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Devon plops onto the couch next to me.
“Nope. Out withhimagain.”
While I haven’t fully convinced Devon my concerns are valid, I’m not the only one who’s slightly on edge about Mom’s new boyfriend. Of course I want her to be happy, but she has a terrible track record with men.
Maybe I don’t get to have an opinion on that—glass houses, and whatnot—but she did marry my dad, and he cheated on her and then up and left without ever sending Devon or me a birthday card, and we were still kids. Not even tweens yet. And this guy is just . . . so sweet.
A doctor. Divorced. Three grown kids. Nothing wrong with any of that, I guess, but he’s so attentive to our mother, and always goes out of his way to be nice to Devon and me . . . Call me crazy, but it’s suspicious. Or maybe I’m just overprotective.
“What exactly do you think he’s after?” Devon asks. “It’s not like he needs Mom’s money.”
We aren’t Enzo rich, or even DeLuca rich, but Mom’s shop has always done pretty well. She inherited our house on the lake from her parents, and the property is worth a pretty penny now that Bridgewater is the latest “cute” small-town vacation spot. All the press around Enzo helped put us on the map.
Ugh. Can I not go three seconds without thinking about him?
“I don’t know,” I say, flicking through Netflix like a boss. “But have you ever met anyone that nice? He treats us like we’re his own kids. Carries Mom’s purse in public. Drives her to work with, like, two snowflakes on the ground. It’s not natural.”
Devon tries to take the remote from me. I pull back and shoot him a dirty look.
“He is nice. But so is Mom. And you’re pretty nice. Most of the time.”
“Thanks a lot. But you still can’t have it.”
Even though Devon doesn’t live at home anymore, you’d never know it. When not at work, he’s always either here or out with his friends. I’m not sure why he even pays for an apartment. Except as a place to take girls.
Which makes me think of Enzo. Again.
“There’s obviously nothing catching your eye. Let me try.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be tonight?”
Thursday is the beginning of the weekend for Devon. Not for me. I have to get through one more day of chasing after eight-year-olds before I get to unwind. This is my typical bolstering routine for Thursday nights: TV and Chinese food. Which my brother is currently eating. He doesn’t get to take over my TV selection too.
“Hey!” I say when he makes another grab for the remote. Hurrying, I click on the first episode of a reliable mood booster. “There, see. Found something.”
“You’re kidding me. A fourth time. Seriously?”
I watch the bus hurtling down a country road, ignoring my brother.
Dr. Zoe Hart. That’s my girl.
“Do you know how many good shows you’ve neglected by watchingHeart of Dixieso much? It’s not normal.”
What’s not normal is the number of times I’ve glanced at my phone since this weekend. Which makes absolutely zero sense because Enzo doesn’t have my cell number. And even if he did, he wouldn’t use it.
I thought for sure something would come of Saturday night—of that promise he made. But he didn’t say a word when Devon and I left early, not that he would have propositioned me in front of my brother, and even though I dragged Lisa out to The Wheelhouse again for breakfast, he didn’t show like I’d hoped he might.
Since then, precisely nothing has happened on the Enzo front. I’m back to an Enzo-less life. Which would be fine if I could get his chocolate-brown eyes out of my head.
“Give that to me. You’re not even watching it. You’ve got that far-off look in your eyes.”
Devon makes a grab for the control and succeeds in taking it from me. If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d attempt to wrest it back. Instead, I lie back on the couch with my phone.
“Ass,” I mutter as he flicks away from poor Zoe.
Texts messages. Still nothing. Social media. Whatever. And then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I open my email. Unlike some of my colleagues, I do have my school mail integrated with my personal one. And I check it off-hours. I teach little ones, and their needs aren’t always 9 to 4. Just last night a parent emailed me to ask for advice on getting her son tested for reading, something I had suggested at the last parent conference. The poor kid’s been stuck in a no-man’s land. Scores not low enough to be red-flagged, not high enough for me to feel comfortable with his progress. The mom wasn’t ready at the time, and the dad pushed the idea aside. I’m glad she’s changed her mind. It’ll give poor Joey a chance to shine.
Emails like hers are the exact reason I like to keep communication open with parents. But a quick glance at my inbox tells me that no gold awaits me tonight. In fact, my email spam filter seems to be misfiring. Junk. More junk. An email from my principal that can wait until tomorrow morning.
