Page 66 of Midnight Curfew

I set her drink in front of her and lay out forks and napkins. “I know you don’t understand, but he’s not good for anyone.”

“But he feels good.”

“What?” I blurt out instead.

He feels good?

Goddammit. I thought if she liked being there, he couldn’t be doing anything inappropriate.

But she folds her napkin in half over and over again. “When other people talk to me—teachers and stuff—they make looks at their friends,” she says quietly. “It feels like they’re saying things to each other I can’t hear.”

I narrow my eyes.

“But he doesn’t do that.” She tries to fold the napkin a sixth time, but it won’t stay. “He only looks at me when he talks to me.”

I press my lips together, trying to hide my anger. I hate that she notices people’s body language around her. I didn’t think she did.

When she runs into people we know around town, they often exchange looks as she speaks. They know she’s not acting her age, and it’s like they always need to make others aware that they think it’s weird, too.

A private joke. Maybe pity.

I don’t know how much Sophia is choosing how she presents herself nowadays, if it’s a choice she’s making consciously or something else, but I do know the sister I knew is still there. I catch glimpses of her old personality sometimes.

And she’s not blind to how people see her.

I scoop her a bowl of jambalaya and set it in front of her, watching her eat as I pull the rubber band and ribbon out of her hair.

Scooping up her hair, I refit the ponytail back up to where she likes it.

“Did your mom call?” I ask.

She nods, chewing. “Mmm.”

“Did you sleep okay last night?”

She bobs her head as she eats another spoonful.

I tighten the rubber band and tie the ribbon into a bow. “Aren’t you going to ask how I slept?”

I peer around to the side of her head, trying to reteach her some manners.

She chomps a piece of sausage. “I heard you snoring.”

“Sophia,” I groan. “That’s rude.”

“But not a lie.”

I shake with laughter, staying behind her so she doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing. “I don’t snore,” I tell her.

“Your girlfriend someday will tell you,” she retorts. “You’ll see.”

Girlfriend…Right.

She can continue to assist in Dallas Jaeger’s class. For now.

I don’t need to be fighting a battle on two fronts.

Three, if you count my father. He’ll be back from time to time this summer. Real estate development doesn’t stop during storm season.