet he works at the body shop. It’s a little weird. Plus, he’s so quiet and closed off. He doesn’t hang out with any of the guys he used to in high school.”
“That doesn’t make him a friggin’ serial killer, Keely. He was ‘disowned,’ remember? He must work so he can like, pay for his life.”
“Whatever, Liv. What’s with all the West, West, West? I thought you liked Miles? Especially after that hug last night.”
My cheeks flush. “Miles and I are just friends.”
This is causing major déjà vu. One time in the fifth grade, Keely and I were having a sleepover in her room when we snuck out past midnight to use the Easy Bake Oven in this very kitchen. Keely poured chocolate batter into the tiny pan in my hands when she asked for the first time, “So do you like Miles?”
“Obviously,” I said, oblivious, and once the batter was all in, I set it on the counter and dotted it in silver sprinkles.
“My mom and dad think you two are going to get married.” Keely slid the pan into the tiny oven.
“What? Gross! I don’t like him like that. He’s just my best guy friend.”
“Yeah, that is gross,” she eventually agreed. “I mean, if I had to pick any of the boys, I would definitely pick Carter. He has the longest eyelashes.”
“Carter’s cute,” I admitted, even though at that age, none of us really knew what it meant to actually like a boy. All I knew was that it wasn’t Carter I liked. Or Miles, or anyone else in our grade. Keely and I used to tell each other everything, but this one I kept a secret, like a locket around my neck. I’d known it—maybe even for years—but it didn’t start to make sense until I got older. Keely must have forgotten that I’ve never claimed to like Miles as more than a friend. He probably doesn’t like me that way either.
I hope not, anyway.
When someone knocks at the front door, my body jolts and knocks the table. Milk spills everywhere, and I quickly dab it with a paper towel.
“Jeez, you okay?” Keely asks. “It’s just the door.”
“Who’s here?” I don’t know why my voice trembles.