Page 49 of 72 Hours of You

I’m gonna do the last thing.

I move to the side of the house, under Peter’s window. Mrs. Choe was absolutely feral about her rose garden, and I guess Peter’s parents are keeping it up pretty well because there’s not so much as a random stick lying around. So I just … grab a fistful of mulch and chuck it up at his window. Dirt and debris rain back down on my face and hair and into my mouth. Well, that was fucking stupid.

And yet I still don’t have another option.

I pick up another fistful and throw it again—this time making sure to duck away from the falling remnants. A couple of pieces hit his window. I wait for him to open it and stick his head out.

He doesn’t.

I throw more mulch.

I throw five more handfuls until I’m starting to get properly fucking pissed off.

“Um, hello?”

I freeze, mid-throw, and turn around to see the porch light on and the shadow of a woman in the doorway.

Oh shit, it’s Peter’s mom.

“Oh. I was just … uh …” I briefly consider throwing myself to the mercy of the rose thorns, but instead I wipe my dirty hands on my leggings and walk toward the light.

“You were just throwing dirt at my son’s window?”

“Um. Yes. Technically yes. That’s what I was doing.”

Peter’s mom is shockingly tiny. And blond. She’s got thin little bangs and a glass of red wine in one hand and a book in the other. She’s wearing pajamas, but, like, fancy pajamas. The kind with a collar and buttons that look nice and silky and posh but also like they suck to actually sleep in. That’s a special kind of bougie.

I wait for her to say something to set me free and put me out of my misery, but she just stands there looking at me. She takes a sip of her wine and cocks her head. “You’re very cute.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you. There’s a lot of dirt on my head.”

“I can see that.”

“Mom?” Peter walks down the stairs toward the door, his expression slightly shocked when he sees it’s me. “Oh, hey.” He’s wearing a white shirt and blue-and-gray-checkered boxers and his hair is kind of rumpled and he’s got on these round gold glasses that make him look like a teenage professor who just pulled an all-nighter, and it is taking quite a lot of effort on my part to keep my face neutral in front of his mother, who is currently making zero attempts to pretend she’s not looking back and forth between the two of us.

“Were you sleeping?” I ask.

Peter runs his hands over his disheveled hair in an unsuccessful effort to get his waves to lie back down. “Kinda.”

“It’s not even nine.”

“Well,” Peter’s mom says, “sleep is very important for Peter bec—”

“Mom.” He shoots his mother a look. “I don’t think we need to discuss my sleeping habits with Sydney.”

“Right.” She takes another sip of her wine, staining her lips just slightly red. “Why don’t you invite the girl in, for god’s sake, Peter?”

“Right. Sorry. Do you want to come in?”

“I guess. I mean, yes, thank you.” I smile at Peter’s mom. She seems kind of weird and a little unhinged, to be honest, but I also like her. She looks like she could fuck someone up. I mean, not physically. She’s like the size of a fairy. But I feel like she could, like, eviscerate someone at a school board meeting.

Peter nods and gestures for me to follow him upstairs to his room.

I give his mom a tragically awkward smile before trailing after him up the stairs.

He holds the door to his room for me, and I slip inside under his arm, way too aware of the fact he’s still technically in his underwear.

Peter’s room is … a room. I don’t know why I was thinking it’d give me some secret insight into a hidden side of him or something. Like I’d walk in and discover a soccer poster on his wall or, like, a bunch of thimbles he’d collected, I don’t know. But it’s just plain white walls and boxes (mostly filled with books) that he hasn’t gotten around to unpacking yet. In fact, his “nightstand” is just a tower of books with a water glass on it.